I sit and feel... Different.
Some would have inspiration, some would have peace,
And some would be able to think about anything with
That clanking of cups and the whirr of a coffee machine.
But I can't describe how strange I feel sitting here.
Maybe the people sitting here aren't supposed to be.
The snobs giggling and gossiping in the corner,
The waft of marijuana coming in from just outside of the door.
This isn't a normal place. And I
Am not a stereotypical poet.
I write paintings in my mind and draw poems with my lips.
And, right now, they aren't encasing the rim of a coffee mug.
I don't have the money.
And I don't have the rhyme scheme to
Make fun of those who don't get it.

Most people have scars that run in
perfectly
              straight
                           lines
                     but
             mine
        are
hopelessly crooked
because
I hated myself too much
to be that careful

I hacked at the paper-white skin
that was my wrist
and drew
               thin
                      red
                           lines
that didn't seem to know
where they were going
or even where they wanted to go

Today
when I touch them
the pain is still
                        so
                            raw
­                        so
                  real
I can almost feel the tears
rushing down my face
and onto my arms,
mixing with the blood
trying in vain to heal me

When my arms were open
I didn't see blood
I saw
         hurt
                hopelessness
                               ­      fear
                                           insecurity
                               despair
                      doubt
              pain
       hate
anger
The pain is hidden
underneath the layers of skin
that rushed to cover the ones
that I had pierced through
but sometimes
I think
           it
              might
                         still
                                be
                        ­              there

You said I was your favorite taste
Of cigarettes and whiskey
So I'm begging you to kiss me gently
Because I'm longing to kiss your velvet lips
And feel your breath against my neck
I want to taste the venom on your lips and the poison on your tongue
So lay me down
Like you do in my dreams
And rest your hands on my legs
Until your fingernails are cutting into me making me bleed
And when I look into your eyes filled with pools of shadow
I question if you're a blessing or a curse
And then I ask you again,
Take my body
And make my wild weird dreams come true

When we talk
We reckless teenagers
We rebels without causes
We James Deans of the world

We talk about wanted tattoos
"A 3 on my back"
"Wings"
"On my lip"

And piercings
"My nose"
"My belly button"

And alcohol
"Icelandic chocolate"
"*****"
"Whiskey"

Because we want to do the things
We can't
We're on the edge
The brink

Does that make us reckless?
Greedy?
Something to be laughed at?
It makes us human.
We're greedy.

We want to be different
So we sit in circles
And curse and drink

And play stupid games
Like truth or dare
Because we're reckless
And we talk about ***
Talk back to our parents

Because we worship sarcasm
And complain about how poor we are.

What else can you expect
From artsy
Reckless
Hipster
New York kids?