We are all human beings
We all have our own lives
And different ways we live them
But each one of us is a writer
And this poem is for all of you

All of you who have virtues and use them in your writing
Those who use flashbacks and revisit mental photo albums

Beginning the story from the middle for that’s usually where you mind is at
Looking back then looking forward
Studying the past so you can be ready for what is to come

Recording catastrophes with a number two pencil

Tales and blurbs of tragedy
Caused by love or the lack there of

Rewards and punishment
Self-reliance and self-fulfillment

We are mere narrators
Humble, maybe unreliable
Equipped with numerous devices
Ironic Paradoxes
Red herrings
Fortuitous plot twists
Metaphors
Allegoric hyperboles
Analogies
Oxymorons and onomatopoeias

We sling Chekhov’s gun like bandits of literacy

We’re visionary revolutionaries
Revolution of the mind, body and soul

Changing ourselves and examining who and what we are
To become what we are destined to be
The best

Rejecting convention
Building our own paths
That lead to cliffhangers

Romantic lust
Comedic affairs
Dark massacres
Spiritual healing

Religious speculation
And the questioning of the way we, the people are being governed

We use the tools we are giving to sculpt new art that the world can stand in awe of

Personification
Symbolic imagery

Practicing pastiche with respect
Dionysian imitatio

Surreal reality
Defying mortality

Reiteration and retort

Using nature to express emotion and thought

Doubts and fear

Opposites
Morals and ethics

Satisfying curiosity

Parodying what we see
Embellishing just a little

We us word play to dive deep into the topic of conscious, subconscious and unconscious thought

Using satire to poke fun at the human condition,  its senses and perception of the universe to get readers thinking

Expressing our anger, our boundless joys
Desiring unknown pleasures

Seeing past the fallacies put before us

We write with great candor about war, personal conflicts, and self-abuse

With hinting undertones to give these ideas a second thought

We write of the supernatural, metaphysical mysteries
Outlandish, obscure mind boggling theories

As the clock ticks too fast for us and the characters we’ve created

Demolishing the fourth wall with a sledge hammer of defamiliarization

Epiphanies in a parking lot
Speaking in the 1st, 2nd or 3rd person

Using fun things like anagrams and palindromes
Candy for the lovers of such things

Spontaneity is an understatement
Nonsense is an insulting overstatement
Absurdity seems to fit just right

We are chameleons
We can write in various forms
Streams of gratifying consciousness
Brilliant prose
Beautiful poetry

And chose to use or merely acknowledge the ways to achieve these forms
Rhetoric, rhythm  and rhyme
Meter and mora
Conceit and consonance
Assonance
Intonation
Working with phonaesthetics  

And accenting aesthetics

A poem can or could not be organized as such
If we want to get technical about it

We have a poem
With a number of verses
And in those verses
Are lines
And those lines might rhyme
And have a meter or rhythm
Stressed or unstressed syllables

In contrast to that we may write
Without all of that and use emotion
Feeling and structure our work with what we feel is the best way
Line breaks
Pauses and puns
Silly similes
Ambiguous antonyms  
Intonation, linguistics
Fight against the fascists of grammar and conservative correctness

So, in the end we are writers of a rainbow kaleidoscope forms, devices, ways and ideas

But we alone are the ones who make the world think
Make it move
Revolt
Renew
Learn
Look back
Remember
Cry
Smile
Forget
Ease

Write my friends write until your mind explodes and your fingers bleed

Read, read and become inspired
Even if what you’re reading is bad cheese

Forget getting published it’s the writing that matters
Disregard the off-putting, critical chatter

And if you think no one reads
Than be the seed and sprout a tree of astounding artistry
And let’s begin a new movement composed of ideals that will hold true forever
I might be preaching to the choir but it must be said that poetry; literature isn’t dead

"Compassionate Conservatism"
and
"friendly fire":
Euphemistic oxymorons
capable of
destroying hospitals.

I want to use all the alterations, Personifications in the world to impress you.
I want to drive you insane with the oxymorons, the metaphors and the similes.
I want to use coliqual words so that I can make you think I'm extremely smart.
When really in reality I'm just average.
I want to use euphemism and lititoes to really make you think I'm that good with words.
When really in reality I have writers block yet I want to capture your attention.
I want to write an iambic tetrameter with the rhyme scheme ABAB so that you notice some part of me in my writing.
I want my words to ****** with your mind so that some part of you thinks about me...
But I have writers block, There's not much I can do to grab your attention.

simultaneously i am
my own deity and enemy
at once a cancer and its cure
the sheep and the wolf
a king and a fool
subservient to none
yet obligated to all
a series of contradictions
and oxymorons played out
to define complexity in simplicity
purposelessness in post-modern artistry

a cornerstone on dry land but
sinking down in life's quicksand i
am defined in tandem with my
community but i also stand apart
independently spouting a philosophy
of non-violent civil disobedience
predicated on the heart informing and
the mind responding in kind
and my rebellion may or
may not be limited to
peaceful protest and direct action
it might also include
burning flags and bombing buildings
symbols of oligarchy come crashing down

i see utopic potential in the dystopian
narratives on Barnes & Noble's bookshelves
carry the fires of Prometheus to shake the
apathy of false hopes and leave desiccated
idolatry in the shallow graves that serve
as mouths spewing hatred and homophobia

i am an anarchist with Messianic tendencies
the infamous Nazarene
died defying Rome's empire and
i'll decry American chauvinism on my death-bed
born and bred in the home of
two happily-married conservative Christians
emerged a nonbeliever
i'll resist until the end

earning my master's in literary cultural
and textual studies and i've been told that
i'm prone to sophisticated soliloquies and
that i have a robust vocabulary yet
people always ask me why
my favorite word is ****
and i suppose it has something to do with
its versatility vibrancy and vivacious vicissitudes

i am in love with a girl with
forest-fire hair follicles that burn
almost as bright as the compassion she
nurtures in her chest a rebel girl
in a patriarchal world wielding middle-
fingers as easily as warm hugs
i adore that she is polyamorous
even if i have eyes for only her

i lead a democratic classroom
by modeling leaderlessness
a professor and a student
fellow learners use
my first name 'cause
we're one and the same
i'd be ashamed if i adopted
the illusion of authority and
tried in vain to tame the virtue of
liberty latent in every one of my students

i am my own damnation
an island unto myself
beset with the black plague of  
self-doubt drowning in the ocean of
delusion bereft of self-determination
betrayed the man in the mirror
i am my own adversary and accuser
judge jury and executioner
i signed my own death warrant

and i am my own redemption
i am the savior nailed to the cross  
nothing and no one
can stand in my path
i am the arbiter of free-will
the harbinger of hope and i
will vanquish the lies that
choke my throat like nooses of rope
and tie myself a lasso to pull down
the moon and sun and travel
aimlessly throughout the galaxy
as i did once
from star-dust i was
born and to dust i shall
inexorably return

simultaneously i am
my own deity and enemy
at once a cancer and its cure
the sheep and the wolf
a king and a fool
subservient to none
yet obligated to all
a series of contradictions
and oxymorons played out
to define complexity in simplicity
purposelessness in post-modern artistry

Underneath the stary sky with all its infinity and unknowns
makes me feel at home

The darkness that hides all the monsters and wraps around the world
feels like a blanket to me

but you avoid my eyes and walk quickly past me
and I still think you care

I live in a world of oxymorons and contradictions
which I usually greet with open arms

But when you are in view
the lack of emotion in your blue eyes
makes me feel loved

I love and hate oxymorons
because of you

You never really know someone until you are laying in a bed with them around 2 in the morning lingering from a night of busy adventure.
Not just a regular night of adventure but one that has exhausted you and drained all of the energy you stored from the week.
A night that took you to new places in a city you thought you knew so well and forced you to revel in the beauty it holds.
A night that creates memories that stick to your soul and your skin more than anything.
As you ride home in the backseat and steal glances in the rear view you love the way the wind wraps your hair around you and the wind smells sweet.
Once you have dropped off everyone else and you move to the front seat you really start getting to know someone.
It's midnight and you are dozing off in the passengers seat hoping this person is noticing the moonlight on your skin.
You feel their presence wrap around you and all thoughts of logic are thrown out the window as you drive down the highway.
It's 1 am now and you are laying in bed wondering how you got to the point of skin wrapped around you and a scent taking over your memories.
The conversation is light because you feel the need to whisper as the moonlight pours into a room of heavy hearts.
Nothing has happened that wasn't anything more than a kiss but the idea is heavy in the air with the cool weather blowing in through an open window.
Eyes hang low and voices start to soften and hang with every sleepy word that falls from a mouth.
This is the point where you get to know someone.
The things they whisper about as their mind tries to escape to sleep but they push through.
How you have a beautiful family.
How I love living in the country.
How you enjoy math.
How I hate all numbers.
How you like to workout.
How I love cake.
How you belief in religion.
How I believe in everything.
How we would love to be part of the stars.
How we hate oxymorons.
It is the simplicity of a tired mind that brings about the most deep and beautiful ideas. They way your voice is deeper and mine is quieter.
I got to know you under the cloak of night and I got to keep you there for a while.

A love so violently gentle
in an impulsive kind of way
I felt so beautifully ugly
a thought, I heard myself say
                   You were always coldly warm
                    as we talked about our pasts
                    Showing your most hateful smile
                    that you often wore as a mask
A dry moisture upon my lips
still remains from our first kiss
when my hair so wildly tame
wrapped around your fingertips
                     Our heartbeats, silently heard
                      as life was passing by
                      A weight, as light as a feather
                      fell upon us from the sky
Now our completely happy nightmare
moves swiftly to an end
I find myself laughing angrily
at this situation I have penned

There comes a time in everyone's life where they have to ask themselves is it worth it. I mean I have the American dream right? I think they're all lies told to make you think you have to reach for something or life is meaningless and wasted. All these empty goals reached don't make me happy. The process is still voided and leads to a dark hole. At 20 my life was never the same and I don't  know whether that's good or bad. Just memories to me currently. I can swim a little, but the waves still still get me ashore. Trying so hard some would say I lost my black card. Some would say my sanity is at risk for extinction. Then I ask myself did it ever exist. Both my sanity and this dream I call mine. Land mines in a field if you ask me. Rat traps to keep you trapped in thinking smaller than you are. Delusion of grandeur leaving me thinking I'm greater than I really am. Balance is the key that kept my door locked all my life. They don't tell you about balance. They tell you failure is avoidable and leads to pits. But really you have to fail to succeed and too much success will ruin you. Oxymorons that's tell you that it's okay to be fine with not being where you want to be.

he is
not the kind of guy you would imagine growing old with,
not because he wouldn't make a good father,
quite the contrary,
but because it's hard to wrap your mind around him
not
being
young

he smiles strangely sometimes, kind of an awkward perfect U shape, but it makes me laugh and sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose
his freckles are like stars, and sometimes I wish I could trace them with a soft finger, just to see if Orion or the Little Dipper will appear in the folds of his cheeks when he laughs, or remain hidden in the creases in his eyes
and he'll say the strangest things, like he's got nothing to lose
he gets passionate about things I don't give a **** about
like calculus, permutations and ****, as if he could calculate Life

strap Life to a chair and torture out its confessions, brandishing a TI-Inspire
his eyes glow sometimes, and he doesn't believe in oxymorons or paradoxes
he counts cards at Blackjack, but he'll let me win because he knows how much of a sore loser I am, and he
gives the best hugs in the world

not because they're warm and make me feel like I'm flying
but because of how awkward and gangly his arms feel,
and how reluctant the embrace is, like he's holding something back
and its the promise and awkwardness and

realness

of the hug that
makes them so

great.

My middle-aged boss Ted was a wise fool,
He got married to an original
copy of his first wife Jane,
He was a selfish lover,
She trusted him and always looked thoroughly unhappy,
They had a loveless relationship
Pamela,her twin had stolen her husband from her,
It was an open secret he and Pamela had been lovers for a long time.
She found no better revenge than to give him to her,
They had an amicable divorce.
There was deafening silence when he came to the office with Pamela,
She was painfully beautiful,and hell's Angel,
She was like the man she had married
We were used to his typically weird behaviours,
But,good grief! This was worst,
It was crash landing.
Both were terribly pleased with themselves.
We had no choice but,to congratulate  them,
It was an era of free love.
Before the marital bliss was over
she took over the reins of the office,
She started with veiled comments how we worked,
Then came veiled threats,
Next she lectured us on business ethics.
The pretty ugly lady had lost her head,
Ted,the big baby was forced to do nothing but watch,
There was a minor crises in the office,
The staff alone together resigned.
A small miracle happened,
Ted lost his cool temper,
He wanted his imperfect perfect wife out of the office.
He realised that their similarities were different,
You have to really know someone to understand they were strangers,
The evil genius had transferred his business and house in her name,
He was speechless.
A story told in silence,
For him it was the coldest day on a summer's day,
A common raven sits on his own faeces.

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my vocabulary strength,      
nor my ability to string words into a clean knot of similes and oxymorons at a perfect length
where I appease the regulations of grammar,
and please the cynical brains of strangers,
I am talking about the sound trapped beneath the fat folds of my brain,
the trains of thinking, never-blinking, that keep my outcasted thoughts sane,
I am talking about the voice of a teen filled with angst and unfulfillment
hellfire livid, mistaken as tepid, burning inside the sanctuary's core that is my heart lacking of discernment

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my skills at spelling,
nor my knowledge of historical people invested in writing
although I could say I, myself, would become history
just because I write in my own disposition and misery,
but what good would that be?
That my pen speaks louder than my voice,
and that a stick of ink triumphs over the blistering fire raging in my ventricles
Are you not entertained?
Seeing me crumble like lava rocks beneath your toes
and soon, I will be one with the ash that aimlessly goes around
and around and around you and the others that detest my will to speak
because apparently I’m a silent know-it-all, too fragile and meek
to survive in an obstacle course that is my existence  
Enlighten me,
you people who hold the needles and threads
How dare you ask for my preference of color
if my liberty to speak is dead?

I'm never really good with words,
so maybe it would be better not to say them at all

They say that humans are compassionate and loving creatures, with a wide variety of emotions. Yet they also say humans are the most feared and horrible creatures on this planet. And all of these things were yet said by humans. What most people don’t say or tend to notice is that humans are full of oxymorons, hypocrisys, and failure. That may sound negative but it isn’t. If humans weren’t flawed then we wouldn’t be humans right? I believe those two most common perceptions of humans come from the two most commonly perceived personality types present in humans. You have the super happy-go-lucky type who believes the world is perfect and pure and no one wants to hurt each other. And then you have the extremely hateful cynical type. The people who have been hurt and stepped on and abused and feel they have every right to hate the world. But I think these two extremes are quite unfair to the majority of the population that is in the middle grey area. The reality is that the world is a mystery and treats every human differently with different experiences, just as all humans are different from each other. It’s quite beautiful, that grey area. You never really know what’s going to happen in the middle and its exciting.

It's Thursday, the 9th of July, and although you've gone a day
I feel so inspired to write this to you, there are things I have to say...
For real, I feel from deep within, these things I share with you...
don't think I'm typical or like the rest, what I say is felt and true...
What may be words of blah blah blah, blah blah blah, I love you,
blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah need you..
those are simple words of sheep, but sheep I do not follow,
I speak of words only from my heart for we may just die tomorrow...
and if tomorrow never comes and my voice you  never hear,
I want you to hear me inside your head .. now as these words appear...
#1 in , in all my years of fourty-five, the likes of you seen twice
I know so little about a love.. this letter is not advice...
I will not bore you or make you believe that this kind of behaviour shall follow
but if i shall never see you again, you need this today.. not tomorrow..
Someday, now, later, next week, you'll have a soft moment of silence
and in your head you'll hear a voice that whispers to you so Giant,
you'll feel a touch, a breeze so gentle, upon your arm, your leg, your face...
it is from me, my thoughts of you, so powerful, so loud, with grace...
oxymorons, whispers:loud, powerful:gentle, but true
opposites attracting, proven here, in these words I say to you...
to send an emotion, such this strong feeling... the sense of myself touching you...
so far, so long, a distance compared, to me touching the moon...
is powerful, is real, and can you feel,  right now, me touching you?
I know you can, I can feel those touches coming from you...
I have tried to learn to allow my heart to allow my love more love,
from everything he is surrounded by .. because well.. we all need love...
and to deny my loves ~ more love ~ more love, I'd be stealing like a thief in the night
you should get as much love as you can get, we deserve love in our lives..
It was so hard to accept that my love may be getting his love from someone else,
but I could not control all happenings in a 24/7 realm...
all I can do is know one thing, and on this, I don't think twice..
I loved my love as much as I could and never sacrificed
one minute of happiness, from my own, sometimes, dramatic life...
If someone can love my love more than I, than so happy I shall be
for you only live once, you should only get as much love as love can be...
I felt your love, so gentle, so strong, so soft, so loud.. for me
and if I never ever hear from you or your face, I never again see
I'll remember that feeling.. that moment.. of time.. when  it all was given to me...
So sad to me.. the distance... our lives, could be  a true catastrophe,
if I were so selfish, and so cold hearted, that I just couldn't see
that you deserve so much love from everyone.. and not just love from me
for you only live once and who should live in such loveless misery...
That breeze you just felt, that kiss on your lips, that whisper through the tree,
that touch on your leg, your shoulder, your arm, right now.. my love.. from me..
And when I go to sleep at night and whisper inside my head,
goodnight to you, sweet dreams to you, and laying in my bed
I'll know when to you, traveling so quiet, my feelings and more words said..
I will feel the imprint of your body, the kisses upon my head..
the taste of your lips, the strength in your presence, I will have you in my bed...
and there we will be, just you and me, for another moment in time,
and again I will have you all to myself and so selfishly I'll imbibe
for tonight you are mine and I shall give you all the love I can...
I am your forever woman.. and you my for always man...
Forever you will have all of me, whenever you may need
I will never not love you, not for one minute, you are everything to me..

Life.
It is both beautiful,
and hideous.

It is both happy,
and emotionally exhausting.

It is both wondrous,
and draining.

Life is all of these oxymorons,
but it will never stop doing one thing.

Advancing.
Present to future,
no other direction.
There will never be a moment to wake up yesterday.
The only option you have is to advance.

Life is advancing,
evolving,
changing,
organically.

It's like a song you don't want to end because you're afraid that once it ends,
you won't want to start it over.

Life,
it's full of oxymorons.

remember?

you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where

i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me

your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry

like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin

the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything

anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time

at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?

How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine

i remember

i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real

rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

remember?

you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where

i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me

your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry

like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin

the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything

anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time

at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?

How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine

i remember

i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real

rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

Battling against a tide of cars and trains,
Counting the lubs and dubs that grow faint.

Penning down each tear that dries on my paper,
Concealing the eye bags from every night under an intense kohl layer.

Braving the fences and trenches that hurt my feet,
Archiving the conversations that now go obsolete.

Witchcrafting the blood moon of its glee so deep,
Staining the red from my eyes to your feet.

Crawling down from where you let others push me insane,
Ripping me apart with the echoes of 'I'll never be the same'

Uncovering the sunken eyes, shedded oodles and revealing cheek bones,
Trying to be worth a coin in a city of precious stones.

Still leaping miles towards you when a step you take back in repel,
Tickling you in fantasies to cast on you a laughter spell.

Watching those hazel eyes drool in sleep,
Embracing your aura when even my pillow does weep.

Pressing the backspace everytime I scribble verses,
Replacing the oxymorons in us with oranamental metaphors.

Letting my veins go cold n numb enough to form a rope,
Hanging everything I have n to grave shall I elope.

remember?

you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where

i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me

your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry

like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin

the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything

anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time

at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?

How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine

i remember

i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real

rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

As a reformed anonymist, I'm not one to look down on drunks.
But today at the bar, I looked up at one and saw a beautiful disaster.
Long dreaded hippie girls have a soft spot in the corner of my heart. From the patchwork dresses to the oxymorons of a vegan ****** addict, I've loved many.

But it's sad to watch someone create themselves through liquor.
To create a persona through drugs because that's "counter cultural."
To create another line of ******* about not wanting to be a robot.  
A message so timeless and repetitive that it's...

She was actually kind of personable.
The few times that day she could speak, she was even funny.
She carried herself with a grace that was quite remarkable for someone who could barely stand.
But she was on the run.
From a halfway house.
From a boy friend.
From a drug.
From herself.

There's no truly meeting someone who is already halfway out the door and already in the bag.

There was a desperation in her smile that I've seen before in my own reflection.
I don't believe in God.
But if you do, say a prayer for her.
I believe it's worth it.

I just want someone to write with.
No.
On.

I want someone who will stay up all night long, nothing but our souls and pens on display for the moonlight to catch off the small of his back, while the ink spills across our skin and forms itself into the lyrics to a song that doesn’t quite know how it goes. Not yet. I want a symphony of rhyme and reason and metaphors and anaphoras and allusions and oxymorons, I want poetry. In the form of a man.

This is a story about you.

With each thought comes disaster, a living corpse hung high
Oxymorons and illegitimate thoughts, broken voices
Tomorrow is the future but another days past
When it all ends there will only be dust
Rumbling pixie dust from nonexistent faeries
It's time to pull the batteries out of the controller
Auto pilot feels so good
Like tomorrow won't happen, never said those words
Just like that, stand still, stand tall
Eat your words as they leave, rot through your gums
Hang men with the melody that leaves your notes
Only then beg for solid thoughts, for one line
To end the thinking
Intoxication is so cruel, it let's me forgive my own tongue
How scornful

I lace my sneakers wishing I could organize my life this way.
My therapist is late again
And I wonder if I'll ever get my life to go as planned.
Racking my brain for organization skills I do not own.
Some things are destined for chaos.
The sun was out today-
But just as it usually does the rain came again
and so did my mania.
The sun controls my mood
and so does anything relating to warmth.
Controlling my emotions was never something I was good at doing.
The watch on my wrist is ticking down the seconds
until I have to stop writing and start talking.
I'm scared of how my therapist will see me now-
Scared of letting her down.
It seems the only one I do let down is me
because I'm always so six feet beside myself
But I like it here-
no one can bug me when I'm too busy sulking in my own self pity.
I start to wonder if that's what depression is-
or if I'm battling the idea of being okay with myself.
What does confidence feel like?
because all I've ever felt is confusion.
I've gotten to the point in my life
where not one thing makes sense to me.
Even what I write.
Every thing is all stream on consciousness
and not enough consistency.
My wallet is sitting on the table
If I wouldn't have glanced over
I know I would've forgotten about it.
Sometimes all we need is a second look at something
to remind you what can be lost.
I'm tired of turning everything into a poem.
My mind is on autopilot and I can't stop thinking in metaphors.
It gets really hard to write college essays
about History and the birth of America
because all I write is poetry
Plus, I haven't even traced my past back far enough
to recollect every event.
I wish I could.
Maybe then I could remember what you look like.
Maybe then I could deal with this life that has been destined to me
Etched out of stone and formed into skull-
it's funny how your structure can protect you but your insides are what kills you.
I'm tired of oxymorons.