its hard to write when your mind is empty,
like your brain can't put together the words right.
every time i glance at the blank page
i catch my breath,
and my eyes trail in and out of focus.
i don't know if it's out of frustration,
or whatever else,
but its like my head sinks below the water for a minute,
whenever i pick up a pen.
writing shouldn't feel like drowning, yea?
so why does it feel like drowning?

its hard to write when your hand isn't steady,
like its trying to run away from the words.
an unsteady hand is the enemy of poetry,
so i guess i can say that,
when people ask me
why i can't do the things i love anymore.
why my days are spent inside,
shades drawn.
maybe i can say that i can't see the notebook,
that's why i haven't been writing.

what i don't say
is that i don't
want
to see it.

these days, words weigh on my mind like cement.

SO you decided to read my rant.
So why am I writing a rant?
Because I'm an angsty teenager, but my life is good so I'll write a semi-anonymous poem and maybe if someone reads it I'll think I matter or that I'm not that alone.
The funny thing is, I rarely read the poetry of others, but I expect others to read mine.
I have an entire book that few will read and yet I expect to get somewhere in life.
But I have food and good grades and loving friends and a girlfriend, so my life is good.
My life is good, but good leaves no room for the future.
I am afraid that I can't go on like this and one day it will all crash down on me.  
I don't want to be a drama queen, but I don't want to hole myself up.
I feel these extremes and try to even them out.
I don't want to be like my mother.
My mother is in my ear complaining about all that I do and though I'm afraid that those I love will leave me, I'm afraid she never will.
She's moving with me to the state in which the college that she so optimistically says will accept me is situated.
I'm afraid I'll never have a healthy relationship or know how to function.
I'm afraid of having no family, but I don't know how a good family works.
She is so much of me I don't know which of our feelings I feel.
I don't know what of me is real.
I try to stay down to earth but she sends me reeling and yet brings me down to where I belong.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but that's a bad habit I learned from my mother who screams for milk at mild spice and cries hysterically over people she claims to hate.
I try to be my own person, but as an only child, my companion has always been my own mind which means I became too much of the world around me, and thus not enough of an original person.
I feel that even the one thing I've always been praised for (my writing, and thus my mind,) has only been praised to fill the awkward silences after an unimportant person tries too hard.
I debated about not writing this because I was afraid that I write too often and that it amounts to too little.  
I always use that adjective about myself: "too."  I've said before though that in my case it should be said as "tew" as in "too much of that which is ew" and then I think of all that I am not, but rather, "nawt" (not enough of that which makes people say "aw")
I'm an all or nothing girl but I try to live in the middle grounds.  
I like something or I don't but I don't obsess.
I know where I want to be in life and will fight tooth and nail to get there, but I fear I may end my life if I am unable.
The funny thing is I don't seek fame, or riches, I just want something that wouldn't be so **** out of reach if I wasn't who I am.
I just want to get my phd in veterinary medicine and marry a wonderful girl and live without too many bills piling up.
But I still have trouble spelling veterinary even though I'm almost a straight A student but almost straight A isn't good enough to pay for my education.
Because I'm too white, not quite poor enough, not quite skilled enough, not noticeable enough.  
I'm just close enough to the norm that people expect I fit in somewhere so they leave me all behind, leaving me with nowhere to fit in.
They all think someone else will help me until no one does.
So I search for the people whom I can make feel special and I throw myself at them praying to feel like I belong, but it never quite feels real.
I want to crack into people and find whats real about them, show them all of my all too real flaws, but inside their shells are likable things, and I am like tamarind: too sweet, in need of salt and spice, and strange to harvest for flesh.  I could be useful, but there's always something not quite right.
I know everything I do is not quite right and sooner or later someone will pull the plug.  
And leave me.
And I'll be left alone, writing or reading or crying or sleeping.
I wanted to record my voice saying this, but I knew that people would be even less likely to notice my words then.  
I'm not the person whose writing wins awards, I'm not the plucky student whose hard work earns scholarships.
I fall between the cracks because I'm too good to deserve pity and not good enough to deserve praise.
I tried to draw to spare you all from this stupid rant but though I liked the shape of a few lines, they meant nothing.
Maybe that's my problem, that I seek meaning in everything.
That I can't make anything of meaning.
I don't know why anyone bothers with me.
I feel like they're lying to me.
I'm nobody.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but I'm either too much or not enough and that means I'm in between.
I am the or in either or, in yes or no, in succeed or fail.  
I would be happy with that if it meant that I could just get the few things I want in life, but even that is too much to ask for someone who's not eloquent enough, not charismatic enough, not good enough to get there.
I know this feeling won't stay, because I'll bounce back to the opposite extreme of loving life.
I'm an all or nothing girl and even though I know in a lot of ways I have it all, right now, I'm feeling nothing.
And I'm afraid these feelings won't leave me.

This is too much.

Surely, I did something
To deserve things as such.

A lazy, glassy-eyed ****.
You haven't kissed me open-mouth
In well over 15 months.

The good guy routine
Well, it isn't a routine...
But I artfully mask my anger with
******* at night
And in the mornings caffeine.

I imagine
That when you look at me
I'm less man than machine.

But knowing me,
I'll continue to flog myself
For these crimes I haven't committed.
And maybe one day the gavel will fall
And I'll finally be ever-acquitted.

If I still had your number,
I'd text you.
I'm not really drunk enough for it though,
but I don't know.
I'd like to tell you a few things.
Maybe that I'm sorry.
Or maybe I'd just send you a quote from Robert Tew.

This one:
"Sometimes you have to love people from a distance and give them the space and time to get their minds right before you let them back into your life."

But I don't, so I won't.
Just so you know,
I'm not okay with how often you find your way inside my head,
so I'll just write another soon-to-be-deleted poem instead.

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