Every time the sirens scream,
the blood in my hands grows colder the usual.
My chest aches in such a way I must hold myself
back from clutching it.
I breathe steadily- or as steadily as I can
as to not create a fit of panic.
But it’s terrifying.
One-two-three-
Send a prayer to anyone whose
willing to listen and it goes:
PleasenotnownottodayI’mnotreadydon’ttakethemnot-
Heavy brown eyes and a glinting smile saying hello
in a way that makes me want to cry tears of
Memories- innocent and pure with the wind in your hair.
And the siren continues to wail.

When I press broken fingernails deep inside the
fleshy surface that is an anemic palm,
I am reminded-
I am real.
This is real.
Fourteen years old.
I remember the first time I got high
like it was yesterday,
but I can’t for the life of me
remember who am I.
Close-set eyes like brown almond paste-
(no my eyes are blue.)
Who.
This ****** body stripped of sin
only to mess it up again.
But I'm fine-
Everyone says so.
Fine like the wind in summer
blowing round and round cotton fairies.
And I press broken nails sharp like glass
into frail skin
if only to feel something.
But it never lasts long enough
to count.

My mother loves me like she loves the
rain when it pours and
pours and
pours.
Like
achy
joints that
curl ‘round their suppor-
-ting bones mercilessly.
And the pebble in her shoe
that makes blistering wounds;
She loves me like she loves my
Lack of Drive.
Determination
Determining how much the woman
loves me
is but a test untaken.
As without the rain
green drys black.
Plants
thirst.
Even if
she only shows
the smallest
Indication

Every time I try,
I get this feeling in my stomach.
Some say they're butterflies.

But if you would call them butterflies,
They must be malicious ones,
Swarming and making me feel sick.

They're trying to **** me,
Sometimes I think.
Maybe it's for the best.

Maybe the butterflies are right,
And I should stop trying
But I hope they aren't.

The sweetest butterflies,
The ones that flutter and glitter,
They come when I'm around you.

I like who I am with you.

I like to laugh.

And I like your laugh.

I like being nerdy.

And I like how nerdy you are.

I like being happier

And I like seeing you happy.

I like being myself.

And I really like you.

Maybe that silence seems awkward.
Maybe it's not.

Maybe it's just empty space.
Maybe it's devoid of everything that could fill it.

Maybe it's just lacking sound.
Maybe the wanting to speak is still there.


Silence isn't always empty space.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til you picked up the phone.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that we were right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.