“What is a poem?”
My English teacher asks,
then barely pauses before answering his own question.
Lists of rules and reasons
spill from his mouth,
so many that he’s cut off by the bell.

I refrain from raising my hand
and telling him that anything can be a poem
if you want it to be.

The painting on the wall,
the fleeting peace that comes
from looking at the moon,
the little boy whose hands are already rough
and calloused with use.

Nothing makes a poem
but our minds and thoughts and wishes
for “poem” is just a word
but what it gives us is ours to decide.

Maybe even this is a poem,
though my English teacher would disagree.

Call it cringe
call it bad
call it great
or whatever you want
Hell, rip pages out
and make your notes
mail me my own poems
back with critiques for all I care
Just know that I don't care; about subject
punctuation
spelling or any of it
Because I swear
on all that I hold dear
if I have to hear
"that's not a real word"
one more ******* time
I'll lose my ******* mind

Follow the leader
Get in line
Don’t run ahead
Just march in time
Please remain calm
It’s just a drill
The hardest part’s over
We’re over the hill
Don’t ask questions
Trust in the plan
Shut the **** up
And get in the van
It’s for your own good
Mother knows best
Just keep looking forward
Only the dead rest...

Somehow, It's exhausting to live in this world with some kind of a code of how to become a likable person.
Where in you should behave in accordance of what the society dictates you to be like,

so they won't ridicule you,

forced to follow the rules to survive or blend,

pretend to be someone likeable,

make friends,

go to work,

bathe everyday,

follow the trend,

build high defensive walls

and  basically just do what the others do to avoid being labelled as

******,

Crazy,

madmen

insane.

Sometimes, I just want to be crazy..

So I could have an excuse not to follow rules

do whatever I like,

say whatever I want

and just be ME.

I want to speak to you so badly
but I’m just going to sit here hoping
you’ll start the conversation.

Boys are so dense!

I even send an obvious signal:
I didn't pull out my phone and get all busy
the moment we were alone.

Duh.

the thing you learn, when a child enters your world
is pain, and suffering out of your control
also, laugh and smile for things bigger than yourself
and how you missed, needed that one thing, friend -
wet wipes…

mostly, one of the thousand uncontrollable misfortunes’ birth
the moment when the first spoon of avocado needed to end up on your shirt

I started dreaming then I couldn't stop. I was awakened to the cruel plot. Sounding crazy coined as a crackpot. Tried to hold it in but I could not.
Spill the beans watch the heads roll. Dump all the bodies into a big hole. Storm the hill and burn the structure. Ravish these power driven mother *******.
Steak a claim upon my last will.
Take all the money to the landfill.
I will not be your walking puppet.
I break your rules because I love it