i absolutely fear love
i fear it with every fiber of my being
because if i tell you i love you
you would know how shattered i could become if you left
i've always feared love
i've feared letting someone in that far
letting someone see how i really am
to let them have the ability to hurt me that badly
to let myself become comfortable with another
i've feared every aspect of love
because i fear vulnerability and being broken
yet i went and fell
and i'm absolutely terrified to speak those words
because then you could shatter me
and you already know how fragile i am

Life is full of them. When you're growing up, they're so frequent -
you're always looking forward to a new one.
As you grow older, that excitement gives way to regret and sometimes fear.
Things you haven't yet done or experienced;
things you have yet to fail at - things you may never get the chance to enjoy.
I've had a few firsts this past year, as I decided to finally let go of that fear I was clinging to for so long.
And it is such a relief -
to find that you're not made of porcelain,
emotionally or physically;
that your life isn't on the verge of going up in flames,
or crumbling to bits at the slightest provocation.
You are stronger and so is the fabric of the life you have woven -
it can withstand a few tremors, harsh waves, missteps, falls, crashes, burns.

If you don't have the scars to prove it, did it really happen?
You've got to let life mark you, not all scars are bad,
some make killer tattoos..

their timelines brag "lives"
but a grin I learn to keep
in patterns I don't forget
today is a lot better
than when I tried my own end

What's it take
These days

To write a poem

That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest

Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?

Is it perhaps...
     the "creativity"
               of      varied      spacing
  or...    could it be..... the lack
                              of capitalization
               the loathsome little letters
               screaming out
                         hey, look at us!
         ... or maybe it's
               the punctuation marks,
     littered, haphazardly
          through the text
                    (whether used correctly)
               or, theyre not?!
     despite worrds mispeled
          and a grammar might is broken
   can these gimmicks increase interest
        though miswritten or misspoken?

Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
     unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
   (or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
                  Praise for which we
                  Privately, desperately
                  Pray

Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism

Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes

Well, maybe not...
     those gems are often ignored
     cast-aside, unread, even abhorred

Why?

Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
   of "the right way"
   to write
   to speak
   to act
   to live
   to (fill in the blank)

No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!

And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way

Line
After line
Of synonyms
          over
               and
                    over
                         and
                              over
                                   again

-----

What's it take
These days

To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?

But more importantly:
What's it take

To make my poem go viral?

so I noticed that we both drink coffee.
just like anyone, we both like ours a certain way.
i like mine sweeter, with just the aftertaste of coffee there.
caramel, sugar, creamer.
i think about when i’ll have my next cup, and the idea of it alone makes me happy.
i don’t care what time of day i have it, i almost always have a cup.
i make time for my coffee.
it might be safe to say i think you like your coffee black.
you might add just the smallest touch to soften its bitter taste, but never too much.
sometimes i think you just pour it and carry on, as though it’s nothing important at all.
as though all it is, is just some quick fix.
like you just want to get it over with.
we drink it in two different ways.
i drink it slowly.
i note every flavor in every sip, i enjoy it.
i note the warmth it brings me.
i like it all hours of the day.
you drink it quickly.
quicker than me, at least.
you don’t care if it burns your tongue, or perhaps you’re used to the pain.
you accept it.
you never let it last, you move on to something else soon after.
i lay in your bed, watching your eyes as they skim the screen in front of you.
your mind is somewhere else.
i savor the moments you look my way, if even for a second, and smile at me.
i wonder if you even notice them.
i feel your laugh vibrate my bones, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
do i make you feel at all?
i reflect on it every time i drink my coffee.
i think about it with each and every sip, taking my time.
something tells me that you don’t do the same.
after all, it's just coffee.
but i put my all into this coffee.
i think you like your coffee black.

the scent of her sweat
cigarette ash on my skin
she says, "don't forget."
as she whispers to my ear
the story of how we met

it's funny
how quickly you can be discarded
when something better comes along.

deep down you know it's your fault,
but you decide to pity yourself.

you flip through their photos;
smiling faces gleam back at you.
"why wasn't i invited?"
that small and jealous child
that lives in my mind whines at me.

this child quickly becomes a glooming figure.
a figure of some black fog
that seeps through my veins
and swallows me whole.

this is the autobiography of a second choice.

the choice they forgot about.
the choice they see
when all the smoke is clear,
and one sad, sullen apparition awaits;
wanting to be chosen.

with my head down,
and my hopes high,
i walk with them.