I miss VCR players and Saturday morning cartoons
Star Wars marathons every weekend.
I miss being terrified of the mouldy basement dark
And watching Homestar Runner for hours.
I miss blowing things up in the backyard
And building that tree house, and making ****** movies
On a ****** video camera
With my oldest brother, who in many ways
(such as by blood, and parentage, and legally)
isn’t even my brother at all.

I miss the world the way it used to be,
Before things inside me began to go numb
And other things began to burn like live wires.
I miss the innocence I lost. I miss the cents I lost
To the arcade games and the broken vending machines
To the bullies on the playgrounds
Who even I learned to make excuses for.

I miss the days when a Weezer song
Could fix just about anything at all,
Back when I climbed more trees,
Swung on more swings, ate more candy.
I miss my kidhood, when I thought that
Growing up was going to be just fine.
I miss walking to ****’s for greasy hamburgers.
I miss the way the Space Needle used to
Make me crane my neck to follow its yellow elevators
All the way up to the spinning top.

I miss growing up with you, stuck between Freakmont
And Far East Ballard, going to Archie McPhee’s,
Rubber chickens, refrigerator magnets, hamburger hats,
Bacon soap, Jesus tape, pickle bandaids.
I miss your house that smells like cats
And your wonderful parents, and your too-many brothers.
I miss your kitchen and your living room
And your amazing singing and your air guitar solos.

I don’t want to date you or marry you or *******
But since you started dating that awful girl
Five years ago - FIVE WHOLE YEARS! -
I haven’t seen you all that much.
It wasn’t really a choice, I couldn’t be around her:
She makes you into someone that is not-you.
Someone that is quiet and shy and reserved,
Not loud and strange and outrageous.

I miss you, oldest brother.
I always felt like you understood me in a strange
Sort of distant way. I miss you a lot.
I feel less alone when you’re around.
I hope college changes you, I hope it makes you
Into who you are again. I hope you write more ****** movies
And film them and act in them
And I hope you break up with her
And find someone beautiful who makes you happy,
Who doesn’t make you into not-you.
I miss you, but not the not-you you’ve become.

I miss the first you I ever met,
Too tall, with way too much poofy hair,
And long skinny everything, and thick glasses
And a good sense of humor, and a taste in ****** movies,
Videogames, airsoft guns, horrible puns;
A pyromaniac, a secret fatty, a terrible dancer,
A geeky awkward kid from Tennessee
Who somehow changed everything about me forever.

What a pleasure it is
to be alive
at the same time as you
I could be lost in the 50s
swirling in a poodle skirt
and singing to frank sinatra
or the 60s
painting peace signs on my cheeks
thriving in a cultural decade
or i could be making my way
in the 70s or 80s
pretending i like disco
with poofy hair
i have teased my mother about.
but i am here
in the present
which is truly a gift
as im spending the golden ages
of my life
with you
when i could be
an entirely different person
in an entirely different millennium
but how lucky i am
alive and free
in the same universe as you

running jumping
mewing occasionally

always begging for attention
always begging for a treat

a furry ball of cuteness
warm and playful
my handsome little man

my baby

sleeping on your back
snoring and twitching

my amusement
my love

fetching your favorite toy like a dog
chirping like a bird

an attention-grabbing-kitty-**** when guests arrive
an attempted escapee when then leave

poofy tail
expressive as always

I know you want me to play with you now.

Easter Sunday. My mom dropped me off at my girlfriend’s house early that morning. A couple hours before church. I used the key under the mat and went inside. Ashton had said her parents would be gone that morning and to come wake her up when I got there. So, I went into her room and sat at the edge of the bed. I softly kissed her forehead and she slowly opened her eyes, smiling up at me.
“Hey, baby,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“Good morning.”
“Let me brush my teeth real quick. I got dragon’s breath over here,” she said, covering her mouth and quickly walking to the bathroom.
“Geez. I can’t believe we’re finally ALONE! I can’t even remember the last time.”
“I think it was around Christmas or something,” I said, stretching out on the bed.
Ashton climbed on top of me, straddling me, for the first time in months. She pressed her mouth to mine, hard, breathing heavily and letting out a big sigh. We kept kissing and things really got heated quickly. I gently ran my tongue across her neck, expecting her to stop me, but she didn’t. Off came her shirt and she reached down into my pants, grabbing every inch of what I had. She bit her bottom lip hard and she had that hungry look in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Come on, put it in.”
“What?”
“Come on, just do it. I need it.”
I knew where she was going and what the outcome would be. It happened every time.
“No. Cause then if we have ***, we’ll go to church later, and you’ll start feeling all ‘bad.’ Because it’s a sin and you think it’s wrong. Then during praise and worship time, you’ll fall to your knees and start crying and I’ll feel like an ******* and … no. I don’t wanna go through all that ****.”
In one quick motion, she unzipped my pants and flopped my ****. Looking up at me, she slowly, very slowly, took it into her mouth. Going up and down. I looked up to the ceiling, my jaw dropped. In the entire five months we had been dating, she had never gone down on me. Never. It was too much; she knew exactly what to do. So then I just put it in. Like she asked me too. And in five minutes, I rolled off and we just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
She propped herself up on her elbows. Smiling big.
“You okay?” I asked, recalling the last time we had ***, and how much she sobbed and cried afterwards. Dripping with spit and tears, all red-faced. She went on about sin and how it was wrong. Cause we weren’t married. I thought it was stupid. I was her boyfriend; after all, there was love there. How could that be bad? This time, on Easter Sunday, she was just smiling in the rays of the sun. Finally, no more Christian guilt on her face.
“I just love you is all.”
And then she kissed me. She got dressed and made breakfast for me. Then we woke up her little brother and sister. It felt like a normal day. I was a regular teenager, having *** with my girlfriend. I wasn’t some repressed celibate, Christian, kid. I felt good, I felt ******* alive. Gettin’ those teenage kicks while the gettin’ was good. But then. At church. Like a prophet from the Old Testament, I had predicted the future. It came time in the service when they did “praise and worship.” Singing songs to God, with their arms up in the air. I used to get all into that, but by this time, punk rock had its mighty hold over me. Every day I just thought about it more and more. Was religion just a mechanism of control? To keep the poor from eating the rich? It seemed like it. So when Ashton fell to her knees and stared cryin’, I just groaned and scowled. I wanted to have a good time, not get some guilt trip for following our natural impulses. A week later was prom. The Senior Prom. I expected it to be like the ******’ movies. Poofy dresses and heels up in the air. Ya’ know, backseats steamin’ up on lover’s lane, above the lights of our town. What did I get? Dropped off before ten o’clock. Right before that, at a park, I had tried to get her to take a walk with me, go somewhere dark and quiet. We were on the swings with her best-friend Jesse and her 'just as friends' date. They were talking about just going home and calling it a night. I began to panic, no, no, no, it couldn't end this way for me. Prom was supposed to be it. My wild night of teenage kicks and high school romance. So I tried to make it happen.
"Hey, let's go take a walk and talk a bit. We haven't really gotten much alone time tonight. Ya know?"
“Yeah, I know. But...if we left them alone...I think it would make Jesse uncomfortable. Her and James went just as friends, she doesn’t want him to get the wrong idea. But we can talk right here. ” She said, with that big, bubbly, smile. I rolled my eyes and played along. It was in that moment, that I had checked out. Yes, ma’am, that was the straw that broke the first love’s back. Had to let her go. God too. I haven’t spoken to him since.

I have big hair
Hair that looks like medusa
Using loreal.
I have hair that is a
Short version of Merida
But isn't as firey as the mad hatter's
Hair but is
Big enough to be called that type
No I didn't stick my finger
In a light socket today
It's just my hair
My
Big
Poofy
Hair
That seems untamable at the very least
An accomplishment for anyone
I will never control it
And yet it is almost a super power
To have untamable
Hair

So, let's see, cheeriness personified.
****** if I can think of anything depressing.
Again and again, my mind goes on ever and ever,
In search of that infernal lightening rod
To which the dark and dreary are attracted.
And yet, butterflies and billowing clouds,
erupt magnificently in full bloom.
Hiding in the nooks of my cranium
fluffy bunnies and poofy flowers.
Anything really to while away the hours.
And so I write about grand battles,
frogs on crack, and ladies in your lap.
Seems this perky cheeriness is infectious....

A wink and a nod to my friend Frank. ;)

This is the thing about mothers.

They’re a blanket for so long. They make the best pumpkin bread and they do your hair too poofy and littlekiddish and they’re the ones you should avoid when you want to ask for something like going back outside after dinner or getting Reeses in the checkout line at the car wash. They teach you the harmonies to stuff like You Are My Sunshine and Amy Grant and they have the prettiest voices that sound like falling asleep with the window open. They’re M-O-M and that’s the only title, that’s it, so Mary or Baby or Somebody’s Ex or Daughter or Crazy seem foreign and wrong wrong wrong. You want to correct the speaker- Her name is MOM.

Then that day happens- you both give a real, genuine belly laugh at something. The same something. It’s startling and you like it but you hate it sometimes. Because you laugh more and more, and soon you’re getting Cranberry Limeades after the 8th grade play practice together everyday like best buds and she starts saying kind of bad words (like ****** and ****) that sound like she swallowed something wrong or they tasted bad (at least to you), and it reminds you of when you used to play “who can go the highest on the swingset,” and you tried to be brave but you had that feeling one day someone would accidentally go all the way over. And you keep on tripping over all these laughs that keep bumping you closer to her age and it’s like she’s coming closer to yours, too. And then some of those names people always called them start to maybe make a little more sense. Maybe they do look a little like a Mary, a little, only when they’re telling a story.
See, be careful though, because this is where things get tricky. Mary and Mom live inside the same body, and separating them out is dangerous because you’ll start to run out of room. When they go from Mrs. to Miss, for example, and their last name changes and is different from yours- you have to make sure you can still fit Miss inside that one little body. And worse, when the others start to use words like Crazy or Lost, who aren’t allowed in the same zip code much less body as names like Mom and Hunny pretty soon you’ll forget who you’re talking to and when you’re talking to Mary about your “first time” then Mom steps in the whole dynamic shifts and Daughter speaks up to say too much about Grammy’s drinking and Crazy leaves dad and stops making sense altogether with words like “new” and “change” and
“own person”.


So when they call to ask if you got the Valentines flowers, tell her they were beautiful and tell her you miss her, cause Mom sent those. And if you keep them on the line long enough and they talk about their fight with their sister or some thick, sticky gossip they overheard, it’s Mary, so respond accordingly. But they aim their fakesmilevoice at you (that’s just for the phone and church) and talk about “trying something new” or feeling like you’re the only one they can “bounce ideas off of”, clench your jaw and “mhm” and lay down so the tears don’t fall out. Cause sometimes Crazy just needs to wear herself out so that M-O-M can say she loves you, she’s so, so sorry and she misses you dearly. And that we’re gonna get through this, baby, we’re strong.

When you hang up, you’re allowed to cry some. That’s fine. Then you write a letter you don’t send (don’t dare, it’d **** her) and ask a few of them, gently, to move out.

A half hour gone. A half hour away. A half hour leaving me to sit some more. A half hour of thinking. A half hour of contemplating. A half hour of wondering and wishing. A half hour of listening. A half hour of talking. A half hour of going insane.
I sit and I think and I wonder and I contemplate. I sit up and slouch down and even turn around. I moan, I groan, I rack my brain. So many questions but only one answer, am I really going insane?
I thought I knew the answer, thought I knew it well. I figured this would be a breeze, but it turned out to be a near living hell. This desk is so bland and boring. Nothing but a sheet of paper and a raw chewed up pencil. Wait a minute, somethings missing! O yea, the eraser fell on the floor last time I moved.
Should I pick it up? Nah, what's there to erase? I haven't written much. A few scribbles here and there, nothing I need to touch.
I glance around the eerily quiet room with a tired sigh. A voice says, 'Shut up!' and I do my best to comply.
As turn to face the horrible paper again my eyes catch the old grandfather clock. Another half hour before the horrible song.
I'm tired and bored; what am I doing this for? I stand up to walk away. It's not that simple.
'What are you doing?'
'I'll be on my way.'
'Sit down! I think you'll find it best to stay.'
The voice is commanding and intimidating some how.
So I sit. And continue to look around.
It's all one color, this grotesque little room. A stark white, with nothing on the walls or ceiling. Look up, look down, look all around, nothing but the color of snow.
The few others in the room slowly begin to move. They stand and slump towards a certain corner of the ugly space. One, two, three, and four...there aren't anymore.
Save for me; the fifth; the odd one out. Left sitting here to pout.
'Can I leave?'
'Oh no. Stay till your finished, then it will be time to go.'
What an odd person.
I finally see them now, the source of the voice. With frizzled Grey hair and a large poofy mustache. Their eyebrows are really thick too...kind of scary...like someone who would go boo.
They're staring at me intently. Why not? I'm the only one in the room.
What do they want me to do? Oh right, the paper, woohoo.
I glance back at the clock, about a quarter to. Fifteen more minutes, before the awful thing goes coo.
You'd almost think I'm crazy, not knowing where I am, but I start to wonder how I got here, and where my story began. Why am I afraid of the clock, or this creepy old man? I stand up once again.
'SIT DOWN!'
Oh right, that's why.
But how'd this start? Where did my story begin? Furthermore, how did it lead here, to this place where I can't win?
I look back at the paper, covered in scribbles, but just that, no letters. Or maybe they are, I just am unable to read.
My heart starts to beat; what happened to me? Am I really going crazy, or perhaps just insane?
I try to make out the words, but I try in vain: I'm stuck in this room, unable to leave. I can't finish the paper, because I can't read. Maybe I can write, but turns out I can't even draw.
The man just keeps staring, boring through me like a drill. I'm a piece of dumb wood, stuck in wood hell. I look around once more, at the clock I so dread. One more minute, and then I'll be dead.
How do I know? What makes me so sure? If I know not how I came here, how do I know where I go?
Something is telling me. It's that man in the corner. He must be controlling me, having some kind of order.
I stand up again. This time with valor. That man wants to **** me, and he's been waiting half an hour.
But as I get up, he makes a move too. The clock has now struck, and the crowd is yelling boo.
There's a crowd? Come from where?
'No where really, they're suddenly...just there.' says the man
'How do you know?'
'I just do' he replies
'Fair enough I suppose.'
We're both standing now, with weapons in hand. I've a sharp pencil, and he a hot brand.
He won't try to **** me, he'll make me his own. Some kind of slave I guess, depressed and alone. I lunge and he moves, swinging at me with a fist full of rage.
He seemed so calm a moment ago, but now a new person all his own.
I trip and I fall, but I don't hit the ground. I just keep going through nothing. No sights, and no sound.
It's all white you see, the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling above me.
But were they ever even there? Who knows? I don't care.
I look back up to see the man there, far away with his desk and his chair.
He's still holding his iron, looking down upon me. What world am I in, that fills me with such glee?
I have not a care as I continue to float--for that's what it is. There is no air rushing past me and no ground to hit. I'll stay here forever I suppose, alone but free. Better than being held in captivity.
How did I know he would take me a slave? Perhaps he was helping me, or trying to be brave.
I'll never know though, because he is long gone. I'll just float here forever, looking on and on.
Someday I may meet another, one as fortunate as me. To have left the cruel world and come soaring through the breeze.
But until then I'll just float, forever and ever, here in my happy boat.

I had to do it, since I wanted to see him again
one last time, it was OK
Just a guy in a typical poofy too big man's shirt
Funny how men try to puff themselves up with their clothes and suit
and we try to look smaller,
undershirt borders underneath too big white sleeve his wife bought
A married weight, a paunch that began at chest level
and made him look like a mango and brown slacks
a tan, and that curly hair with the little twirl on to that seemed to asked to be
grabbed onto and pulled back
and his authority the sexiest part
I needed him to sign a form and he took a long time to sign it
read every tiny thing, as I squirmed inside, but sat up straight and
perky so happy to be here.
was he drawing out--for me?
Then he looked at me with those baby blues
up from the paper on the desk, with those deep rivets in his forehead
all these huge scrunched up muscles
why do they need muscles even on their forehead?
and I was pierced to the center
and I know I'd think he's a bore
and as I drove away I saw him walk out of the building
carrying a lunchbox his wife probably fixed for him
and no, I'm not proud that I feel like this
and no, it's never something to act on
but as I drove home, I thought of him
despite the mango body, the huge shirt
and my not in shape profile that would have to be
crammed into a corset I thought about a lot
and if I could forgive him his middle aged flaws
I should be able to forgive mine
because humans are much more complex than those
dumb two dimensional magazines let you believe and
we haven't been photographed for all the thousands of years we've been reproducing

Ever since I can remember, Barbara has been coming to our home
With her poofy hair and her powdered cheeks, all in a cloud of pink perfume.
She would speak in the fragile, broken voice of a woman well beyond her years,
And Mother would beckon her cheerfully to sit at the table in our dining room.

With whatever coffee was in the *** and whatever Danish found,  
Mother would prepare the table and invite my older sister and I to gather round.
From noon to three they’d gab and chat and flip through the catalogues
That Barbara the Avon Lady had brought.

My sister and I would thumb through glossy, vibrant pages
Of blushes and eye shadows, eyeliners and mascaras.
But I, I would thumb quickly and tire even faster
At the conversation of the table that awaited me, inevitably, after.

With feigned interest, I would sit there a bit
And watch as my older sister would, more patiently, fake it.

I’d grab a cookie and then leave
Mother with her checkbook and her bitter black coffee,
Barbara with her perfume cloud and cheeks all porcelain powdery,
And my sister, with her blonde hair, which was just like mine,
But which tried, much harder to grow much faster.
Yes I would flounce away with my neck-length locks,
And go play with my younger brother.

There's only so much smell left in your powder box
I can tell.  I
only open it every once in a while,
to feel like a child
and hear your chuckle and smell
how
glamorous
you were.

I didn't weep at your slipping away.
I could see your pain
I could hear it screaming under
your skin, your pride burning
your age raging inside you, I
watched you crumble and I blinked, I
looked away.
I didn't want you to have to feel your pain.

But you live with me here.
In an old box you don't remember that I have,
out of all the countless
sparkly
spangly
shiny things you gave to me, this is the thing
I keep with me.

Your trash.
Your old powder box.

I open it from time to time and I smell you and I hear you rumble
and I see you
lipstick and hair and bright poofy hairbands.

Every time I open up your box it smells a little less like you.

I didn't fear your going because I knew that it was time
but I rue already the day when I might think on you
and not be able to find you.

When your powder box will just be a box.
Instead of the place I keep you inside.

A plump girl
sees her ride, steps off the curb

Purple cat ears on her head
A string of Purple hair
Butterfly tattoo across her shoulders

Glittering bustier
Poofy short skirt clashing with everything
ripped fishnets
combat boots
huge over stuffed bag weighs her down
It's a concoction, not an outfit

She crosses to a middle aged man
In a non-descript car
Wearing Walmart's finest
They argue

A story begins

On the last day we spoke, you compared me to a 1000 piece puzzle.

One of those puzzles in which half is made up of a pretty blue sky, with big poofy clouds.

The other half is a plain field of grass.

You also compared me to a colorful rubix cube, the sparkly ones to be exact.

My unique and confusing disarray of color patterns make me approachable.

You said all this is the perspective
that while I'm interesting at first glance, no one wants to stick around long enough to solve me.

I never would of thought that a loss of a poets friendship would be harshest of all.

I guess I should have known.

Some call me emo.
Some call me scene.

what do you consider emo?
is it someone who cuts to relieve their pain?
maybe someone in tight clothes with long hair.
emo to me it's just a style.

what do you consider scene?
is it someone with weird hair?
poofy hair?
a lot of makeup?

why?!
because you feel better about yourself by putting others down?
thats called bullying and it makes me sick!
just because someone looks "strange" to you doesn't make them a bad person

what do you consider me?
emo?
scene?

im just me!
i have my own style.
i act how i want to.
you can't judge me
especially since you don't know me

im not emo
nor am i scene
im just being me and no one can change that

i'm not changing for anyone
im not going to take my life because you think im weird

bullying needs to be stopped!!

be yourself!
and dont let anyone tell you different

I figure writing while laying down will be sloppy compared to my computer writing, but it will also be less edited.
I am not entirely sure why, but I want to have my hair cut.
If you know me, those words are like sin.
Yet I can't seem to shake the feeling, I am getting tired of looking so... poofy.
Maybe just getting rid of some of the thickness would make me feel better.
I think I should talk with my dad about the counseling I never got.
I think I need to stop being afraid of asking for things.
I don't want to sleep right now, I feel like something that won't happen will.
I feel like something that can't happen is feasible.
When I close my eyes, I can't stop thinking.
About how she should be here.
Instead, I do the logical thing, and hug my blanket as I think depressing teenage thoughts.
Do I need help beyond myself?
I hate advice, because often times the answers are so simple I refuse them.

Crosshatched tower of black ropes
Spiral towards poofy marshmallow clouds
A tempation for each passing youth
To gather around in crowds
All together the creatures, they climb
Grasping rope and some stranger's limb
Bodies fall to the earth like potato sacks
No limits in order to win...

Sour drinks and parochial doilies don’t go together/ My impermanent knee protrudes from the pretentious slash of your jeans/ My hair is the anti-cliche, the counter-perfect, the poofy dry to your flat and mediocre shine/ The sides and crevices turn black within seconds, like marks on my soul, mirroring the hidden cavities of my teeth/ Why do I need a phone when you never call? Why do I brush my teeth when they will eventually fall?/ My blocked nasal is similar to your blocked mind/ Your anger does not affect me, it only kills you/ Her black scrunchie is like the black hole, an entangled abyss against her snowy grandma hair.

i saw that post on facebook
with the picture of you
always smiling
was what the caption said
and i guess yesterday was your birthday
i think you would have been eighteen
right
i’m not really sure
i’ve never been good with numbers
but eighteen seems like a good age to be
you probably would have been driving by now
maybe i could have coerced you to drive us
to the movies
if i promised to buy the tickets
and if you were still with us
yesterday
and the yesterdays before that
all the way back to that fateful day
i would have made sure that you knew
how loved you were
by everyone you knew
and by everyone that knew you

it rained today
the day after your birthday
and yeah okay part of me
is glad that it was all nice and sunny
for you and i hope that you got
outside and danced around in a really
flowy and poofy purple dress
maybe you wore your red glasses
i have a pair like them
they live in my grandparents kitchen
up on a little shelf inside of a glass jar
sometimes when i am there
i try them on
and pretend that i am in fourth grade again
and we are sitting next to each other
and you are teaching me how to draw monkeys

i prayed for you
yesterday and today and i will
do the same tomorrow
though my version of praying is just
angry and yelling and swearing
sometimes i beg for you back
because i wanna go back in time
and make better friends with you
but i was just so shy
and you were this radiant ball of light
i could see you in all your focused glory
even without my glasses
you shone like your own galaxy
the moon
and the stars
and the sun
everything orbiting around you
growing better and brighter
in your presence
you were an angel even before you
had to go back home

it didn’t feel right to
wish you a happy birthday out loud
i didn’t want to cause your family any
more pain than my inane way of trying to
help probably already has
but all i know is words
they flow through my veins
in place of the blood that i am trying
really hard not to constantly spill
and you made me think twice about
wanting to die so young
knowing and hoping and wishing
that you were watching over us all
is what has gotten me through this
rocky and turmoil filled years
some say i am too young to be this sad
too young to want to die this bad
but heck i just wanna sit next to you again
feel your warmth
seeping into my frozen skin
you thawed my heart from it’s icy casing
but then you had to go back home
and my heart froze up again

it still doesn’t feel right
to put the word happy before birthday
when i am thinking
speaking
writing
or talking of and about you
but i sang happy birthday yesterday
lit imaginary candles
and baked you a cake that looked and
tasted like the sunrise and sunset
and i know that for a fact because
i ate three pieces and made myself sick
the party inside my head was so lonely
though the voices and i did hang streamers
and we all wore party hats
but your invitation must not have gone through
maybe your wings were too tired
to fly down to my little corner of the universe
and that’s okay
i’m not angry
i just wanted you to know that i still think of you
and i did wish you a happy birthday
even though it was quiet
and the party just wasn’t the same
without you

The ring of the doorbell
My heart fell
I was out of time
Things weren't done
I'm out of rhyme
The candle burns like a little sun

I let you in
My heart you did win
Wearing a deep red button-up
With black pants
I pour some water into your cup
Around the table are plants
Of yellow and white
And I just might
Steal a kiss in the candle light

I, wearing a blouse of deep red
For some reason, this perfect moment I did dread
I think I wanted more time
To memorize a rhyme
Just for you

You pleasantly wait
While myself I hate
For not having everything done
So in the end, I have not won
But
You say I did
I feel butterflies in my gut
For a moment, I hid

Once dinner was done
I had decided it would be fun
To watch a movie
Then show you my dance moves, kinda groovy
Yeah, I'm a bit goofy
And my hair is poofy
But just you wait
I can tell you something great

When the movie's over
Come on over
I don't bite
What a night

Playing "Stand By Me"
Just wait and see
No longer do I have two left feet
Our eyes meet
And we smile
It goes on for a mile

Doing the waltz box step
You matching every footstep
Then the song comes to an end
I play another because I want to spend
More time here with you
So for now I do

I tell you how amazing you are
That you are my lucky star
That your eyes shine brighter
And every time I hug you tighter
Because I love you so
And don't want to ever let you go

You tell me something wonderful
But my mind is just so full
Of you
That I can't remember the words right
Hold me tight
Because I might get a little dizzy
You make me feel kinda fizzy
With butterflies
When I'm with you I tell no lies
I answer all your questions
You give me a few suggestions
I snuggle up with you
And almost on cue
Another song plays
So sweet
And once more, our eyes meet

You fill me with a thousand dreams
And my eyes look up to a thousand stars
Putting the dreams to each one
Hoping they all become complete and done
And baby there's just one more thing;
You're the one.

- Jay M
February 7th, 2020

Stop looking at his Facebook profile. Seeing his posts tears your heart open again, especially when they're about you. You know that he is not worth your time.
2. Eat more. You need the nourishment. The number on the scale does not matter to anyone but you. Who cares if you went up from 102 to 108? No one.
3. Love yourself. There is nothing poetic or beautiful about getting ******* alone in your bedroom and stumbling drunkenly to the bathroom to cut yourself open.
4. Teach people how to treat you. Explain your boundaries. If someone doesn't respect them, cut them the *******. They don't respect you.
5. Take more baths. It may force you to look at your naked body, but the warm water calms you down.
6. Do your ******* homework. It may not matter after high school, but it matters now.
7. Stop giving your heart to boys that won't even give your their time. He may claim to love you in the dark, but during the day you're just another **** to him.
8. Pursue that guy. Yeah, you might get hurt. But it'll be a lot of fun in the meantime.
9. Stop acting like you're above high school activities. You have a year and a half left, make the most of it. (Even if it's buying a poofy dress you'll never wear again and going to Snoball with your best friend.)
10. Buy more red lipstick. You feel like you can do anything when you wear it, and you deserve to feel like that all the time.

Weird.
Queer.
Odd.
Poofy.
Friendly.
Lovely.
Gay.
No more weird,
queer,
odd,
or zany than yours truly.
Little me!
(C) LIVVI

What a day!
Cats and dogs at a gray soggy play!
And I,
wet like a rat in a bucket emptied spray,
afloat in some other soggy boggy day
when love sloshed in a dismal pool of gray,
floundering in a fiendish feline fray,
stuck and struck in her seismic, sonic sway…

Oh, that catty countenance with fanged sustenance,
turbid turbulence and lurid malevolence,
that midnight ambulance in horrid remembrance!

Hunting stare hunched in her browbeating brow.
Puny purring powwow met with caterwaul and yawl.
Sweet savannah meow gone in  hellish growl.

Alarming anger on an angular arch.
Claws bared in a mad menacing march.
Crisscrossed with a seeping scratch and such!

What a row!
Rage, a full bent feline bow,
ready to lash a claw; or ready just to throw
fire flicking arrows through two slits narrow,
hissing, spitting, screeching and scratching
over my poetry popping pillow!

           Ripping, rooting, pawing and clawing
           my chuffy, puffy, poofy and goofy
           poetry popping pillow!

Insults stood on end at verbal animosity.
No reciprocity to my purring grandiosity.
No curiosity to quell her feral ferocity.

Such feline a fever...
I’m aligned to see cats never.

My cattish brunette, now a silhouette,
bitter a vignette from seismic a duet,
smoldering a briquette on blank a palette.

The long wait for a Don McCafferty lawn-mowing job has paid off,
after his coronary, that was delivered by a chronic, blow-dart cough
My meaty lung was stolen by Loretta Young or Mighty Joe Young,
Fu Manchu, William Proxmire & Disco Stu's disco boy named Sue
Spurting muco-pus drives selfish love-goo on the bus for sickly you
If your boyfriend's girlfriend were my girlfriend we'd be baited-Jew
different as Sunday at night'd hold a leggings-not-tonight-night clue
Don't ask me something showroom-beauty new about Drysdale, my
pellagra-plagued beau as he is, once again, a cheese-paring no-show
Let us gnaw on Walffle House buns until your oil-pan gaskets blow
because it's the embers left by coal that give off the burnt-coal glow
that makes for fires kindled from sources fired from coke far below

Unapologetic and flawlessly she is drenched in the very essence of beauty called melanin, Her body has a glow as if the sunlight shrouds and gently embraces her skin,
with a complexion  so deep and warm my eyes can just lay on it days on end,
  I escape this trance only to find myself captivated by her mere presence all over again,
  mesmerized by how she transcends the modern notions of perfection,
  you know the notions that tends to sleep on a darker complexion?
  and no, I don't want it to sound like that I'm sleeping on your complexion
  but everyday I picture your skin as a tone I wouldn't mind waking up and drifting away to,
  Miss melaninated lullaby your beauty rangs true.
  Crowned with royalty and rebelous in nature, her hair defies gravity only adhering to the Queen's imagination,
   "black girl magic" there is no other explanation,
    think about it, she waves her hands and then ****; her poofy hair turns into a new creation,
    bantu knots, braids, 2 strand twist, her hair is a work of art and she's an artist, her hair imitates the heavens and she's the goddess....

It was Friday, March 23.
The sun was burning bright in a clear blue sky.
It was a beautiful day to fall in love.

After school my mother and I went to Macy’s to go prom dress shopping.
As soon as I walked into the store,
there they were.

They were sparkly,
twinkling to me from a distance as if they were saying
“Jenny! Come look at me!”.
Some were long and flowy,
and as they drooped down
they looked like a waterfall.

So I scurried around Macy’s eagerly trying to find a dress that I liked.
Me and my mom picked up a couple for me to try on,
but so far nothing really stood out to me.

I then left to go to look at a different section of dresses.
I turned the corner and then I saw her.
The love of my life.
Some would say that she was simple,
but she had a such an elegant and poofy skirt
that anyone who wore it would feel like a princess.

After examining her with a huge smile,
I was about to take her and run to my mother and show her,
but then I remembered.
It was time to look at the price tag.
I was scared.
My stomach began to ache.
And I also knew that any other dress I’d wear wouldn’t feel good enough if it wasn’t her I was wearing.

After glaring at the dress for a minute,
my hands became restless and sprung out as I flipped up the price tag.
It was $300
And I was heartbroken.

My mom came around the corner and saw me frowning at the price tag.
I felt like I was about to cry,
and I think she saw it in my face.
For the emotions I were feeling were so intense it was just like a forbidden love.
I showed her the price tag and her eyes widened a little.
I knew she was gonna say no,
and she did.

She saw how upset I was
and offered to sow a dress for me just like that one.
I then got very excited and hugged her as tight as I could.

I left Macy’s that day with a smile on my face and glowing heart.

He's always early
She's always late
Sometimes they don't show up at all

Her hair is curly
His hair is straight
She is short while he is tall

She lives for today
He worries about tomorrow
Quizzical at what they both will find

She hums happy tunes
He strums his guitar in sorrow
The difference in them is hard to hide

He prefers to dress in black
She's as colorful as a rainbow
Holding hands as they hold each other up

Different as night and day
In all they do and all they say
But they both can agree on love

He's a bit poofy in the pooch
She's a skinny minnie
Yet like a puzzle piece they coincide

She is soft and quiet
He's as loud as a barroom fight
The difference in them is hard to hide

She is in the slow lane
He is on the fast track
In how they approach a job well done

Different as night and day
In all they do and all they say
But they both can agree on love

If you were mine
I'd tell you how i feel
But we're separated by miles
miles of love
miles of brain blocks
This night i thought of you
As the warm sunlight drifted into a humid midnight
I remembered us
I layed on top of my poofy comforter,
all that covered me was the pleasant air
softer than its been all year...
The tiny fan I used to listen to, playing again
Covering me, back and forth with ripples of wind
I sat there and thought of white beaches and beds outside
The fan blowing over the two of us, snuggling closer this time
We were only five, but even then i knew
I wanted to make you mine.

Is this it,
Could it be?
Could it be?
What is this
Bubbling, laughing
Giddy as can be?
Oh dear, what's this?

A friend,
A friend!
What a funny thing,
My friend!
Oh wait,
What's this?

Kind, so kind!
Oh the words to find
They're reeling in my head
And oh my,
What's this?

Smiles everywhere
Reassurance gentle and fair
Soft, poofy hair,
Crows flying in the air,
Come join the fun!
What's this?

- Jay M
April 26th, 2022

It's a good day for happy
such a good day to be,
for backflips and cannonballs
and poetry

Blue skies I see,
not a poofy cloud in sight
but even then, right now,
a rainy day'd do it for me

what there are in the streets is might,
what there is are feelings too,
I've been attempting to bottle them
both, but see the chance of that is slight

where did you put it, where is my glue?
haha, no! i take it back
not the good part but the coupling,
just do what does it for you!