Life is a struggle
Armed with a bare-knuckle

Born out of ancient rubble
Collecting what chance has to offer

If you have what it takes
It rewards you with inequality -
Objective prosperity with emotional disparity

But if by chance you are misplaced
You get to see the devil’s face
Just as real as that loving gaze
You strive to see and tend to praise

Dazed by the gravity of objective reality
No matter the cost, we strive for more clarity

It's hard to make decisions this week.
Am I blaming myself too much?
I know I shouldn't think I can muscle my way through,
Every impasse, every difficulty.

The sky, and the earth, even my own instincts are telling me to hold still.
I. Am. Trying.
Time is still indeed a mystery,
Stretching and bending.

Yes, everything doesn't need to happen at once.
But I just don't know what to do?
Oh God! Please give me a sign.
I wonder what's beyond that fine line?

Poetry says a lot about people,
Not just the person who wrote it.
Every person responds in their very own way;
Some so amazed they promote it.
I like to think of what goes through
The minds of those reading what I write.
Whether they recognize nothing of value,
Or whether they discover delight.

We know because we saw a title.
But you can’t write if you’re dead.
Your boring melodramatic recital,
Is better left unsaid.

It may sound harsh to bare,
But honestly, look at what you wrote,
And explain to me why anyone would care,
To read something so trite, and I quote:

“...confession,”
“...pain,”
“...depression,”
“...rain.”

These cliché nouns,
That every “injured” poet seems to wear for attention.
Don’t forget to take “drown!”
On your path to descension.

Where the people without regard,
Follow the herd of the uninformed,
They’ll take their poems up under their arm,
And expect to be warmed,

Showered by the masses,
Their beliefs confirmed.
While I’ll hope this passes,
And that this “art” is termed.

But I fear it’ll never stop,
If poetry like yours,
Continues to enter my inbox.
Like a bag of **** on my doorstep.

The doorbell’s been rung,
And god ****** I’m answering,
Screaming at the top of my lungs,
That this pandering,

Needs to stop.

I wondered what words I could use to solicit a response from you –
then, that’s when it hits me.
You do not respond to words,
you respond to the colors of the sea, of the sky, of the sand.
You respond to black and white photos and smiles that don’t exactly look happy. You respond to songs that makes sense of a moment – of a time that meant something more than the ticking of a clock. You respond to the reverie during the ungodly hours of the night, the messages that try to hide themselves in the shadows. You respond to the questions that do not ask what you do but how you do things and you respond to the why’s without being asked because you think it’s important to say it – the why.
And because I did not know these things well when I needed too,
I kept on waiting for this most solicited response only to be answered by unsolicited silences.

These emotions run wild.
I feel them all to a numb.
They come to exist.
Then they break away to an unknown place.

I don't really know.
It's a confusing world of response.
Jumbled partly in my inner soul.

But i don't really know what the soul is.
Or its true intentions.
Its origin is even more of an enigma.

Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me
Yes, it hurts me- a little bit, a lot a bit
but I understand.
You are yourself and I am myself-
You will do you, I guess I’ll be me

I still wonder though.
Who am I-
Why not,
What’s so wrong with being a part of me,
my life- who I am?
What’s so bad about me?

Is it because I’m not “pretty” enough
or “cool” enough
or good enough to you, to be a part of me? Associated with me?
Because I won’t just make you happy
I will make myself, my family, those I do- and don’t know happy
I will try and make you as well.

What counts as part of me?
Just that I’m nineteen, female, probably bi
born in Geneva, Illinois, raised in South Elgin, Illinois
but also raised in Westford, Massachusetts
both painfully boring towns; quiet, uneventful.
Does that make me as well? Is part of me South Elgin, Westford?
And then what else- what other parts of me?
That can’t be the only part-
So I’m also creative, loud, spontaneous
the part that makes me different
Is it so bad to be that part?

Part. Of. Me.

it sounds like a bad pop song. Is that why you don’t want to be
part of me-
Why is it that sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me?
Does that mean you won’t speak, look or think about me?
i don’t think that’s possible.
Am I really that much of a stranger?
I’ve known you for quite sometime -
You’ve known me
So can you even not be a part of me?
You can be yourself, as well as
Part of me.

so
yes
You are part of me.
As am I to you,
Just not all of me.
A single piece, maybe, a part,
that shouldn’t be too much to ask.
You can have alone time, but even then that doesn’t mean;
for the time alone, your part of me is gone.
What an illogical statement,

Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be part of me.
You already are.

All that a man wants
     But does not have.
Can be traced back
     To him, indefinitely.

Because all that a man
     Is required to do
Is to speak the truth.

And to ask with an open
     Honest heart
With a fearless
     Mindful propensity.