ChemistryChemistryMore Like This
I wonder if creativity
is just one more mutation; a misfiring
of neurons that chances
and makes something
LitanyLitanyMore Like This
I would like to tattoo
a poem on my skin, or perhaps
only a few choice lines, the important
ones that I'll never forget.
But one line, one poem, would never
suffice; there are so many
more words than that, so many
that have engraved themselves
on my heart. I would spend every day
scrawling new words, new poems, new
epigrams and witticisms onto my skin, adding
to a history of loves and losses -
a current of words that starts
at my hands and continues up my arms,
coiling lazily around my neck then dropping
to tenderly spiral around my heart.
It would never stop with one.
[and that's the reason
i refuse to let you write your name
on my hand
you are already always
To the girl teaching herself to fly:To the girl teaching herself to fly:More Like This
don't promise me tomorrow.
When you look at me, tell me what you see:
anechoic screams? a misty morning
looking for signs of winter?
This is summer;
soft blue trees,
rustles in the wind.
Here, at the end of all things,
it started with two fish kites--
(in)different of weather and season
you heard my voice,
my childish wish
(still, secrets remain;
I can't stand the rain or
the Berkeley sky).
But to you,
only sky is the limit;
you were always like a tidal wave.
So don't wait up for me--
My Words are a Waste of PaperI tend to buy journalsMore Like This
and leave their pages blank.
They are a collection of
beautiful covers and waiting lines
that I don’t want to mar
with the sin of my
crowded letters and ink smears.
They say that every word has a meaning
(some two or three),
but my soul has never spilled out
any with worth.
Every letter I put down
makes me want to rip a page out,
but then it’ll no longer be a goal;
instead, it’ll be broken and ugly
just like me.
We Traded Our Hearts for StarsFor every boy I ever kissed,More Like This
the trembling of her lips matches yours.
(Poet, breathe now.)
I should write this down,
the last piece I ever write about you.
You’ve been gone finding
constellations, ambitions, and things in between,
and this is me being brave,
dancing on the fire escape.
(I wore you like a bruise.)
MonstersWhat do monsters look like? Are they fanged and pale? Do they hide under our beds and in our closets? No, the real monsters of this world are not vampires or werewolves. They are our peers. They kill us with words not with fangs. They hide in the very depths of our minds making us believe that we are imperfect, making us believe that we don't belong. When will a superhero come and dry our tears? When will a hero come and rescue us from such monsters? Never. The only way to stop this monster domination is kindness. Whenever your peer says something mean and hurtful to you be a hero and instead of saying something mean back like the monster lurking inside of you wants you to do, say something nice. Turn the other cheek. If you do that then it will spread like a wildfire killing all of the monsters around you within weeks.More Like This