I want to write poetry
But
What am I to write about?

I could tell you about
The horse I had at 3
That my parents sold at 4,

Or the Taco Bell up the street
That was closed
For selling drugs out the back window,

Or even the time
That my dad crushed an ant
Into our old cement patio
And tears sprang to my eyes because
I was sure that the ant had a family somewhere
Who would expect him home any minute.

But those aren’t very pleasant things
And I’m not able to make rhymes,

So I am forced to face the truth
That maybe
I am not a very pleasant person.

the trees make me sad
because they cannot see
their changing colors,
but do they still feel cold
in the winter?
they have no one to warm them
but the earthworms beneath their feet
and the squirrels within their chest.
the trees give so much
but they cannot be held
they cannot receive.

why is red so angry?
red is the color of a festering wound
it’s the sun falling from the sky at night,
the color of pain behind your eyelids.
what is red so angry at?
red is the color of blood and oxygen,
the brittle leaves leaving their home,
lips worn down by worry.
maybe blue has left red.
blue is soft and calm,
the cold side of your pillow,
the color of quiet.
blue is sad.
red is brash.
red is angry.
who is red so angry at?

Maybe the reason
That you don’t speak to me
Anymore,
Is that you
Are not you.
Perhaps you are but a copy,
And the real you
My you
Is buried within me.

Because every night
When I lay my head down,
You fill my thoughts.
And every time
Someone asks me
What I like about this world,
Your laugh erupts
Into my ears.

But when I sliced myself open
It was not your golden hair
That I saw,
And when I look
Into the mirror
There is no trace of you
That smiles back.