Well, Fuck - 03/12/12

So it is that under March snow,

over thick puddles in potholes,
under dripping street signs,
over sticky tiles,
under encroaching gloom
over the first sunny day in just
over a month -
 
so it is in math class
that joking comments on
torn flesh
find ringing laughter
and applause -
 
so it is with veil
of clouds,
of long hair,
of minimal sleep,
of skipped meals,
of dark thoughts -
 
so it is masked
behind vacant eyes,
behind pursed lips,
behind crimson cheeks,
behind monotones,
behind pencils
and papers
and poems -
 
so it is in love,
in giddy feelings crushed
by annoyed realities,
in hopeful flying
proving only falling
without style,
in over affection
peeling back only
cruel intentions,
in selfish
whorish doubt -
 
so it is beside generosity,
next to welcoming,
beside compliment,
holding hands with kindness -
 
so it is only Monday
and the week is off
to such a fantastic start
I think I'll slit my throat
to celebrate.

Debate Guys - 02/18/12

Ladies, how many times in your life
have you opened a sentence with the line
“So, there's this guy . . .”
Well, pardon the cliché reality
of my presumed originality,
but I'd like to flip that phrase to say:
 
So, there's this carbon-based life form,
the product of 4 billion of evolution
compressed into 40 trillion cells,
the way Carl Sagan jammed it into 40 seconds
and flipped my perceptions around,
this boy flips my whole brain around.
 
He's hot like an exothermic reaction,
fly like the numerator in a fraction.
He's got more sex appeal than Richard Feynman,
so in a crowded room, it's not hard to find him.
 
Oh, and he looks damn fine in a suit.
And he's a debate guy, so it's not hard to find him in a suit.
There's something about those debate guys,
spouting statistics like I write rhymes,
with arrogant smirks and pick-up lines,
with confident voices and easily-rolled eyes.
Damn, those debate guys are fine.
 
And this boy, this carbon-based life form,
the product of thousands of years of genetic manipulation
ending in this culmination of human expectation,
is sassy and sexy and arrogant
and I like that.
Some girls don't, saying,
“Ew, get away.”
And I say, “Hey, baby, walk my way.”
 
He's smarter than Jimmy
Cooler than a neutron
Sweeter than glucose
Hotter than a bomb-omb
And on top of everything, he's a great debater.
 
He is everything nerdy little me could ask for,
so I summoned all my courage, and then some more,
and I asked him out, and he said,
“Maybe later.”
 
I broke down all barriers,
brought my heart on an aircraft carrier,
and I asked him out and he said,
“Maybe later.”
 
Because on top of all his admirable features
are also all the twists and detours,
the unavailability,
and the over commitment to everything.
So, maybe later.
 
But I'm finding it hard to accept,
because direct rejection is not what I met.
So I haven't quite given up yet,
believing your heart is still mine to get.
 
See, I'm a non-ohmic device:
a flash of your smile, and my resistance decreases.
Dear, you're like ozone in the troposphere:
when you're near, my respiration ceases.
Guys like you are more rare than Platinum,
so let's Fluorine Uranium Carbon Potassium!
(Periodic table joke. Look it up.)
 
I don't mean to be obsessive, creepy, or alarming,
but when I'm with you, I feel sparks.
And I know I'm strange, but you're so charming,
so together we could be second generation quarks.
 
You're the sunlight to my photosynthesis,
the conclusion to my Extended Essay's thesis.
(IB joke. Don't look that one up. It's terrifying.)
I think about you more than Euler did math.
I sure hope our vectors aren't skew,
so we can cross paths.
 
But I suppose it's not a matter of how you make me feel,
if so we would have sealed this deal.
It's the fact that you don't like me,
and I get it,
I can totally see.
I mean,
I'm like calling pink “anti-green,”
just weird.
But don't you know how explosive we'd be
if you were my anti-Tangereen?
 
So, go out with me.
Because I may be pretty far from perfectly flawless,
but I'm no where near perfectly flawed.
Because this confidence is why public nudity
had to be outlawed.
Because I am the arrogant, crazy girl
who wrote a slam to demand that you go out with her
even though I'm reasonably sure
you'll still say, “No way!”
I'm still here anyway.
Because I am the Alex Dang of poetry,
the Queen of IEs,
the quiet physics geek
waiting to be adorable and sweet,
for no other reason than because I can.
Because I am the warrior princess -
duchess -
maiden?-
 
Because I am the warrior girl
with gray eyes like daggers
and fingers curled,
ready to take on the world
or at least momentary discomfort
if it means the slightest chance at love.
Because I am the warriors girl
with a sword in her heart and a shield on her soul.
The wielder of words like fire
and a voice soft as snow.
Because I am the warrior girl,
strong and brave,
who doesn't care if her heart breaks,
willing to do whatever it takes,
to stay happy enough to continue to be strong and brave.
 
But that doesn't mean it's perfectly okay if you say no,
that I'll be alright, don't worry.
It means stop breaking my heart
before I give up completely.
So I'll ask one last time
before I'm forced to move on with me life:
Can I take you to lunch sometime?

Restriction Signs Are For Losers - 01/21/12

Restriction signs are for losers.
Not the
“You're not cool enough for us”
losers, not the
“you're a wimpy kid”
losers, not the
“Get a pair, baby”
losers.
But the nerds and the punks,
but the timid and the meek.
No, restriction signs are for the losers.
Quiet, awkward stairwells
where no one can hear you sigh,
high off the ecstasy of Pablo Neruda poetry
or depressed off the stress of tournaments.
Restriction signs are for losers
to have a chance to be
the most popular boy in the room,
to talk to the prettiest girl around.
Restriction signs are for losers
who fantasize about being found there
by that perfect young man,
and smiled at and held and
then some other loser will come by
and everything will be awkward.
But it's an unrealistic situation anyways,
because he's not a loser,
so why would he need to violate
the restriction sign?
That is why
restriction signs are for losers,
little victories,
small accomplishments,
miniscule rebellions,
leaping into history's footsteps
and leading your army,
a moment of freedom, perfection, control
before slipping back into your shyness.
One second of voice,
of power,
of corruption.
For a lifetime of confinement?
Restriction signs are for losers.

What I Found While Wandering In The Cold - 01/13/12

Had I not been so blinded by searching
I might have stumbled upon
exactly what I needed
far sooner than I did.
 
It's like with love,
it comes when you aren't looking for it.
It's like with happiness,
it appears when you ignore it.
 
A gently bubbling fountain
in a deserted garden square at dusk
may lack the same denotation of
a zen garden,
but the experience here outweighs the old memory
by the same magnitude
as electric and gravitational forces.
Metal herring perch in metal reeds
and ask to be lulled
by amateur poetry.
 
My heart leaps as ripples mirror the figure of a man
and I hope my life might become a movie scene
for a brief moment.
A thousand ideas bubble in the time it takes to look up
and discover the illusion.
 
So love alludes me.
So happiness flees.
So what?
Search brought blistered feet
while wandering brought serenity.
Flirtation brings crushed hopes
while alienation sparks poetry.
So the sky is cloudy.
So the air is cold.
So what?
I find more comfort
on chilling granite
than in the sea of voices and warmth.
My body runs cold.
My mind runs cold.
 
Let me ice my heart.
Let me bathe it in this freezing fountain
while my soul escapes through forgotten tears.
For any tears that would fall
would ice on my cheeks,
and someone might ask questions.
 
And still I long for warmth?
For arms to hold me,
body heat to comfort me,
eyes to beg,
“What is wrong, darling?”
 
Warm, loving eyes
that expel heat wherever they look,
melting hearts of ice in their gaze.
And still I long for eyes to look upon me
and to warm my drowning heart,
let it bubble as a liquid in that freezing fountain.

Freezing To Death - 01/13/12

I always thought on fire,
disregarding the alternative.
I always thought on explosives
and my body torn to bits.
I always thought on dynamite
with a sudden end to life.
I always thought of burning,
of burning 'til I died.
 
But other things will do the trick,
like running down the street,
or masking dead intentions
with an accidental binge.
15 beers will kill me,
shall I take them in?
 
And now I turn to Mr. Frost
and the alternative
of an icy, slow, and painful death
of jumping right in.
 
I always thought on fire,
'til learning ice's desire.

Cold Is A Curious Thing - 01/13/12

At first you shiver, shake, shudder
But push past
Remain
A flood of warmth hits
As blood returns fresh
Then stings
As if the blood cells hardened
And pierced your delicate veins

The Lonely, Nerdy Poet - 01/13/12

I want love like protons,
pushed together by forces stronger than convention,
stuck to each other
the way you'd think protons and electrons
would stick,
but we'd be two protons instead.
 
I want love like relativity,
time dilating as hearts race near the speed of light,
space shrinking.
We can ride light waves
and make physics puns
as the universe dips below us.
 
I want love like integration,
so complexly simple,
so elegantly elaborate,
so perfectly strange,
so logical.
I want love with the fluidity and ease
of the limit sum sign,
an indefinite integral
with no specifications
on where we should begin or end.

How To Be Brave - 01/13/12

Against the inconceivable emptiness of space,
stretching on far longer than existence,
light streaks through nothing,
exploding over distance faster than anything else.
As it rolls through space,
in waves and particles,
out toward the end of the universe,
out to infinity,
out into nothing,
does the light know to what it is headed?
Can it perceive its journey,
the unending futility of its path?
Yet on it runs,
reverberating beyond existence.
 
It is in certainty of failure that boldness comes easiest.
When there is no chance of winning there is nothing to lose.
So take the leap from the sun
and travel out to the blackness.
No more harm can come from flying
than from waiting for a super nova.

Never a New Year, Just a New Day - 01/12/12

It’s a tingling sensation.
Like you can feel each individual cell,
Each of your billions of cells just die.
Shivering and shaking.
You can feel each blood cell move
Through the veins under your wrists.
Up through your arms.
Into your shoulders.
Back to the heart.
You can feel yourself dying,
Every single day.
It’s a tingling sensation.





Dragons in the sky,
Fighting and biting,
Exploding in the night,
But never a knight
To slay them.

The beautiful thing about the night
Is the quite and the dark.
But each celebration demands sparks
And pops and bangs,
Each one breaking on my ears and eyes
As shrieks and horror scenes.

Resolutions I will never stick to:
1. Eat at least two meals every day.
2. No more cutting.
3. Love myself.
4. Stop lying.
5. Stop crying.
6. Get help.

There’s nothing so happy
About another year
Faking smiles
And spouting denial.
How many more celebrations
Until I can give up?

I Am Expendable - 01/06/12

To your cause,

to your charity,

to your favored function

did I donate one heart.

I had no spare change,

nor moving words,

nor great leadership,

nor fame to bring others' word.

But in a crevasse in my chest,

in a hallow, dark, and lonely nook,

I had one heart

that beat,

erratically sometimes,

slowly other times,

barely on occasion.

It was rickety and strange,

not red and blue like most hearts,

but purple and salmon,

faded and weather-worn

from being worn too openly.

It had never been a strong heart

- and now shall never have the chance to be -

but it was a dedicated heart.

Right to it's core,

the way many present themselves,

it could pick itself up

and fake a beautiful smile.

That heart would tear out its own aorta,

wrap it with a bow made of its own veins,

and give it to you.

So to your team, I gave a heart

that would care for you,

that would nurture you,

that would ignore its own shaky existence

to provide.

I asked for nothing in return for the donation,

not a tax write-off,

not a pat on the back,

not even a thank you.

And to me you owe nothing.

To that heart, however,

the bleeding, rickety, unstable heart

that has become abused

and withered in your care,

you owe,

at the very least,

a debt of thanks

and the tiniest hint of affection.

Yet what has been proven is the following:

there are other hearts in the world,

and other hearts at your disposal.

There are other mothers,

there are other captains,

there are other eccentric young ladies

with strange hearts

and free time

and much more sanity than I.

I am expendable.

Replaceable,

changeable,

non-unique.

Hearts are cheap,

plentiful,

and, as this organization expands,

more readily available.

I am expendable.

Three years of love,

devotion,

dedication,

and insanity.

For what?

To be told that any other heart

could fill the valves.

I am expendable.

I am expendable.

I am expendable.