I'm struggling to write the first few lines of this poem
1. because I haven't written in awhile
and 2. Because I think it will be a very good poem
and don't want  youto abandon it
trust me
we give up too easily
for example
when I'm older I want to write movies
but when I watch a movie I constantly check my phone
even if I like the movie
we are worse off than we know
I've been thinking
lately
that is a lie
it's only been recently
very recently
regardless
why I do write best when I am depressed?
why is that when I am most profound
why must my life be strewn about around me
for me to have a grasp on literary prose
then again is it wrong of me
to consider my only important writing
the ones that can be deemed "good"
is that unfair to myself
there's a select few I always come back to
they are very good
but I was hurting a lot when I wrote them
were they worth it
maybe
I remember something I read one time
it was written by a woman
and she was talking about her pain
and her writing
she said that pain was now fluid in her life
all that really mattered was her writing
no matter how much the pain hurt
as long as her writing benefited
she would welcome it with open arms
what a **** way to live
maybe it's just nostalgia
that's *******
you wrote better before
you know that
I'm right
I've become a better person
and a worse writer
and both
frighten me

A team of black doctors
working to save the life
of a KKK member

That's a feeling

A man shot dead
attempting to stop
the **** of a woman he didn't know

That's a feeling

A man not getting a job
because "He Was Mexican"
even though he grew up in Maine

That's a feeling

A Muslim teacher
stabbed by a student
who didn't want to be taught by a "terrorist"

That's a feeling

Is it possible to be too happy?
Can too much go right?
That's sort of a depressing question
and why is it that every time
I feel so happy like I do now
I am brought back to you?
Does that make sense
do you understand what I am saying
I get happy
So i come back to you
the one who makes me not happy
do I hate happiness
do i hate myself
jeeez
I told you that would be depressing
you're my heroine
my addiction
not in a cute way
or romantic way
or even an ironic way
you are a drug
nothing more
nothing less
you're no good for me
I can't seem to grasp that but I know it's true.

It was the 25th
which meant only one thing
a trip to grandpa's house
every 25th of every month
we traveled the 10 minutes
down the gravel road
to see my grandpa
and his rocking chair

man that rocking chair
sculpted from reddish brown wood
balanced perfectly
like a pedestal
I had never sat on it
just out of respect
I admired from afar
every 25th

my grandpa was always in that chair when I arrived
rocking back and forth
and forth and back
like Galileo's pendulum
rain or shine
snow or wind
when I pulled into that driveway
my Grandpa was in that chair

it fascinated me as a kid
like he was some video game character
programmed to do this mundane task
it was familiar
it was calming
but I grew older
and thought about that chair less
along with my family

but every 25th
even on a windy day like today
I'd travel down the gravel road
to see my grandpa
when I arrived the chair was rocking
back and forth
forth and back
but my Grandpa was not sitting

I can't help it
I guess
I grew up on screenplays
on all of the hidden meanings
the metaphors
they shaped my thoughts

you know I never dated in high school
and I was a looker too
I didn't do it because no girl was perfect for me
there was no princess charming
do you realize how stupid that was
four years wasted

one girl ruined it tho
lisa turner
oh my god this girl
this beautiful body
beutiful smile
perfect everything she was angel
but when she talked
....
dear god she had a lisp
how could that be
how could the perfect girl be
imperfect?

That's when I first realized
something was wrong with me
I discovered that people weren't archetypes
that events weren't symbols
but most importantly
I learned a happy ending was guranteed

I want to write a poem that rhymes
I haven't done that in a while
it's unnecessary my professor said
the one that never cracked a smile

She told me my work didn't need structure
that there was no need to work within the lines.
It was all ******* to me
no car has ever reached its destination without the aid of signs

No bird has flown his way down south
without another bird *** in its face
and so the story goes
and so continues the race

structure in a sense is supposed to free us
because it brings familiar tones
because after all
What are we all but walking Gravestones?