What happens within

Never shows without

It’s the oldest idea

When did we become so false?
Or were we always?
Hiding the hollows
Hiding the shocks

The unfortunate tune
Of a life marked by ink
I stab the pen
Bleeding my existence into the words

Will they see me now?
Will they see that I am made of black and blue?
Will they see that I feed off pain
Like a newborn feeds off sticky milk?

Why do I?
Why do I do what I never want to?
Are my goals and dreams that toxic to me?
Life should have warning labels for each action

Yet I consider myself happy
I consider myself successful
But for whom?
Not myself, Not really anyway

One day- I will spill my liquid
One day- They will see Me- only Me and My true dreams

To My Parents- Today is Not That Day

Maybe we’ll talk to you about it someday
But today is not that day
Nor this weekend
It’s too strange to think it true yet

I thought it was inevitable anyhow
Time for you to move on
Time for you to look forward

Today is the start for both
Both being able to breathe again

Yet while one looks

Toward possibility

The other is left


Fumbling for a place to be

Both will find their places
Both will find their peace

This weekend I will see you both
There will be no more secrets between us
You will know I know

Because today is that day- the day it happened to us
No more someday it will happen
Maybe we’ll talk to you about it someday
But today is not that day

I’m Serious; Never Grow Up.

“You are the chocolate chip

in the pancake of my life”

I tell him

“You’re a weirdo”

He says

“You are!”

I reply vehemently

“Sometimes I feel like a llama”

“Oh really.. I thought you were a potato”

“No that was earlier today”

“Whatever poobutt”

“You’re the poobutt!”

On a more serious note

I hope we never grow up

not really anyway

I hope our play never ceases

I hope the flame in our eyes never fades

I’m telling the truth

whenever I say

that you are the singular sweetness

in the flat plane of my existence

You are the chocolate chip in the pancake of my life

You are the chocolate chip in the pancake of my life

The Self-Esteem Poem

Sitting here
I can feel your voices
Overhelming my own
I wish to shout
“I have ideas too”

The loudest
always get
The attention
Even if
they don’t deserve it

How is it that
the squeaky wheel
Gets more notice
Than the mouse
Squeaking from pain

Meanwhile the mouse
Beats herself up
Her hurt self esteem
Hidden by the silence

Squeezing her open wounds
Pouring out pulp
For those whose
poor self confidence
Is masked by
their blasting boombox

Yet I Do Nothing

The reason
I pick at my acne
Until it bleeds
Isn’t a simple one

I hate the pressure
Under my outsides
The gnawing ache
Of my swollen pores

When the liquid
the white paste
oozes out of me
I feel relief

It doesn’t matter
How much the meds help
I still get the urge to
Pinch my insides out

I never learned
How to keep myself smooth
At least not as smooth as I would like
Not as smooth as society tells me I should be

It’s not a real problem to me
That my pain makes me feel better
Just like how I did not think
My anxiety was a problem either

But it was
And this might be
Yet I do nothing
But write this poem
And pick at my skin

The Back of My Neck

The Back of My Neck

In the dorm

In the dorm
There are thin barriers
You hear every sound

You hear the girl in room D
having loud sex
With her boyfriend

You hear the girls in room A
Listening to music
Singing in the shower

You hear the girl in room B
Who told you she was in crisis
Crying with loneliness

You hear the ghost
Of the girl who died
When her car tipped on its side

Meanwhile, in room C,
You are waiting for sleep
But reality is too loud