I yearn to be an outsider.
To stray from society...
All in order to be
Who I'm truly
Created to be

I'm willing to face inner and outer adversity
All in the name of freedom
Judge me
Ridicule me
I care not, for I yearn to be
Everything I was created for
Living life purposefully
Breaking societal norms
I care not for the path created by
The government
But rather live happily
Fruitfully
In accordance to
Who I am created to be.
Wandering Unconventionally.

I love her.
No not ******* worldly,
But softly, purely , celestially.
Obsessively?
Not necessarily, just completely,
selfishly and I'm sorry.
I love her unconditionally, some say unconventionally.
But they don't understand me.
Yes...I love her.
Most spiritually, asexually, platonically and wholly.
I love her, truly, honestly, musically and poetically...
She doesn't have to love me.

She can feel a change, she's looking for it.
But she's a smart girl who wears lots of sweaters and drinks cocoa.
She talks about books and issues and kisses in the rain.
Yet, she slightly mutilates the natural state of her body in order to be deemed acceptable.
She is unconventionally beautiful.
And *she does her loving in the winter time.

I fell for you
Unconventionally
Because you aren’t perfect
Because you smell like sweat and sawdust
Because an hour with you
Is a guaranteed five laughs
And ten thinks twice-s
Because I didn’t plan on loving you
In fact I fought it like you did
Like a wild beast
With an anger like from being taken from its home land
With its hungry empty belly growls
With demands of its obedience from whips
With the ferocity of a caged lion
But also with the innocent of a boy
Looking at that lion from behind the zoos gate
Because so much of me
Wants to be gentle with you
Just wants to hold your hand
Tell you goodnight
Pour you a cup of coffee in the morning
Tie your tie for you
Unconventionally
At best
And terrifyingly at worst
Because in the middle of the night
I feel like more of a lion than a child
And I want to tear into you
With claws and fangs
Rip you to shreds
Because that’s the only way a lion knows
How to say
You are the finest, most exceptional, rarest person
I have ever met
And really even that is a childish understatement.

Usually I'm pretty good with words
But you turn my vocabulary
Into something completely absurd
But not as bad as it could be

Like a fat kid to a piece of chocolate pie
Our lips were bound to touch
But with held hands and locked eyes
The desire was too ******* much

By the way, your lips are soft as hell
There really is no other way to describe them
And where we go from here is hard to tell
But it'll be a lot more fun than before then

(This is the part where I **** up the subtlety of this poem.)

I busted my ****
unconventionally
busted it all the same.

I was stunned to hear the news that the Great and Loved Comedian had died Robin Williams age 63, I feel at a loss for adequate words.
I never got to meet him face to face, but I had much laughter inspired by his works in films and on TV his face and voice were Familiar to me.
I first discovered him when I was a  mere child when he was on Mork on Mork and Mindy. He played an alien, I bet that role was kind of fun.
I remember seeing him in Good Morning Vietnam, watching it in the Movie theater, via the big movie screen, He seemed somehow Larger than life, but loved the laughter he inspired.
I remember him in Dead Poets Society and Good Will Hunting to name a few.
I think he gained some more popularity and hilarity in his role in Mrs. Doubtfire .
I Loved watching him in Patch Adams playing a doctor treating people a bit unconventionally.
I remember him as the Voice of genie in Aladdin
I remember him in The Night At the Museum movies  
I feel the loss of him is quite a tragedy
He will be greatly missed
I will remember the laughs his works caused

And He said
I am a mathematician Hannah,
I find beauty in chaos,
And you girl,
You are beautiful
Unconventionally beautiful

A mathematician who could
comprehend her
Quirky sense of humor
And knew that she was
really just a loser
Yet
Loved her anyways

They were
Blessed by love,
a love so powerful
It could break down any wall
but
Cursed by basic geography

She told him of her fears,
And he told her not to worry,
He’d always be by her side

And he said
I love your broken Spanish
I love your heartfelt poetry
I love your ocean eyes

She asked
Does this love make you shiver?



He brought her
smile back
put up with her
inner maniac

Her hair
Like sunshine
And his was
The dark of night
            
He was smart,
Good at everything she wasn’t
But somehow,
They found peace in each other.

He could find the solution
to any problem,

She could write pages upon pages
of beautiful poetry

His intellect was beyond compare,
Until it came to her.

But when
She looked at him,
her ocean blue eye
Were met with the
depth of the earth in his

He filled every crack
in her faulty brain

Neon lights from salt rusted beach buggies, gypsy camels and a faint memory of dollops of colour reflect under the milky moon that hangs unnaturally low.

In the car window, the reflection of her pensive eyes are overlaid with the mischievous moon, and a vendor selling animated light toys skip like stones that never sink -
ceaseless ripples in the unconventionally eerie and curious night.

They say the moon has this unnerving attraction to the earth -
a pull, compelling and persuasive. Like a tangled ball of yarn it is unkempt, woven out of threads of enigmas. Each of us having a loose end of the intermingling threads tied around our waists, like our own invisible axis.
Every time our thread is tugged, almost like a reflex we are compelled to look up like a reminder that we might live on earth - on the ground, but our eyes, minds, and our souls are infinite.

Conventional
The norm
Being what everyone else is
What good is that?
Living a conventional life is a fake life
Why step in your predecessors foot steps
Make your own
Think of what is new
What has not been thought of
Unconventionally be the you that's really you
Change is brought by time and the flow of new ideas
New ideas are unconvential
That is true beauty

I seek comfort unconventionally
Finding a certain joy in moments
That tend to linger
Or in the mundane, the ordinary
A car ride at night
Down the dark tunnel of I90 at 11pm
With the hum of the engine numbing the senses
And the headlights blending together
The exhaustion of the hours
Leaves you waiting for the end
And yet
I’d take that car ride forever if I could
I guess I find comfort in the certainty of Your presence
And the way Your words are contained
Within the soft interior of my car
As though they’ll stick with me longer
And the words come easier knowing
They’ll find no ears but Yours
In these moments I like knowing
I can look forward
And still count on You beside me

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okay.
It's a Thursday
for me, anyway.
Wednesday must've been tough on you.
Tuesday too.
Because you did get to Thursday.
no.
I saw you last on Monday.
You were in class
in the swivel chair near me.
Even though I didn't tell you
and even though it doesn't matter now,
I always thought you were unconventionally
beautiful.
I guess the saddest people really do
smile the brightest.
Online,
after all the "R.I.P."
after all the "I'm so sorry",
I listened that song you wrote
just a few days before.
It was the one about being someone's friend,
about wiping away the blood,
picking up yourself,
and replacing those broken bits.
You should've listened to your own advice.
I'm not going to make you a martyr.
I'm not going to tell you
that I miss you.
I'd be lying to say I knew you,
but I'd be lying even more to say
that I don't care.
Because I do.
Truthfully.
I want to make your best friend cookies.
You put her through more
than most deserve.
Warm chocolate can't repair her.
Not at this point.
Seattle rain can't wash it away.
Not any more.
I wonder what we will do
with the empty chair you left.
No one wanted to look at it today.
I was worried that the substitute would call your name
ignorant of what was going on.
I'd probably be the one to stand up
and tell him
since everyone else was quiet
and raw.
It is Thursday.
for me, anyway.
I don't want to ask those things
that other students do
like how you did it
and why
and where
and when
and what we should have done differently
and if we could have helped.
no.
I just want to smile
like you did
and sing
like you did
and laugh with friends
like you did.
Life must've been ******* you,
and I'm sorry you only saw
one way out of it.

The green light has frozen over.

See that haunted house,
how its windows
flicker desperately
in their attempt at survival,
how every lampshade droops
under the sublime gravity
of its glassy tears,
how each blackened bulb
crystallizes then shatters
like the constellation-mottled
pupils of the starry-eyed--
of any
optimist
dreamer
lover
bright-young-thing.

Nomadic phantoms float along
the pin-***** stalagmites
of the ceiling in ringlets of
emerald shadow.

Surely,
dawn will break,
(unconventionally.
tragically.)
The sun itself shall bow to ruin;
and, in a remarkably quiet gesture,
it will fizzle out
like a can of cherry cola
that's gone stale,
like humanity's own taste
for the light
(and its growing appetite
for the darkness).

Still,
we drink on--
in wait of the rush,
indulging in the hope
that somewhere
in this dying
expanse of universe,
there is someone
who will love us
for the tipsy,
poetic souls we are.

I see him like he's the night sky,
with little galaxies hidden inside his green eyes,
and bright stars embedded under every freckle.
when daylight comes it flashes across his face like a bright smile,
with clouds of deep purple, enigmatic thoughts
i wish i could get lost in.
I've seen curiosity dance in the creases of his lips,
i've touched the laughter that sleeps in the dimples that frame his smile.
To others maybe we're unconventionally pretty,
but i see him as a full ocean when he sees himself as a wave in someone else's.

I received a query that grasped my attention
A certain query that induced me to ponder
To recall the yesterdays and the yesternights
Why don’t you write as much, someone wonders

The curious fellow deems my works lovely
And went another mile to call me, the poet, just the same
Similarly, I pause to ask myself
Are lethargic hands and an uninspired heart to blame?

I say no and I disprove this idea
Never have I ceased to write all this time
I’ve adapted various methods and materials
I’ve learned that words and verses are not prime

Now, I deliver metaphors directly from my fingertips
My every touch is a verse, every breath is a poetic line
I carve words on wood, on the fleeting breeze, on warm skin
My works are now cherished moments I entwine

Threads out of smiles and laughter, I weave into blankets
The comfort i turn to in days with somber frigid weather
My lingering gazes are poems unconventionally spoken
To write about desire is abortive, to feel the burn is better

A moment with another is an extemporaneous collaboration
My friends and lover are writers in their own right
Whether amateur or sophisticated, they create poetry
I conceal pens and papers lest they flee in fright

So you see, I have never stopped composing
I've been writing in ways the eyes might not see
I’m a breathing vessel of born and unborn literary creations
A writer with a penchant for a form called free

Life-- a word that a thousand meanings does bear
the choice is yours, everyone's, let's share:

fundamental
elemental
experimental
accidental
incidental
­intentional
causal
conjectural
possible
conditional
traditional
c­onventional
controversial
suppositional
developmental
mental
physical
moral
durable
curable
deplorable
m­easurable
disputable
fragmental
tribal
fictional
factional
frictional
divisional
vital
pivotal
trivial
philosophical
nonsensical
centripetal
centrifugal
divisi­onal
oppositional

I should allow fellow-writers to continue
that means everyone of you.

You are
                    Beautiful,
In a very subtle
way.
Your eyes shine,
Like they could
Make my day.
I  am
        enchanted
By you.
Who is courted
By few.

You are
                    Unconventionally
Beautiful.

He was different.
I admired him.
He thought of himself as average.
But, oh I knew better.
He was smart.
And kind.
And handsome, unconventionally.
He was a friend and he was genuine.

I started to love him.
I really didnt mean to.
But he held me when I hurt.
And he said I made him forget his pain.
Still, I knew he was someone elses.
And not mine.
I couldnt have him.
Perhaps, thats why I needed him so desperately.

We were polar opposites.
He was responsible and cautious.
Im the girl who risks it all.
He was quiet,
And I was a tornado in a push up bra.
But finally, I had to let that man go.
He stayed with me though.
Deep down in my soul,
somewhere.

The wildest thing about flowers is how unconventionally strong they are. Think about it...some flowers bloom under the harshest of conditions.

When they're beaten and battered by life and the odds are arguably against them, some flowers find a way to bloom through the cracks in the sidewalk.

If a flower can survive amongst the chaos of a crowded street, think of it's potential in the midst of a cultivated field. Where love and encouragement flow freely and days are spent growing a future and not just dodging the blows of footsteps threatening to squash them from all directions.

Towering above the rest in the field, one singular sunflower stands alone. Stronger than the rest, built out of neccessity and self preservation, a tough exterior because she has had to have one.

And sure, the sunflower has grown on her own for years, done well enough surviving, not quite thriving, the yellows of her petals not quite as vibrant as they could be because so much nutrients has been ****** away by the weeds clinging to her from below.

She needs not a savior but wants nothing more than someone to take the time to stop and appreciate her strength. The phrase "stop and smell the roses" has never made much sense to me until now.

We all admire flowers for their surface value, for their beauty, for what they can offer us immediately. How have we forgotten over the years that flowers provide the very oxygen that we breath? That in addition to their beautiful exterior, they're also the backbones of what makes us who we are?

So no, I do not have a green thumb and have not a clue how to cultivate a future but I do know I'd walk through a field for miles, clearing debris if it meant you got to spread your roots a little further, soak in a little more sun, and feel a little bit stronger.

Because anyone can admire a sunflower's beauty, but the real work begins when you long to spread your roots and cultivate a whole field.

While beautiful indeed, one sunflower on it's own is no match for a windy day...but a field with stakes in the ground and love in the soil is a force to be reckoned with.

in the middle of a museum

stood a little glass figurine
with a beautiful face
unconventionally beautiful

the artist sculptured her
after the one whom he loved the most

but
out of all the figurines and art

nobody ever admired her
or took pictures of her

at night when nobody was around
she cried
still as an anything
with little salty sea glass tears
running down her beautiful face

i dream of love
almost every night
a warm embrace
accepting blissful sweet nothings
creating space in my life for another being

why am i a hopeless romantic
i’ve always fallen in love so easily
a glance
a whisper
an accidental touch
then i’m spiralling
my mind filled with them

girl or boy i’m fixated
unconventionally and conventionally attractive
short or tall
dark or pale
good or bad
i don’t care
as long as you are inaccessible

make me work for you
and i’m as good as gone
can’t get you off my mind
funny how
you’d never do the same

I blend in
I bloom by the wall
I fade into the background
At the edge of where the spotlight falls

Enough light to survive
To be seen by some eyes
Who stop and care for a moment
But only give out goodbyes

I'm not flashy
Not fabulous
But still worth seeing
And knowing I promise

I have good to give
Maybe unconventionally strong
I'm just afraid that to be known
Means also to be stepped on