I look at my poems
and find
that they are
worth writing
but not
reading.

I used to be excited on Fridays.
I used to have interesting plans.
My weekends were non-stop hectic,
my time was in high demand.

Now I live in repeated patterns,
I’m a servant to boring routines.
A fleshy teenage automaton,
waiting for science to intervene.

Oh, I'm readier than a girl-scout,
I’m more prepared than a marine,
I’ll be out the door like a cartoon coyote,
the second I’m shot with vaccine.

All my #2 pencils are chewed and the erasers are gone.
Half the pages of my books have been folded.

Sections are highlighted and notes are scribbled  
all over the place!  shaking head

The page margins are jammed with doodles,  
of flowers, cats, stars, hearts and names.

flipping pages to early in the year

September doodles are all John, john, JOHN.

Who’s John? thinking back
Oh, yeah. smiling  OH YEAH.

It’s good to review the book before midterms.

Don't let anyone
with bad eyebrows give you life
advice - it ends badly.

I don't mind seeing my ex with
someone else - I usually donate
unused things to the less fortunate.

I wonder how many
calories I burn jumping
to wrong conclusions.

The trick is to take
your eye off the ball - forget
and enjoy yourself.

When you realize
- ultimately, life's a
suicide mission.

Do the flowers fret
even as they bloom? Are swans
gracefully worried?

Ignore that small voice
- enjoy life's pleasures, thrills,
and delight in love.

I’m overthinking,
tired of the endless waiting,
about to blow up.

Even my mom sees it.
She starts some cutting remark
only to pull it back.

Me: "Argh! I have this anger, just below the surface."
My brother: "Uhh, it's not that far below the surface."