Today is my birthday,
I’m turning eleven.
My one wish is that when I’m twenty,  
I still feel like seven.
I hear yelling,
An explosion of pandemonium.
I rush downstairs,
Tripping over them.
My smile stretches from wall to wall
I see my loving parents,
Knives in hand,
And at each other’s throats.
The smile fades.
No wishes of any kind.
I return to my room.
Take pencils.
And make myself blind.  

— from my chapbook Glass Three Quarters Empty

Don’t force me to write.
I’ll write out of spite.
I’ll throw my mind into the deepest pits of darkness,
Where vibrant light goes to die.
I’ll create birds without wings;
I’ll make chickens fly, and draw up children with eyes the color of night.
I’ll stitch strings into children's necks;
I’ll hang them from the wall.
They’ll drop, but will not fall.

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Forced Writing By ABB. Originally from my chapbook, Glass Three Quarters Empty.

Don’t force me to write
I’ll write out of spite
I’ll throw my mind into the deepest pits of darkness
Where vibrant light goes to die
I’ll create birds without wings
I'll make chickens fly
And draw up children with eyes the color of night
I’ll stitch strings into children's necks
I’ll hang them from the wall
They’ll drop but will not fall.