I couldn't care less about
"Inspirational Quotes"
I don't need to be told that
the present is a gift
or what the best thing about
rock bottom is
or that only I can stop forest fires.

If I was to write one myself,
it would have less to do with
landing in the stars,
and more to do with
how much better you could see them
if you had the eyes of an octopus.

See,
Octopi have such phenomenal eyes.
The spectrum of color they see
makes our own look like
the ****** box of crayons
you get at a kids restaurant.
Whereas an octopuses,
would be the beautiful,
64 Crayola pack
I always wanted as a kid.

If I ever went blind,
I think I'd get octopus eye replacements.
And yeah,
I'd probably look weird because
they'd be too big for my head
but can you imagine how
strange and incredible
it would be?
And it wouldn't matter how I look because
how I see things
is more important to me
than how I'm seen.

If there was even the
slightest chance,
of seeing though the
eyes of an octopus,
that's reason enough to be alive.

And if I could take your life
or your perspective,
and change it even a bit,
that's reason enough too.

So look through the
eyes of an octopus.

Can you imagine the stars?

So they showed us the trees,
And told us to write.
Beauty and
overly-accurate descriptions
Expected.
Write about trees, they said,
But not about trees.
Write about roots,
And families,
And graves,
And anything you can stretch to
Relate to a tree.
But that's not my thing,
So I'm going to write about
Something else.

The people are staring at me.
Glaring, almost.
They don't want the teenager
On her phone.
Oh no, she should be
LISTENING.
They don't know
I'm writing poetry,
While they look for faults
In the tulip tree.
They nod their heads in agreement
To infections of the olive tree.
I'm on the ground,
So I look at their shoes.
You can tell a lot about a person
By the shoes they wear.
So they learn about trees,
While I learn about them.
I play Sherlock Holmes
And try to guess their
Personalities by their appearances,
Not really listening to the
Ranger man
Tell us about the
Growing process of a Ginkgo Tree
He talks about a Smerf,
And I absentmindedly ignore him
As I stare at the eyes
of my favorite type of tree.
I give him credit for trying,
Because while he doesn't have
My attention,
He appears to have everyone else's.
Soon, we gather around another tree.
He calls it 70 ft.
I call it big.
The sprinklers turn on,
And we laugh and move,
And we watch the squirrels
Play in the trees.
He makes a joke, and we laugh again.
It was a good time.

So I learned a lot today.
And while I came here
To learn about the trees,
I learned a whole lot more
About the people.

I've almost forgotten how your
other-worldly eyes
peered into my
melancholy soul.

How your
key trained fingers
traced my
summer-kissed skin.

How your
wiser-than-mine words
changed my
impressionable mind.

Almost, but not quite.

I noticed a lady sitting across from me today.

See, she had a worn face from living hard, and tough hands from working harder.

And her piercing eyes, they screamed five words:

Don't let me be forgotten.

I let the musty air fill my lungs
as it begs to remind me of
where I'm from

I grew up reciting lines
like I was just acting fine
when really I was just a child
with nothing better to do
with their time

and what was a hobby
became a passion
and what was a passion
became forgotten

We watched
With shells in our bags
Dominoes in boxes,
Marionette distractions
Letter passing
Pure manipulation
Colors of our childhoods
A brother through window pain
And learned to see beauty
Without having to understand

Do you know what I want
more than anything?

I want to understand why it takes
so much pain to be able to
describe in detail
how the sky bends.

I want to understand why you caused me to see your eyes as pale instead of piercing.

I want to understand why a pretty face and slim waist is valued over a higher understanding and a way with words.

I want to understand why something is considered beautifully written, just because it hurts to write.

I want to understand the world, but that's asking a bit much, so I'll settle for this:

I want to understand you.

It hurts, you know.
That I wasn't there, to save you.
I wouldn't have been able to anyway,
but I would have tried.
So I will remember you,
Everyday.
I'll see you in your brothers,
And hear you in every piece.
And I'd like to dedicate this writing,
In loving memory.




Dedicated to Edgar.

You ran the knife along your arm
until the plastic cut your paper skin.
As I pulled it from your grasp
you asked why
the pain and guilt
gleaming in your eyes
and I noted as I looked at you,
that plastic knives can cut too.

You never said you were fine.

I mentally compared
your arm to mine
holding back tears because
I was too angry to cry

The half cross you bear now
made me furious
because there was nothing I could do
to change it.
You'd gotten to far along
without intervention.

And I took responsibility.
It felt like my fault.
Like the wound was on my arm,
and I poured in the salt.

I'm sorry.
You deserve more than the faint scar

I'm afraid you're my
skeleton in the closet
because you pulled my hair
and broke my bones
but if only they new
I enjoyed it

You
My best friend
Layed out your heart
Fears, tears and vulnerability
In a room
That should have been locked
Laughed at a donut left behind
Described your depression
A terrifying look inside
And we sat there
Emotionally exhausted
Broken
But broken together.

Dear people-who-think-global-warming-is-not-a-thing,

You have eyes, right?
You're just not using them?
Because I can open your eyes,
but I can't give you new ones.
But either way, you have ears
so listen up
because I'm going to tell you
why you're wrong.

For one,
this is a scientific issue,
not a political one.
It's not something
that can be debated.
Fact
not
Fiction

Now that's out of the way,
here's the numbers:

Throughout the entire human history,
carbon dioxide levels have
NEVER
been above 300 p.p.m.
(parts per million)
What to know where it's at now?
400 p.p.m.
On the scale of things...
Let's just say we're *******.

That's not enough for you?
I'm just getting started.
Sea levels around our lovely planet
have risen 8 inches
In the last hundred years.
Know what else?
NASA says that,
"The rate of the last two decades, however, is nearly double that of the last century."


Also,
You know Stephan Hawking?
The really smart guy?
Yeah, he says you're wrong,
so...

So this is me
begging you
to open your BEAUTIFUL eyes
(I thought maybe flattery would help)
to this disastrous situation.
It's not my imagination,
It's the end of our civilization.



Sincerely, The Environmentalists

Your smile is unfairly noticeable.
Your voice is disrespectfully low.
Your eyes are rudely easy to get lost in.
And yet, I don't.

Do I?

There's nothing new under the sun.

I don't think I'll ever get over
that phrase.
Because honestly,
I'll always feel like I have
something to contribute.

Born to late to explore the world,
science is all I got left.

please

leave me something

Quoth the Raven...

I found solace in those words,
every day for the past year.
PC, you have been my solace,
my notebook,
my home,
and I can't bring myself to hide this
in poetic confusion
and metaphors.

You,
and everything that you are,
are sinking into the void
that holds only trolls
and phrases that barely pass
as poetry.

Your colors are fading,
no matter how fast
a select few of us
try to paint them back.

God, I'm so sorry I couldn't do more.
I poured my heart and soul
into you, and yet
it wasn't enough.
Why couldn't I be enough?

...

I know that's not fair.
I know you hold so many
beautiful people with beautiful minds.
People who spin feelings
into such perfect words,
people who are slightly
(or more so) insane
but all the best people are.

This was originally a goodbye letter.

But honestly,
I couldn't make myself do it.

Sincerely,
A girl who found a home
in your insanity

Isn't it odd how even in the skies,
you occupy my mind?

She's got a poet's voice.
One that makes sounds
as effortless as the wind,
describing the way
her mind wanders in Nevada.

I wonder if my voice sounds like that,
when the phrases exit my lips.
I doubt it.
If she sounds like the wind,
I sound like a old train horn.

My poems don't rhyme
Because I
Like it better
This way
Simply rhyming words
Doesn't make a poem
It needs meaning
Not just the
Teaming
Of words that sound
Alike.

You had quite the charm,
pulling yourself into my tree.

Do you really think
every person is unique?

You're not so much like the
character I stated,
other than the romance.

Two years seems longer
than it should be.

I've listened to the same song
For weeks

I cut my hair short cause I was feeling edgy

I wrote a screen play about abuse ****** and insanity

You want to know why I stay anonymous?

Because if you don't know my name, age, religion or position,

You can't believe my name is the definition of innocence.

Out of every one of you
who broke my heart
there was one
where I broke yours
first.

There was a time,
when I would have spent
my last day,
leaving my mark on your
unkissed lips
and tracing every line on your hands
with my own.

There was a time
when every moment of every day,
you were on my mind.

I thought I loved you.
I was wrong.

And I know we're young
and prone to puppy love,
and yet it felt so real.

For a time,
you were my everything.
I thought you were the
spark in my eyes,
and the power behind my words.

I believed the very stars themselves
would seem dim
in comparison to our light,
and the world would bend
in our linked hands.

And then I changed.

I've never told you
what really happened,
And now I probably never will.

I felt,
like my entire purpose in life
was to make other people happy
and I wasn't doing a good job.

This isn't an apology,
I've offered enough of those
and honestly
I'm not sorry anymore.

It's more of a lamenting ballad
Recalling the time
I thought I loved you

Cancer.
Carcinoma.
Unintentional cellular suic*de.
All just different ways to say
I'm dying.

They say we fought a battle.
They say we died valiantly.
And once "they" stop talking,
I'd tell them it's more like
we were drafted into a room
where we were forced to put
guns against our heads
and play Russian Roulette
while doctors say
THESE ARE YOUR ODDS.
BEAT THEM.
We learn it's harder
to shoot a gun
while doctors play darts
on our arms.
We learn there's no such thing
as an
empty gun.

Sometimes I feel like I'd have
a better chance surviving
a car crash.
And I cry with my mom
because we both know she'll
survive the backlash.

Now I know you'll have no reason to.
I'll be another
name on a list
another
body, six feet under.

But of all the things about me,
my name is what I hope you remember the least.
But if that's what tethers you
to my memory,
promise me

you'll say my name

and remember.

"I'm sorry."
Sorry for what?
Sorry for not caring?
Sorry for all the times you were
forced to say it?
Sorry for every time
you weren't?
Cause yeah.
Me too.

I have a reason to be happy with
my bad poetry.
The best poetry comes from the
worst of times.

The music wasn't all that good.
But I didn't notice it that much
because I was lost in the
metaphorical resonances
of listening to a dead man's
favorite music.

It felt wrong,
holding a book while most others
held only tears and a bag of chips.

I wasn't a friend is his, and no.
We weren't related.
I'd never met him in my life
and yet there I stood,
mourning the loss of a man
with apparent terrible music taste.

Moral of the story:
Don't take a poet to the funeral of a man they've never met.

She likes trains.
I learned this because she was trying to fill up her five minutes.

She seemed unsure
but her stories told otherwise.
She spoke of marble bridges and Finland colours,
Enchanting enough that I didn't learn her name until afterwards.

Margret.

An English teacher
unafraid of rambling,
but terrified of going over time.

Her wide rim glasses gave her away.
Long white hair and a soft face,
a wide contrast from the one
I was expecting.
Though they both held the
permanently risen eyebrows,
a sure sign of a poet,
She wasn't the laureate
with the short hair and daring face.

She told stories of trespassing.
She spoke as though
her life was that of an adventurer,
convincing us through
clever thoughts and rhyming words.

I listened,
almost unsure because I was
waiting for Star,
Not realizing I was missing one.

She prayed to distance
in hopes that she's be blessed
with a heart grown fonder
though she was aware that
new eyes
wouldn't change the way her
blue eyes
saw him

Learn to drive.

It began with me and a fence.

I stood near seminary,
with thoughts more important
than any I've ever had inside.

It seemed at that moment,
that the fence was the only thing between me
and everything.
It seemed that if I didn't cross to the other side,
I'd be doomed to a life of normalcy.

I stayed, obviously.
I can't just get up and leave.

It was your response that made me
realize what I'd leave behind.

You didn't tell me to stay,
you responded one word, remember?
You said "someday."

The stars mean so much to me because they put the universe in my hands and beg me to alter it.

They're the only company known,
while the world sleeps, and I can't.

What an incredible experience it is to see your world at rest, riddled with the pain of knowing you can't join them.

Every step I took was controlled.
I had to resist sprinting,
my life on my tail.
I'd taken a quiet road,
begging something to happen.
Anything.
I knew I couldn't run from this,
(and really I just needed something to run from)
but the road was open
they'd never find me
though it left marks in the air,
they couldn't track my breath
and there was nothing else to track.
I could have left.

I don't care about being famous.
A well-known life isn't necessarily
a better one.
The one thing I do care about,
is lack of normality

I wish this life was enough for me
but it's not

every empty road calls to me
like a lover left behind
every day,
like an opportunity lost

I need adventure so badly it hurts,
and I wonder if I got it,
if I'd stop sitting on cliffs
while I contemplated what it would feel like to fall
what the wind rushing over my silver hair would feel like,
whether or not it would be worth it

I've contemplated death because it holds more potential than my life.

I understand that I shouldn't.
But on more than one occasion,
I've stood with the intention to fall.

I've walked on roads
with an intention to run.

I live every day in dread of having nothing to fight.
I've been cursed with such an easy life, when I was born with a fighting soul.

A wave of sadness
hit the city this week.
For the first time in a while,
everything was unbearable.
It was almost like there was a death
of a person we all knew,
affecting all our lives
and leaving us dead inside.
Like the God of liveliness
gave up on us for a week
leaving us to fight against the
lack of light on our side.
Smiles, real or fake,
never reached our eyes
resulting in quiet empty looks
like we had lost the will to thrive.
Probably because we had.

I wish.
More than anything,
I wish.

Because no matter
how hard I work,
how long I love,
how truly I write,

it's not enough.

Because the poet doesn't get a
happily ever after.

We get a tortured existence,
a few words to say about it,
and an end.

What do you mean,
you're low on space?
Your want me to
delete some of the thing
on your memory
and intentionally give you
technological amnesia?