A moment of peace I call it
Ha!
Rather, in a rapidly moving tornado
A single coherent thought
may  be called a moment of peace
Yet here,
Sitting on this hard wooden chair, strong against my back
It is not quite,
a moment of peace
For in this case it is not the tornado,
that gives me reprieve
But I myself,
Choosing to ignore it and let it
Sit,
at the back of my mind and
Come back to bite me
Later

On his cheek
I see a piece of her
He forgot to brush off

I heard some guy
Say
“People with ADHD will be good at poetry cause random things pop in their heads”
And...
That got me thinking
what...
Makes someone good at poetry?
Is it, as he believed
     Thoughts
               Scattered
       With              No
            Rhyme           Or
    Reason?

Or it is...
That we have,    A unique way
To looking at      Things
A different         Perspective
Which may often be
RepressedRepressedRepressedRepressedRepressedRepressed

Or at least,
Being easily misunderstood
We just need
          An
                              Outlet?

Or we just like words?
And patterns
And sounds
Oh well,

I’ve often wondered
About this
Stereotype
That poets are
B
     R
  O
      K
E
      N

It’s not true,
We’re not even different
We’re just people who have something
In common
That brings us together
In this
...
I’m just not certain...
If there is,
Something,
...What?

The broken hunch back
Yellow, wrinkled, and withered with age
Not a single fraction of his formerly radiant youth remaining
Choughs up a few more
Words to throw on a page
Desperate to rack up more followers
...

What is,
A Crush?

Seeing yourself
In someone else
Noticing their flaws,
And finding them,
Cute?

Noticing someone
Who fits your image
Of a stereotypical,
Prince
Princess
Boy next door
Cute girl
Hot guy/girl?

Someone who,
Makes you roll
On the floor in laughter
Who can,
Always incite a smile
On the worst of days?

There’s plenty
More I could name
But I dunno
...
What is a Crush?

When you watch the sun set
what do you see?
The world aglow with
The sun’s last melody
A parting farewell
Or perhaps
A last clinging hope
To keep one good friend
Or at least imprint
A memory in our hearts
Of glimmering lights with orange hue
Before the sun rise starts anew
And our previous memories are washed away
As our mind turns to small common place affairs
And we start another day

The guy with the rainbow Afro
Till you get to know him
And he becomes
Your best friend
Adam

In second grade my student number was 16
New school
New friends
Boy problems like a sixteen year old girl
Lamenting over
My crush leaving the state
But I still remember
he didn’t pick me to cut cut his goodbye cake
In third grade my student number was 12
From sixteen to twelve years
My immaturity dropped
To new heights
As I began crushing on Crush #1’s best friend
Too shy
Otherwise he may leave too
No friends either
Except one
Who cheated me out of a bag of oyster crackers while trading at lunch
In fourth grade my student number was 14
Little more maturity
Or at least I thought I was
Like a fourteen year old girl
A shining star, doing gymnastics on the railing for then handicapped ramp
And our very own fashion show
On the grassy hill in the playground
In fifth grade my student number was 15
I was like a big girl now
I had my own best friends
I didn’t need a crush-who cared about iky romance?
In sixth grade my student number was 25
My own maturity soared
While my friend’s dropped
As my friend’s hearts were broken
And age long friendships broke apart
I was the helpless observer
No drama of my own (thankfully)
But plenty from all other sides
And so came the end of my elementary school years and my innocence along with it.

She is older,
she is younger,
I'm in the middle.
She is taller,
she is shorter,
I'm in the middle.
She is smarter,
she is dumber,
I'm in the middle.
She is faster,
she is slower,
I'm in the middle.
She is talkative,
she is quiet,
I'm in the middle.
She is prettier,
she is uglier,
I'm in the middle.
They are polar opposites,
and I'm in the middle.
Everyone notices black and white,
but what about shades of gray?

It it better to write...

Like you breathe?
Like you're creating a piece of art?
Or like you're taking a test?

The worst part
Is when
You begin writing for yourself
...
But by the end it’s for the readers
And your emotions
Are lost

Crystalline pearls
    Bleary vision
      The facade of strength brutally ripped off
         Money
         Genius
         Strength
          What does it all matter?
        All that’s left is me
      And despite it all
    despite the gaping hole in my chest
  My lips remain upturned
at the thought of you