One day I will be a famous poet
for now I write stillborn poems
that die after a line
so I have to delete them
my professor tells me unfinished thoughts
are just as intriguing as finished ones
but they will not make me famous
so I do not need them

One day I will be a famous poet
I will write a one thousand page poem
so long that no one will ever finish it
but they will think everyone has finished it
so one will ask
"Have you read that one thousand page poem?"
and the other will answer
"Yes I have and it was great!"
and then the two will agree
and continue to speak of its greatness
even though neither has read the poem
because if they had made it past page 193
they would have seen that the remaining pages
are just the word "famous" in different fonts
strewn across the page like dandelions
and then I will be famous

One day I will be a famous poet
I will write a poem with no words
with just a title that says "Think"
and people will read it
and they will think
and they will write their own poems
each different and precise
unique in its own way
and they will credit me when they do so
they will say "you made us think"
"you are a genius"
"A great"
and all I would have done
is write one word
a word we all say
and then I will be famous

One day I will be a famous poet
I will write a poem with no ending
And people will proceed to write their own
Because I

I don't like to think about it
I hate it
I try not to think about it
But do you think trees try to fall down
things happen
regardless of whether they're planned
so last night I thought about it
even though I didn't want to

it kills me
I didn't want it to
I assumed it wouldn't
but trees spend all their lives above the grass
that doesn't mean they think they'll ever touch
I thought about it
and I hate that
and I hate that I hate that I thought about it

I hate that I love you
I hate that I don't fully believe that sentence
I hate that you can feel something
but not be aware that you feel it
I wonder if trees know they'll grow
they always do
but I wonder if they know they will
Is it possible to not know the inevitable?

I wish I could unthink the thought I thought
it kills me
how the thought of you with another man
makes my stomach turn
but the thought of me with another woman
doesn't carry the weight to lift a scale
were trees previously just one branch
until they realized they had other options

I'm using a tree as a metaphor
because I don't want to talk about myself
because I don't want to make this about me
I want the world to cause my problems
but if i'm being honest
which I will be
I am the root of my pain
I just don't want to think about it

Statistics say
I am smarter than 95% of the people I meet
People say
Intelligence is overrated
Statistics say
I was born into a better situation than 98% of the people I meet
People say
It's not where you start it's where you finish
Statistics say
I will live longer than 94% of the people I meet
People say
Life is fragile
Statistics say
I won't fail
People say
I might

Why am I tired
up until my head hits the bed?
I stumble through the day
waiting for the moment which I lay
and then when it occurs
my mind cannot be curbed
racing through scenarios that won't happen
with people I'll never meet

But every now and then
I think of you
and this is what I don't understand
I roll over again and again
mulling over
our future we have planned
and at that moment it becomes impossible to sleep
so I grab your picture from my nightstand

                                          and quietly begin to weep

When the strings stop strumming
Where does the music go?

There once was a chicken
and there was once a hawk
the hawk would talk
non stop
about his ability of flight
his speed his force
he'd talk so long
the chicken would bash his head against the door

The chicken hated the hawk
hated listening to him talk
the chicken wanted to beat the hawk
so he would no longer have to hear him talk
and then the Rocky music played
as the chicken flapped his wings
up steps sliced out in the sky
till he would reach the top then dive

the chicken became very good at this
though not as good as the hawk
and when the hawk won the race
he would just continue to talk and talk
the chick was sick of it
he fled to his own getaway
feeding on solely chocolate
and liters of gatorade

The chicken consumed
until he couldn't see his toes
he stumbled out his front door
where man found him
unaware of his past
caring just for the fire and not the wood
why the Hawk is fast
and the Chicken tastes good