Silly me, sitting in a new class,
feeling like a social disaster.
At the front, there's no one
to hide behind,
no one who'll turn around
to ask for a pen.
That first interaction-
a distraction from reclusive habits.
There is a bag and jacket
sitting in the seat behind me.
My writing is all that dares
to converse with me.
It's quiet company
amongst the chatter of my peers
the voices I wish I didn't hear.
When teacher asks our names,
and I stutter to respond
there are whispers in my ears.
Am I the only one?
Who doesn't know a soul-
who couldn't say hello,
when that girl's smile showed?
It's not a place I'd call home,
so I keep my nose in the chicken-scratch-
reading the syllabus
silly me, in a new class,
whispering social disaster out loud.

A gathering of familiar faces,
better left forgotten.
We're all still in the same places,
drinking ourselves rotten.

My eyes might scan bookshelves,
but I search for Blankets.
I wont say a word,
because it's already quite warm in here.
My friends are yelling at each other,
about bad politics,
while there's testosterone on the blue screen.
I sit on the floor and flick comrades
off my lap.
Little dark bug- I was quick to slap.
It's clamorous, a broken plate,
a blame game,
then silence.
Everyone else is on a smoke break.
I sit on the sofa while we wait.
I keep looking at Blankets.
The warmth and comfort of Blankets.
You know you fix heartbreak-
by filling it up with empty cotton?
so the blood soaks up,
and the space is cramped,
so those mushy feelings have no place to stay?
I cover myself in the forms of Blankets.
I am just one soppy broken heart,
surrounded by the same on Super Bowl Day.

got some armor today,
after drinking mermaid's milk.
tastes like the sea
if it were on fire.
lips covered in soot
from kissing dragons,
those myths in disguises.
he said anti-depressants
take the edge off.
so i dropped my sword,
and clutched my shield.
waiting for pegasus
but he's stuck somewhere
as the stars in the heavens.
and that's alright.
it'll be alright.
my scales will protect me
keep my insides from emptying
into the toilet.
keep the pills in.
keep the feelings out.
deflecting the magic.

He hides his politics on the inside of his jacket,
wears two scarves and has a light British or Scandinavian accent.
I mean- he says poo-berty, for god's sake,
but the man is brilliant.
I never knew a person who can take
what an idiot exclaims in such fervor and falsity,
and let it become something of knowledge.
The concept of understanding
sits in the back of my tongue,
deep in my throat, and it rattles until he calls it out.
He knows what I'm saying when I don't.
And he knows I've got this solution
but I can't put it to words
that do it justice.
So he and that Greg kid- the philosophy major,
and the only other man I really know who speaks of feminism
more accurately than any woman I've ever come to listen to,
extrapolates my shaky speech
into substance.
And I've likened this learning into something like love
-a Platonic but true love,
of all those who know so much more than I,
and are willing to still take me seriously.
It's rare to see with these eyes,
true teachers, true seekers
truth-seekers
truth teachers
and they who learn infinitely,
inspiring me to be poo-pil.

i hear the lady in french- but cannot listen.
my heart is beating slowly. the fear has seeped in.
the snow falls steady- we’ll be snowed in,
busting secrets, let’s not keep them.
let’s not keep them.

stumble into freshman notebooks.
discover nothing fresh or ripe.
but something stewing, something rotten.
something worth it- worth some talking.
now i’m laughing.

your uninspired, murmured sleep.
my tapping toes, so off-beat.
teach me rhythm, i lose it fast.
forgot how to flirt and picked up class,
something worth it- let’s not keep it.

I bit down on my back teeth,
and let the air release from my nose.
I want to scream,
I want to break things,
but I can write fury instead.
There is a typhoon in my chest,
that is ejected from my pen.
My paper rips from the pressure.
I imagine it be like skin,
and how this ink bleeds
boiling hatred
is what I thirst for when
the adrenaline kicks in.
Because when all is said and done,
and bloodshot eyes glance downward.
The reality washes over me-
I have made
in madness.

I looked at their hands,
and how effortlessly they laced.
She wore a pastel purple and he was all black.
And they were impossibly beautiful.
Everyone was enjoying pineapple cake,
while the band played orchestrated indie music.
The place was large, and I was passed the mic,
Say some things for the happy couple!
"I...
I am really jealous, and I could only dream
of something remotely close to this
in my future.
Real love
I'm talking about a real love.
I...hope they go on like that...
-motioning at them making out-
forever."
In the back of my throat there was almost
a satisfying fear forming
that they'd become a statistic.
It never left my mouth,
it just stayed in my stomach until I met him.

I lift my head ever so slightly,
snuggle back in.
When do we ever really owe ourselves?
And what?
Respect? A second chance?
Slumber is what we deprive ourselves,
or make bed-ridden with guilt,
when we should rejoice.
I am at peace when the phone is unimportant,
and I forget the day of the week.
Hell, this poem was perhaps my biggest feat.
But I'll tell you more, once I get some more sleep.

I lock my eyes to their counterparts-
the alter-ego of my ego.
I stare into the mirror
not to remark on my beauty,
or the flaws that can seem etched
into the glass,
but because I can't trust any other window,
to look into my soul as deeply.
And when I look at this mere reflection,
there is a love so superficially profound,
that can only be understood
when pupils match up perfectly.

Chop. Chop. Chop.
The colors of the pepper
scatter on woodgrain.
They sit next to the diced onion
that I cut blind-
Chop
with my face turned to the door.
Those are next to the once big trees of broccoli-
Chop
now small flowers,
and there's a potent pile of garlic-
Chop
ready to be thrown into a shallow pit of heat-
the olive oil is sizzling.
Stop.
Listen to sound of produce.
Go!
Don't let the smoke rise too far-
the noses will come visit
and take your dinner away.
That's okay...
**I wasn't hungry anyway.

What are we so scared of?
We are just bags of blood and bones,
in a rotating assembly line,
hanging side by side
smacking against each other
as lightly as possible,
so as not to puncture
our delicate vessels.
Don't we know?
Words are what
spill our guts.

the moment I wake up, my room is shaking.
It's 7 o' clock and the kid that got arrested again last week,
is blasting EDM downstairs, and my walls
are reverberating.
My walls are always reverberating.
I've lived in this ancient building since I can remember.
My consciousness began in a blue apartment.
We've only moved once, and its was to the other side.
I roll out of bed and head straight for the fridge.
There's some rice and beans from this haitian lady-
my mother's only friend.
They don't really understand each other,
but they're always exchanging food.
I take a plastic spoonful.
It's really salty.
I eat it cold while looking out the window in my living room,
my sweatpants are hiked up to my knees,
and my robe is hung loose around me.
I pull the blinds up high.
I lived on main street all of my life, but it's not too busy of a town,
so there aren't many cars.
I look across the road, to the art gallery that was just built
under existing residents.
That's cool
Too bad the owners are racist *****,
that would assume I was a muslim if I were to walk in.
Probably tell me to leave because they're closed,
when they aren't.
They told my friend, Mo, that.
He doesn't even practice.
I wonder if anyone else is looking out
of their windows at this hour.
Perhaps at me, and my disheveled morning appearance.
There must be a rave going on downstairs.
When it wasn't the laundromat it was this kid's
insufferable music choice.
Or the crack-fiends cries for money on the stoop.
I usually lock myself in my room,
listening to the hiss of the heater.
My blue-light blocking glasses on,
I stare at my lap-top screen,
typing in a mildly passive-aggressive tone.
Complaints to the landlord aren't heard.
I've little sympathy for most passive- aggression.
But I guess the powerlessness
is where it stems from.
I've got to escape.

I love you so much,
I hate myself for it.

I could write a hundred poems,
each one could paint a horrid picture of you.
But not one could make these feelings
disappear.
And you know what?
That ******* *****.
I'll just be a slave.
not to you-
but to time.
Waiting for this to disappear.
I hope you see this and realize something.
Some sort of direction-
be it to leave or to make amends.
I keep smiling and trying to love.
Unconditionally.
Like I've been- all this time.
But all I do is make a fool of myself.
Three times.
Shame on me.

If I can get over what you create,
and how you smile-
I would be just fine.
I would be just fine.

You think *** is *****.
That's why the types of women you ****,
are the ones that you hate,
and why you can't make love,
or lick to taste.
That's why you want to spit at me,
with your scrunched up face.
That's why you don't say a thing,
after blowing your load.
No matter how hard I made you explode,
you pull apart and go straight for your phone.
The paper towels,
sports zones,
like sweaty men bumping helmets
are any cleaner.

I tell you I missed you,
you press your lips together in silence-
as if admitting that you felt the same
would result in the loss of your voice,
forever.

Compared you to a child,
but children are less dishonest.

No*, you do not love me.
I only love *you.

I know I'll have to be one-
so I push a little harder.
The door swings open,
and there you are,
naked and crying,
with a blanket over your head.
I keep teetering about
on the threshold,
step in, step out.
I shut the door,
and walk around.
I might be the one-
but I'm not ready for your sound.

I wake up every morning clutching my reserve
like you clutch your smartphone,
pleading with it in a whisper,
*"Please don't die on me."

I don't have a perfect family
that'll welcome you with open arms.
But I have someone like a sister,
and while she's like me in that we're flawed,
she will love you like a brother,
because she knows I love you as a lover.

I don't have a perfect body
that is sculpted and chiseled with athleticism.
But I have curves that will give you comfort
in the coldest nights and sorrow,
I can fit into you like a jigsaw puzzle,
you'll take apart and put together again.

I don't have a perfect salary,
free of loans and debts, and money promises.
But I have the ethic to work hard
to pay it off, and be able to go see
these incredible experiences you give to me.
They are so worth it.

I don't have the cleanest past,
free of toxic people and bad decisions.
But I have my present so pristine,
and I do everything to make sure
I'm on the right track for us,
for me.

I don't have complete understanding,
of how to handle our problems together.
But I have the passion to learn, grow and try.
I wont let our optimism die,
even though the instructions
might be complicated.

I don't have a complete grip on who I really am-
*but I do have the confirmation
that I am something really special.

Is fear always created?
Should it not exist entirely?

I'm beginning to realize the best way to go about this-
is not to worry if someone else betrays, cheats, trusts, loves or leaves you.
And just do as you please.
Just do what you believe.
The fear is so much bigger than what actually happens.
Pain is deep- but it goes away.
It flickers back in moments- when certain words are mentioned,
but its vocabulary depletes
as you make new memories.
Passion is beautiful.
Is it worth losing what makes you dream- smile and sing,
so you can encase yourself in protective film-
that plays backs the same memories of torment,
just to keep them from happening again?
The mind is not just a powerful thing-
it's fickle.
I'm not afraid to love you.
I'm certain there will be pain-
but ****, I have nine tattoos.

When I saw you,
I said, "I'll make him fall in love with me."
But I fell instead.
Weak- in your arms.
Today, you say you wish you could erase this.
The writing is too dark and dense.
There will always be outlines,
to the pits you never want to step into
again.
But I still want to remember them.
Because I fell instead.

I forgot ****** healing.
I'm too scared to feel anything when you're done.
It's not like you stroke my hair,
kiss my skin and treasure me.
I'm looking for my spectacles,
emptying out your receptacle.
But there's value in the hand that flushes
down your forgotten ****.

I read my poems over and over,
become convinced that my heart is bipolar.
Find me laid out on the four corners
my limbs in each state-
picking a new place
to escape you and my fate.
But if you were to go- you'd probably
get a phone call from New York
saying you just missed the funeral.

Energy to try is depleted.
I wonder if you'd even see this.
Not that I have problem telling you
how I feel-
but if you were wondering what it's like
to feel like I do...
who am I kidding?
You'll never even look at this.
You're not a stranger, and I almost wish you were-
so the fact that you don't check this regularly
didn't make me feel so insignificant.
And if you did check,
you'd see I'm making you famous
but you never needed help,
so I guess it doesn't matter.
No wonder you never look.

My body won't allow me to feel for you anymore.
Though the warmth of your blanket is comforting-
it's not enough when the cavity in my chest
is empty.
When we're not together it's filled with promise,
and while it's easy to see that I miss you,
I don't miss the absence of my heart
and its presence in your palm.
I loved you too much and it's a problem- I know.
Because it isn't a love you can reciprocate.
So with each day apart, I feel the blood in my veins,
and I try to keep breathing for myself.
And to those grieving with a similar fate,
I know you've heard it before- it's not easy but in time
I'm trying to grow out as far as you did and then some,
for good measure.
I used to feel safe in your arms,
but I feel the cold weather- more when we're together
than when we're apart.
And all of my mittens are worn and my fingers
can only clutch my heart for warmth-
so no I can't leave it at your house anymore
it's no longer the furnace you leave in the corner
while you sit in your blizzard, stoic, unapproachable.
It's not to keep someone new alive.
But I've got this numb skin that needs protection
from the storms you survive.

Listening to Mr. Noah,
you were like a child at play-time.
Lost in euphoria you never needed to explain.
I saw a lady today,
and for the first time in a long time,
I felt a love that wasn't ****** nor familial,
I learned a bit of friendship,
and was reminded of how much giving meant
when there was no obligation.
It's easy to not to worry when you don't feel
the need to understand.
Listening carefully to his voice exclaiming,
against funny beautiful instruments,
he is like a child at play-time,
worry-free, until the music stops.
Calmness that can be sadness when it ends.
When will you return to the cottage in my heart,
little child?
You play with what you mean to love,
feel sad when it's broken from a lack of care.
But you don't need to understand,
so you smile when the music starts up again.
You were like a little child.

Paused a netflix movie just to write this,
my eyes are heavy in both sleep and solemnity,
I miss you.
It might seem like I rather do other things,
but that's because I'm scared about when we're alone.
I don't want to disrupt whatever high you've got going.
So I'll write to you-
maybe you'll see this, maybe you'll never look back.
And that is all just okay.
I remember there was a time I just loved you-
fearlessly.
It didn't matter that you didn't trust me
because I was certain one day, all of that will come.
That as long as I loved you unconditionally-
I could show you.
I had so much passion- so much drive,
I was thriving in those moments.
I believed in something that might not ever work
for the sake of belief
I was so deep in love.
It was dream-like.
Somewhere along the line this proof of promise-
converted into fear of loss,
and for some reason, I never was able to make you see.
I don't know maybe you've lost the details in your dark shades.
And while I am dying for that moment you let down
your 200 ft wall,
I'm now aware it might not come.
I'm okay with this.
Because my love for you
is not about what you give to me.
It's about how much I enjoy reminding you
how incredible you really are.
You always seems to forget that- and I don't mind being the one
to show it every single day.
I've been at the end of such a love-
and it's hard to reciprocate unless you really feel it.
So I get it.
It's cool.
I'll just keep loving you.
Because with every day I try to show you-
I show myself how much love I can have,
and despite what you might think,
I'm spectacular.
And I'd love me if I loved me as I much as I loved you.
Admitting this is the first step, I believe,
to letting go
acceptance
that maybe I'm not meant to be loved by you.
But I'll be passionate, still.
I'll be thriving, still.
And I'm still so very deep in love.

I realize I read many,
but few speak to me.

I wonder if anyone listens,
but it doesn't really matter.

It's 3:43 AM.
I can't close my eyes.
My hearts beating too loud.
My stomach is twisting.
I don't want to be anyone's trouble.
Will I ever be something?
Could I be your honey?
Even though, I have no money?
I need to work.
I'll buy lotto tickets.
Do I have to strip? Or do ****?
What does it take?
My first payment is two-hundred and thirty-six dollars
twenty-three cents.
It increases after two years.
I don't have a job yet-
I graduate this May- if I don't die.
If I don't die, I will have to pay
this November.
Our anniversary is in November.
Better find a government job.
Make that cash!
I don't want a sugar daddy with a white mustache.
She said, "Everyone has loans."
Yeah, but I'm no one.
What does it take to get paid
loads
loads
loads
of cash?
I didn't care for money.
Capitalism grants me
no choice but to
Wonder what it's like at the bottom of the ocean?
No structure- it's dark.
I'll become fish food,
in some rich man's aquarium.

He ****** up.
He knows this.
There was no amount of pain she could have caused him
to make what he did alright.
The more time he spends remembering,
the more he wishes he could forget.
He could never tell her how far it went.
Some might think she deserves to hear it-
but he knows she values her ears,
and she'd probably never believe him anyway.
So he thinks she deserves to be spared.
He still thinks about her,
on colder nights likes these.
Wondering what it would have been like to spend it
with a bit more ease.
If he never left her,
if he never did what he pleased.
It might have been boring,
but at least there was peace.
It might have been unfulfilling,
but at least there was nothing to prove.
It was easy love- what they had.
She put up with his tantrums,
cradled him like babe.
He wanted more,
and he didn't like her lies.
So he made up his own.
He knows he never could go back.
But he still thinks of her,
on colder nights like these.
He sees her name come up-
and wonder if she could still make him smile,
when his heart hurt. Like she used to.
She probably would.
But she deserves far better than him.
And he deserves to learn.

I fear everyone-
especially you.
Because no one is just them-
a person is never just a person.
They are a network of people, of passions
and memories that spark when
you experience.
And I would hate to only remember
how you taste,
in a vague passing thought.
So I fear you.
I fear losing you.
Because the network of my circulation
has your love in its center.
And without that-
there is only chaos.
I fear it
I fear everyone-
especially you.

I can show you exactly what it feels like
to miss someone-
I can show you the meaning of a real
tender love- unconditional,
and give you all of it in an analogy
about watering plants or something,
and pray that you'll listen for a second
and learn about me,
but sweetheart,
expectations are the vapors that escape my whispers,
and they can't be seen
as much I can't be heard,
and I know they won't be remembered
when I blow them in your face,
seductively or not.
I know you know how to play a ***** game.
And while I'll try my hardest,
my darndest to play it better-
I know what it requires.
I know you have it and I don't, and if I were to,
I wouldn't be your sweetheart, would I now?
No, I wouldn't be me-
and every time I realize how much power
I give that stellar smile of yours,
sweetheart,
it doesn't seem to show up.
I know when it shows up, though, because it always does.
It shows up when I've lost hope,
and I'm feeling flighty, lost, and ready to beg-
when I'm terrified it'll never show up again,
it shows up,
and I feel saved.
But tonight, it's going to play differently,
sweetheart.
And I know you'll chop this up nice and fine,
to be something you're proud of me about,
because you know,
I'm just your little sweetheart,
but tonight,
I'm going make something out of this empty I feel
when you're not around.
I'm going fill it up with my stellar smile,
and show myself the meaning of a real
tender love-unconditional.
I'm going to take the loneliness that fills me,
break it up on this piece,
and smoke it away
while learning my life is better,
sweetheart,
without playing your games.

I was lonely because I forgot words kept me company.

With a white feather
stroking my blackest ego,
I will write lightly.

Hey you poets.
Stop making me believe in romance.
It doesn't exist.
And I know I sound bitter.
But trust me, I insist.
It doesn't exist.
But reading your pretty confessions
makes me wish it did.
And now I have this unrealistic expectation
of how I'm going to kiss.
We are pixelated people.
desiring a little more than a glance.
Romance is only fiction
on a bookshelf in a prison.
And I know I sound bitter.
But trust me, I insist
It doesn't exist.

I'm not going to beg, dear.
You might love to wallow-
feel like you're on your last leg, here.
But while I rather swallow
my pride and be hollow-
than be filled
with the anticipation,
I don't have the patience to deal
with your to and fro,
side to side,
out with it already,
I know that you lied.
And I just don't care anymore
but I
don't want to be here
waiting for you
to be strong.
I wanted to lay there
and hold you up to the stars
forget about who
who is wrong.
I know you know
we've got something good,
but I just can't push
anymore.
It's time for you to pump your legs,
and swing yourself,
a little higher.
a little farther.
I can no longer really bother
putting in mine,
when you can't find yours.

Cursed questionable platform,
but at least I know you're awake.