I dont know if it was because of the book you were reading
Or if it was because the curvature of your sloped spine
insinuated you were tired
Or maybe it was because you just looked lonely
But, you looked like you could write poetry
it could’ve been the pen marks on your fingers
Or the tan lines across your neck
But eyes like that don’t just sit down

Eyes like that start fires in my cheeks
And picket signs in my chest
And ******* legislators
But more importantly they make me want to write

I don’t know if it was the way your jaw clenched you
Or the way your tongue bit your teeth
But you looked like you could recite poetry

And even worse, I wanted to listen

I wanted to be your commitee, outreach, moral support
I wanted to be your pen, paper, microphone, clothes on your back
I wanted to be anything that touched your skin, touching me

You’re least favorite feeling is when your holding back tears and your face is about to explode
There’s reasons why the clouds look so heavy before falling
God can hold so much in

You said you don’t believe in luck, but you’re a firm believer in hope
That three leaf clovers weren’t done growing when they were plucked
That when a lady bug didn’t land on your hand,
A premature baby somewhere is using his grasp his mother’s finger
For the first time

I want to hear the poetry that you’ll write about the
spaces between your fingers
It will be the closest i’ll ever get to holding them

you were born an angry baby.
with tears in your eyes
But i use to poetry to say they weren’t angry.

just eyes dancing.

You were a tourist attraction
That I held in my hands
My fingers, constantly tracing the outline of your smile in photographs
A memory
A tourist attraction, is visited by thousands every year
But I, I knew you’re story
Where the bombs struck most
Where the guns left the most bulletholes
In your forgotten love life
I remember you like the Alamo
Broken, but still standing
You were the tourist attraction,
And I was the snow globe
in your gift shop
Shaken.
Stirred.
Removed.
But I still carried a part of you inside me
You were the Golden Gate Bridge
From hipster photographs
But I knew, your workings
Like how you keep your ropes loosen
To avoid constricting
Breaking
Throwing away
Tourist every day photograph your beauty but I,
I was the civilian
who framed you in my doorway
Statues are not freedom, they are committed to their solidarity
Unwillingness to move
The freedom is found in the boys eyes
Who walks away with the snow globe
Something new in his hands
An attraction.

The sun misses her west when she rises
Thinks about her east when she lays down
on her mountains of pillows
She misses her night time talks with the moon
Her skies long for his full being
He miss being a rounded person
"Sorry Darling,
I'm in my crescent phase"
Stars stir in her sleep
Orbit around her when she can't get out of bed
Indigo glow show reflections of the sky
Blue Valentine
Blue waves become discourage
Question where lovers stand
Wavering on the surface
Dancing when the wind blows
Listen to her stir
The sun
She is tired.

i want to be that boy's bible
he could explore my past like layers
pages
study me like proverbs
memorize me like proverbs
i want him to find out what men
i've written stories about
pray to my poetry
get on his knees and worship me
sing gospel hymns in the
pews of my limbs
i want him to see through my transparent
paper skin
read my freckles like typed words
God put each one there on purpose and
i would like someone to finally guess
why and embrace it
see through my exterior
teach a boy to never judge a book by it's leathery exterior
i want some to prove that my insides could flow like poems
using my tongue as his bookmark
i will hold his place between his lips and be his excuses
for things he cannot explain with science
i want to be this boy's bible, almost his religion
i'm not looking for a fully committed relationship
i only want to be there when he needs me
be one his coffee table late at night
on his one night stands
have him open my palest pages outward
bury his face in my middle
seeking comfort
explanation for his insecurities
tell him his sins aren't sins
what he's committed will be forgiven
i want to forgive him
for what this religion deems unholy
for what his church believes is not sanctuary
when he is lost, i want him to dig deep in his pride
talk to me
let me help him
find guidance
show him how to pray the pain away
teach him to dream
worship me in whispers before bed
i want to be
that boy's
bible

My English class got paired up with a class from the University.
While everyone's partners had the appearance of being "normal"
My partner sat in the back of the class wearing bright red ripped nylons
With cowboy boots with curly cotton candy hair
With a body language that spoke
    "*******"
She was only 23 and smelled like an old Denny's restaurant

Her breath was the stench of her smoker's only section
Battling against the stench of her caffeine addiction.
While I was asking her questions about life
And how everyone including the voice in the back of my head
Tells to get a conventional job
She poured out nicotine into a slip of paper
Like how I just poured out my questions on life outta my lips
She said through licking and concealing her hand built cigarette
"KID! Stop thinking what others think for you.
For your age, the best plan is not having one.
Now do you want to go outside with me while I smoke this?"

And I realized, ****, I don't have a plan.
So many kids my age are so quick to bash Tucson
They've already mapped out the quickest route outta here
Created a 5-year plan to get rich, and have been keeping
They're "*******'s and see ya later's" in their back pocket
Since they turned 18.
And I'm still hung up on the homework I forgot to do,
last week.

One of my friends told me a story how her mother
Followed her passion to be a hairdresser
How her mother tells her stories of the good old days
And used to be so happy. And that her mother gave it all up
For a better paying job in order to take care of her.
Now my friend wants to go to college and make lots of money
And be just like her mother -- unhappy.
I actually broke down and started crying at the lunch table
Because she so obviously didn't learn the lesson
She so obviously didn't notice how her mom sacrificed
Her passion in order for her to chase hers.
I told her she didn't get it.
She told me I didn't get the "real world."

So yeah, maybe I don't
Maybe I like to believe in real-passion
And the real-meaning and purpose of an education
Ya, maybe I don't know what I want to do with my life
Maybe I'm not done exploring Tucson
Or maybe I am immature
Because my plan of not having a plan
Is what excites me the most
I've planned for 18 years for what I'm going to do
To get me to that day I graduate
And I haven't even spent a good hour thinking
What I'm going to do every day after.
I don't need to keep a ******* in my back pocket
I'm not tying myself down to any plans
I'm rearranging the sentence, "F You Tucson"
And I'm just trying to say
"Tucson, I'm getting reading to finally meet you"

If Tucson molds me into the poetry loving
Preaching to kids, kinda hippie I already am
Or if I just become a waiter my whole life, trying to get people to buy my book
Or maybe college will make me even hate books
Maybe not having a plan is a mistake,
But maybe, if I make enough mistakes
One of those mistakes will be something really really great.
And I really, really can't wait.

Your hair is just like your feet.
It never knows which direction it's going in.
And the only thing bigger than your brown eyes,
Are your little arms when you hold them out to your sides
Reading "Pick me up!"
You can't talk yet, but I hear you say so many things.
We named you Faith.
Which is ironic because it's something
This family is lacking.
I swear all your brothers hate each other
I'm one ***** on the neck away from moving out
And your parents are one sigh away from saying
"Let's just call it quits."

You're not even one and we've cheated you out your childhood
Like when a man cheats on his wife
We didn't really know how much heartbreaking we were fixin' to do.
It's unfair.
It's unfair how you're the only one who still smiles in these hallways
In the hallway, there's this big gray smudge that covers the wall
From when my baby brother decorated it with Crayola's
And my mom spent a week trying to get it off
But she never could.

In my opinion, that's the best ******* family portrait we are ever going to paint!
It's proof history can never be erased, no matter how much try to get rid of it, or ignore it
It's a ******* to the perfect white walls of a "perfect" white family
The dark smudge on the walls is the writing my parents will never see
The fact that it's still there after three years is proof,
That you can never stifle a child's creativity.
It's the worse excuse for a family portrait
But this house sure as hell isn't perfect in the inside.

I rather come from a broken home than be in one.
I rather remember this house when it was at it's best and leave
Then live a day to day reminder that it's never going to be that way any more.

I swear the last time my brothers and I got along was when I was five
And we pretended they were my puppies and I would feed them scraps form the table
Kids do weird **** sometimes.
Or when we'd walk around in our underwear and bathrobes
Pretending to be jedi knights with toy lightsabers
Walking around the house like it was our planet to protect.
And pretty soon I'm getting on the first rocket off this planet I can find.

The only thing that holds me back is that I feel like
I'm cheating you out one less older brother.
Trading my sister for an education and a paycheck.
A reality check.
That I can't be a kid forever.

But promise me you will try.
Promise me that whenever I come home you always will
Still have your arms outstretched wide open
Promise me you'll make mistakes and draw on walls
And explore your own planets
And that you'll be okay exploring them without me.
Promise me that when you're old enough to understand this poem
You'll write me back.
Promise me you'll be patient with mom and dad
Even though they seem like they aren't
Trust me. They're trying.
Trust me.
We named you Faith for a reason.

She smelled like an old Denny's restaurant
Her breath was a battle of the stench of
Cigarettes reeking from her
Smoker's Only Section from the 80's
Against the stench of her addiction to caffeine
While I was trying to tell her that
My peers, my role models, and even
My voice in the back of my head
All tell me to become a teacher
Even though that is not my plan,
She said through licking a thin piece of paper
Over stuffed with nicotine that she just poured
Out like how I pour out questions on life
Through my lips

"Kid, stop thinking what others think for you.
For your age, the best plan is not having plan.
So you wanna go outside with me while I smoke this?"