Santa Doesn't Love the Suicidal - 12/19/11

Santa doesn’t love the suicidal
Nor the chronically depressed
He only loves the ones who smile
And he forgets the rest
 
Because good kids don’t run with scissors
And good kids don’t cry
Because good kids’ thoughts don’t linger
On each and every lie
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now
 
God doesn’t care for the schizophrenics
Who hear his voice in their head
God doesn’t love the young maniacs
Who joke about being better off dead
 
Because good subjects are seen, not heard,
Good subjects slowly die
Good subjects aren’t the boys and girls
With the courage to look God in the eye
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now
 
Coach don’t care for the nervous
And Mama don’t want the insane
And no one wants to be friends with
The strange girl who’s always in pain
 
But Coach loves my fake smile
And Mama ignores all the signs
And everyone want to be friends with
The quiet girl who tells perfect lies
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now
 
So if I’m not here tomorrow
Please, don’t cry or worry
Just know I went to find the Devil
The only one who loves me for me
 
Because sometimes I need to cry
And sometimes I need to scream
And sometimes parts of me want to die
But you can see which won this scene
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now

Alive Today - 12/17/11

She’s got a pretty smile
She’s got an ugly soul
She’s a poet in denial
Fighting for control
 
He’s got a brilliant mind
He’s got a worried heart
He met her dark side
And it tore him apart
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
If this was just a girl in love
It’d be a simple story
But she’s not angel from above
Just a demon who got lonely
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
If you want to meet the soul
Behind the mask
You don’t have to ask
She’s far beyond control
So come and say hello
It’s not like she’s well hidden
Escaping every minute
But has not better place to go
 
Escape the sleep deprived insanity
Self-starvation and misery
That girl’s a catastrophe
Run, Boy, do you hear me?
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
She’s got scars on her pretty thighs
She’s got lies in her pretty eyes
Pain in every sentence
Screams in her hesitance
 
She got a pretty smile
She’s got an ugly soul
She’s a poet in denial
Fighting for control
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
Yeah, she's alive today
And that's the best that I can say

Letters From A Very Bad Week - 12/10/11

I.
Open fire and flames.
Open fire and flames and fumes.
Open fire and flames
And forgotten fame
And fever.


II.
Dear Mr. Devil,
We regrettably inform you that we will be unable to make this evenings ball due to the inconvenience of being alive.  We have heard many great things about your parties and were looking so forward to this one.  Please know that we mean no offence and hope to join you next time.
Sincerely,
The Young and Tragic


III.
If I could be anything
I’d like to be a candle.
A simple, quickly-over life,
Nothing much to handle.
Set alight one day,
Left to brightly burn.
A beautiful travesty,
A rose’s bloodied thorn.
The candle killed by kindness,
Just trying to spread light.
The happiness is seen
But the bringer out of sight.
And as the day passes,
The wax evaporates,
Until there is nothing left,
Gone without a trace.
So bring me structured poetry
And overly-lyrical verse,
For I have images of blood
And stars and a polished hearse,
Because I am not a candle
Who will slowly die,
But a bit of dynamite,
Waiting to ignite.


IV.
Dear God,
I noticed the rain.  It rains often here and it’s hard to not notice, but what I noticed was that it wasn’t raining.  And it hasn’t rained in some time.  I know your subjects think the rain is you crying, so I can only imagine that a lack of rain is depression.  I’ve been having trouble crying lately too.  Trouble washing away all the darkness.  It gets bottled up, becomes acidic, and starts to chew away at my soul.  Which is okay for me, because I’m mortal.  But I don’t want to live in a world with a God whose soul has disintegrated.  So come down to visit, and we’ll drink orange juice and cry until the oceans flood.
It’ll be fun.
My best,
The Atheist


V.
You pretty little whore.
You filthy little doll.
Your dress is much too short,
Your ego much too tall.
I think it’s time to take a hit,
I think it’s time to fall.

You know you’re not immortal,
You know you’re gonna die,
So where’d you find the insanity
To look fate in the eye?
So where’d you find the courage
To laugh instead of cry?


VI.
Dear Ms. Dickinson,
You are bad luck.
Sorry,
The Heartbroken


VII.
The lighter met a candle.
Tall and thin and pale,
A girl of only seventeen
Who’d skipped too many meals.
The lighter didn’t know her secrets,
He didn’t know her pain,
He thought that they could be friends,
No reason to refrain.
I don’t know what he saw in her,
The ugly stick of wax,
With a wick wound so tight
She never could relax,
With poorly crafted body
That had cracked too many times,
With  a soul of blood and lust
That thought in verse and rhyme.
And when he found those verses,
Soaked in carnage and tears,
The silly little lighter
Found something to fear.
The girl was a cheater,
Dynamite in disguise,
Who smiled far too brightly
For one who hides such lies.

VIII.
Dear Scissors,
I’m sorry about last night.  It was wrong.  But I was lonely, and sad, and afraid to cry and God wasn’t around to make a joke.  And the Devil wasn’t around to play the right music.  And Blood would not shut up.  It was wrong.  But Poetry had failed me.  But cats make me cry.  But it wasn’t raining and I ran to you for comfort and found it.  It was wrong.  And it really mustn’t happen again.
But I can’t stop thinking about your embrace.  You can be the arms I’m longing for, the kisses I’m missing, the best friend who understands.  You accept me.  Treat my the same when I’m making art or breaking skin.  You don’t look at me like I’ve sinned when all I’ve done is freed the needs I have.
It was wrong and it really mustn’t happen again.  But don’t worry, because I’ve always been one for breaking the rules.
I love you,
Misery and Madness


IX.
It’s a little scary, at first.
That first moment in the water.
Time freezes and you think
You’re drowning.
And you really are drowning.
Forever and all eternity.

But eternity ends
A second later
And the words come
And it’s all over.
Forever and all eternity
It is over.

But eternity ends
A second later.

X.
Heart: Are we alright?
Mind: Are we alive?
Body: Where are we?
Soul: Doesn’t matter.
Heart: Everything matters!
Mind: Everything has energy.
Body: I think we should move . . .
Soul: What.  Ever.
Heart: The entire universe is filled with love and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Mind: The entire universe is filled with physics and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Body: I’m hungry.
Soul: I’m leaving now.

The Pencil and the Eraser - 12/09/11

The eraser had a lovely day,
Providing a clean slat.
He wiped mistakes away.
He unraveled fate.

The pencil, on the other hand,
Has had a tiring week.
She tried to fill too many demands
And ended up growing weak.

For every time she was wrong,
For every time she failed,
The eraser came along
And cleaned her tragic trail.

That history made her,
Those lessons made her tough.
The eraser thought he’d saver her
But only made the day rough.

Breathing is Easy - 12/07/11

I fell in love for 10 minutes.
I feel in love quickly, painlessly,
like finishing a math test.
In those 10 minutes,
I didn’t feel alone.
It wasn’t quite happy.
It wasn’t anywhere near the feeling
I’ve been grappling for,
euphoria.
But there was another being
who I felt close to,
who I thought understood,
who I was okay with loving.

Duct taped chips of red and blue,
smeared in my chest,
stopped begging,
“Be careful,
stay sweet,
don’t fall in love,
ever.”

For 10 minutes, I was in love.

But it turned out that I was understood,
but still alone.
It turned out that the world is beautiful
but I am ugly.
It turned out that he found my poetry,
understood it,
and began to worry.
So I can only think that
- he only talked to me to make sure I was okay
- he only stood up for me
because he feared I’d kill myself
- everything that I perceived as flirting
has been a check in,
seeing if I’m still breathing.

Well, to him,
and to anyone else who might ask:
yes, dear, I am.
Breathing, living, thinking.
But not the way most do.
I’m not eating or sleeping
or loving -
except for 10 minute intervals -
or smiling sincerely
or relaxing.
But breathing, sure.
That’s easy.
So easy, it’s hard to stop.
I’ve tried several times
and can say firmly,
for the record,
breathing is easy.

Dance With Me, Langston - 12/07/11

She stands -
the potent lyrical potion
palpable in the air,
tossing her soft hair
from restrictive bobby pins
her mother pinned in.

She leans
against the anachronism of a bar
until her young head falls
in a beam of artificial moonlight,
a stream of liquid sunshine,
dusty souls fall through her.
She is Heaven.

Heaven waits -
hanging off the trumpet’s hiss,
lounging in the bass’ lisp,
tethered to the saxophone
and his bleating, bleeding, blurring
baritone bombardment,
bullets of notes blistering
past Heaven’s wholesome stockings.

Open This Soul - 12/07/11

Open this soul
Run a scalpel down the chest
And reveal the toll
The world has impressed
On a young and simple soul.
Open this soul
And reveal a cage
Shaped from a mold
Of the heart it traps
And holds.
Open this soul
And free these words
That none have heard,
Not even the body’s
Own ears.
Open this soul
And let the years
Of silence fill
The caged soul
The tears and fear
Of the moments that escaped
In those silent years.
Open this soul
And heave the monster out,
Remove its chains,
Its shackles,
Its restraints,
And let it more about.
Open this soul
And let sunlight tame
The bites and slashes
Of the monster’s rage.
Open this soul
And free insanity
In a way never meant to be.
Open this soul
And show the mind
That there is no need to hide
From monsters
Locked deep inside.
Open this soul
And see
That emotions do not start
As beasts
But transform
When given only darkness to eat.
Do not
Open this soul.

To A Cat Purring On The Rocks - 12/06/11

I screamed,
completely unintentionally,
but louder than anything
I’ve ever meant.
We were standing around,
 my best friend and I,
talking about Emily Dickinson
and the many physical forms death can take.
We were waiting for the bus in the cold
with a fuzzy, warm cat across the street,
the same colors as the fallen leaves,
except for that white belly,
like the snow we were wishing for.

He forced me to look away
as I stood frozen in fear
eyes locked on more than a single space,
but a single time as well.
And then we waited
for the bicyclist to clear the body
and for the body to stop twitching.
And even then,
the image still seared in my head,
I had to be forced to look away.
So we waited for the bus,
just across the street
from the first death
I had ever witnessed.

I’d seen close before;
walked in on dead hamsters,
rushed a dying cat to the vet,
sat in a hospital.
But today I watch death come and go.
I watched something die.
I screamed
and covered my mouth
and watched a fuzzy, warm cat
depart the Earth.

All I can think is that
it is my fault.
If I hadn’t needed to pet that
cute, tiny kitten,
maybe it wouldn’t have run
out into the street.
But maybe if I had waited for the light
and gone to another bus stop,
I never would have seen the cat.
But maybe if I had planned
a little more carefully,
I never would have hesitated at the light.

It has not been a good day.
I keep trying to find the good day,
but it has not been one.
I forced all the conversation I could,
but each moment of silence
was comprised of death and guilt.
Each fraction of a second
between sentences
was over-analysis of my faults.

And now it is late.
It is dark.
It is cold and quiet.
And we’re fearing nightmares
and cancer
and our own cats escaping into the street.
And I’m fearing ever crossing a street,
or letting a friend cross a street.
And I’m fearing deciding.
And, more than death,
I am fearing life.

My Buddy, God - 12/05/11

God came down,
all the way from Heaven,
to sit in my little room,
to argue with an atheist
about modern music
and Earth’s impending doom.
And down in Hell the Devil
prepares his party
and opens Hell’s doors,
so that the Angels
who love to tango
are never rejected from the dance floor.
And up in the cloud,
departed souls
read poetry and mourn
the modern scene,
shrines, and zines,
and the good ol’ days of yore.
So I invited God
down from Heaven
to my little room,
so he could have
a day to escape
the ruckus of the world’s gloom.

Somebody Please Tell Me How To Live - 11/22/11

Somebody please tell me how to live because I’m obviously doing something wrong.  Somebody please tell me how to be alive because I have messed up too many times to try to try again.  Somebody please tell me how to live because I feel like I should be dead, I feel like I’ve reached an end, paused to stare at it, and then crossed into it, disregarded everything that could have and would have ever existed to be in a state of nonexistence and spend hours talking about suicide with a sweet young boy who I thought didn’t know me, but who just might have the potential to.  Now he says that he’d only ever kill himself if he had nothing left to learn from life, and I am envious because I want to have only one path that leads to me ending my life instead of all of them.  He says he thinks about suicide the way the President thinks about nuclear attacks: just as a plan, in case he ever needs it.  And then there’s me: telling him to stop it because he better not ever need it, while I’m actually trying not to plan anything so that when that day comes, and I know it will come, I will have to take a few minutes to plan it then, instead of leaping right into it.  I guess some part of me isn’t ready to die if I’m still hoping that taking a minute to plan will be taking a minute to rethink it.  Or maybe I’m just too scared to see where my mind will take me if I let my thoughts continue on down that path.

And somewhere this turned from prose to poetry, from asking for a path to life to looking for the road to death.  And I’m surprisingly happy for a girl who just run a sharp edge over her leg until she bled.  Maybe it’s endorphins.  Or maybe it’s like I said, just chemicals in my head all messed up and mixed up and happy at all the wrong things and sad at all the right things.  And I mean that like I’m happy with the things that should make me sad and sad with the things that should make me happy, not like I’m happy when I shouldn’t be but sad when I should be resulting in always being unhappy, because I’m happy right now.  I just shouldn’t be.

And I don’t think I want to go to college.  And I don’t want to look at cap and gown packages because right now I don’t want to go to graduation.  I don’t want to make plans to go shopping for prom dresses, because my excuse for not wanting to go to prom isn’t that it’s just too mainstream, but that my brain is unfairly unhinging and wishing for nonexistence before I get that far in life.  All I want to do is nothing.  I want to sit with Christopher Robin in a tree and say, “Oh, nothing,” when someone asks how I’m feeling.  And it won’t be grammatically correct and I will not care.

That.  That right there.  That is what I actually want.  I want to not care.  I want to not care so hard that grammar flies out the window.  I want to not care so hard that I ask that boy out before his computer crashes.  I want to not care so hard that I could drive off a bridge.  I want to not care so hard I die.

Red Pen - 11/19/11

So I think I’ll write this poem in red pen
because today
I am feeling like the
stereotypical emo kid
and I feel as though my hair
should be in my face
but I have it clipped back neatly in its place
the same way I confine all my emotions
to one tiny space
and force my cheeks to stretch and crease
into a giddy smile.

Let me tell you about this day.
It has technically been great.
Speech tournament,
a dozen finals,
a guarantee to the top three.
And even I:
timidly doubtful,
nervously condescending,
truthfully falsifying praise;
have managed to honor my team
and hopefully be in the top three
in Poetry.
Because Poetry is my thing.
My calling.  My purpose.
My soul’s freeing.
And it would be rather insulting if I wasn’t good
at my thing.

Now, tell me,
if everything is going so great,
why do I feel the need to run away,
hide in a window ledge,
and write poetry in red
like the stereotypical emo kid
my soul thinks it would be so great to be?
Tell me why my thighs
have once again been mutilated,
degraded,
and consistently contemplated
to be worthless,
except as a cutting board
to prepare my soul to be eaten?
First you have to slice it out,
open your skin and draw your soul out of your blood.
Now beat it,
with skipped meals and minimal sleep,
and cruel thoughts, and hateful, self-directed speech.
Now eat it.
Eat your soul,
tears dripping from your lips,
hopes churning in your stomach,
dreams caught in your esophagus.
Wipe the corners of your mouth with blood-stained nylons.

You see,
now that I can talk to my ex without wanting to die,
I wonder what he would do
if he saw my thighs,
splintered by poly-carbons crystallized
and then fractured,
brought to the skin like rapture,
spilling hot lava on cold, pale streets.

I tried,
oh I tried,
to take ten minutes for myself
to gently kill myself
with words that maim myself to write.
I tried to take ten minutes,
just ten little minutes on my own,
to unload a long day of pain,
but two sweet young ladies
came my way
and asked to sit with me and chat.

They wanted to chat.

I sat in a corner
writing suicidal verse in red pen,
trying to free myself from
whatever curse
fate had bestowed upon the
chemicals in my brain
and they wanted to chat

about boys.
about their events.
about their parents.
about their siblings.
about their friends.

They wanted to chat
and they wanted me to listen
and I could have done that
but it wasn’t just that.

They wanted me to speak.

I sat in a corner,
writing masochistic verse in red pen,
contemplating scars and sex,
and they had no idea,
so they thought my thoughts
might be as the always were:
clean.
kind.
contained.
restrained.
It took quite and effort
to lock my verse away
and spend my ten minutes of freedom
sweetly listening,
appropriately nodding,
and sincerely responding
to those sweet young girls.

So now I take a few rushed seconds
to lock myself in a bathroom stall
and, in the most cliché way possible,
unload this poem,
unlock my madness,
unhinge my sadness,
before returning to the world
and my façade.

But I’m Always Thinking About Blood - 11/11/11

I think it’s kind of
steamy, kind of
sexy, kind of
pretty, and kind of
wrong.
I think it’s like make up:
shouldn’t we all be beautiful
without it?  But since it
exists, we aren’t.
But it heats me up
in a way it shouldn’t.
Makes me shudder and
smile and cringe.
Makes me
close my eyes and think about
loose sheets and blood.

But I’m always thinking about blood.

And sometimes
I think I need it.
Other times
I think I’m addicted.
But mostly I just think
about it.  I think
about it
when I wake up and get dressed
and see lines on my thighs.  I think
about it
when I skip breakfast,
because all guilt is
the same guilt.  I think
about it
in class, when my mind
wanders off.  I think
about it
on the bus, staring
off into space.  I think
about it
in the shower.

But I’m always thinking about blood.

I Do Not Know How to Apologize For Something I'm Not Sorry For - 10/22/11

Christ, what a long title,

what a mouthful,

what an overly-explanitory,

non-poetic,

pompous,

boring title to a poem.

But it fits the feeling,

the bluntness of the throbbing pain

on my jagged thighs,

colored stripes that evoke the same feeling

as biting into a crisp apple.

That sweet sensation

of tangy juices flooding your dulled mouth.

That apple makes the same sound

as the splintering of the plastic fork,

the very weapon

who made those stripes

whose color perfectly imitates

the feeling of the sound of

a bite of a crisp apple.

But while my imagery is lovely,

you –

if you understand the meaning –

are sitting there wondering

“What in the hell is wrong

with this girl?

How is this even possible?”

How indeed.

You would never know because

beyond this team

the delicate seams

of the buttons I’ve sown on for you

and the winnings I’ve helped you to

wither to passing nods in the school halls

and none of you actually knowing

who the hell I am.

Because that is the question at stake here:

Not, “What is wrong with me?”

simply, “Who is she?”

So allow me a moment to explain

in a way that you can actually understand,

because you are debaters,

not poets.

It is not about Ethan.

It is about the constant reminder

of a lack of someone special

to hold me and tell me,

“It's going to be okay,”

as the world falls apart in clumps

like alpha decay.

It is not about loosing.

It is about thinking that I was good,

about getting my hopes up,

about forsaking my modesty.

It is about looking down on the lesser

only to be looked down upon.

It is about guilt

over letting my coach down

and regret

over not telling the girl in the round

who wouldn't clap for the nervous newbies

what a bitch she was.

It is not about the mess.

It is about how all of my stress

makes my obsessive tendencies hard to suppress

and how none of you teenagers

can throw your own garbage away

and I am left to pick up after

over-grown infants in suits,

because I need our area neat

in order to think.

And it is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

while 31 teammates

order pizza and laugh so loud

the devil gets annoyed.

It is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

while 31 teammates

who would have fallen apart

had I not been there

to accommodate their every whim

all partying and rejoicing

in a social structure

that I am too scared to enter.

It is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

and thinking about blood.

I know all of your names,

all 31 teammates,

all of your events,

all of your worries,

all of your triumphs,

who you hate

and who your dear friends are.

You see me, however,

the same way US factories see Mexico:

your toxic waste dumping ground,

your cheap labor provider,

your back-alley drug dealer,

your personal playground.

All of your abuse is causing

my babies to be born without brains,

just hallow skulls that die the same day.

Those dying babies

drive me even more crazy,

making me anxious

and irritable

and scared

that I will slip up

and someone will see

the gruesomely honest side to me.

That my 31 teammates

would recognize

that I cannot handle

providing for all of them,

that I cannot handle being their

debate mother,

that I have my own problems

and cannot fix all of theirs.

Why is this such a bad thing

for them to discover?

Why don't I want them

to give me a break?

Why don't I hope that

they'll understand?

Why do I wish

that they never read this?

It's because of those stripes on my thighs.

For those who aren't poets

and who have never had

fleeting thoughts of suicide,

allow me to state quite plainly

that they are self inflicted wounds.

I sat in that hotel room

alone on a Friday night

while all of my teammates laughed so loud

that the devil was annoyed

and my breath wouldn't come

and my eyes were a burning numb

and my hands were shaking

as I felt my blood pulsating

under my delicately pale skin.

I had already taken my walk and cried

so I sat alone

and tried to tell myself

that it was now time to hold

those tears inside.

But the noise of my teammates

laughing so loud

while I tried not to make one single sounds

gave birth to a baby born

without brain or heart or blood

already pumping

in veins too tiny to see.

I ran to the bathroom,

looking for a razor,

but there wasn't one.

I was going to be content,

fain relief that no such relief

by means of self mutilation existed.

But I remembered,

from a tournament years prior,

how sharp plastic forks are when broken.

But I remembered

the black plastic utensil in my lunch,

just waiting to be thrown away.

But then I remembered

how much easier it is to break

than to fix.

Now, I suppose you are wondering,

“Why the thigh?”

which returns to the matter of why

I do not want my 31 abusive teammates

to read this poem,

to understand me,

to give me a break.

I don't want your pity.

I don't want weird looks.

I don't want shame.

I've' dug this hole for myself

and I will dwell in it.

Such is the fate of those who live to serve.

Believe it or not,

I never cut

for your sake.

And, now, your narrow-minded stereotypes

are begging to understand

what other reason I could possibly have

in inflicting such pain upon myself

other than grappling for attention.

You see,

while my 31 abusive teammates

have social skills

or noise-canceling headphones,

I now have a ziplock bag

of splintered black plastic

to draw my mind from my soul's stress

and force it to the body's bleeding.

And I suppose that if one of my

31 abusive teammates

did read this poem,

I would apologize for my crime

with the deceptive “I'm fine”

but though I may be ashamed

and afraid

for what I have done,

I am not regretful

and will not say, “I'm sorry,”

for taking care of myself

and putting myself

back in a position to take care of my team.

I don't have to figure out how to

explain my actions to you

because I will never again

apologize from something that I am not sorry for.

Who Was T.S. Berczynski And Other Questions I’d Like Answered - 10/22/11

Poets don’t seem to live very long lives.
The author inscribed on the marble set in earth
lived to be 34
or maybe 35
depending on what month his birthday was in
and what month it was when he died.

Scientists, however,
seem to drag on forever,
earning their Nobels when
they’re old and withered.

I think they both do the same job -
Scientists and Poets -
musing about the meaning of the universe,
but answering in different ways.
While Scientists build colliders
to recreate the beginning,
Poets take their lives to understand its meaning,
but neither passes on any discoveries to the living.

Would a Scientist
with the soul of a Poet die
young, old, or middle aged?
 Or would they cancel the mathematics
with an impossible rage
and find immortality
on both anthology and lab report page?

The Thoughts I Cling To - 10/16/11

I am not as naive as you may think.
I know the reasons
why people talk to me
and they reasons
why they do not.
I know what you want from me
when you ask who my English teacher is
and I know the conversation
at that point
is nearing an end.
And although I do not appreciate it,
although it makes me sign,
although it makes me want to cry,
although I hate to let go,
I do, because I know the reasons
why people talk to me.

But for each rejected friendship,
each abusive overuse
of my accommodations,
each time I allow myself
and my patience
and my fragile, lonely heart
to be taken advantage of
for no reason other than that is the reason
why people talk to me,

but for all of this,
I can list ten better things
and lie so hard about how
they make me happy
that the lies become true and
I smile.

Tea and cookies
and kittens
and squeaky cat sneezes.
Math homework,
half-naked college boys,
400 level physics classes,
chocolate bars, and facebook notifications.
When the perfect, mood-fitting song
comes on shuffle.
Best friends,
watermelon,
snow,
and understanding Shakespeare.
Exclamation marks and video games
and poetry
and the thought that
you might someday find this poem
and apologize.