I will never be part of the mob
Sorry to disappoint, Mom.

I can’t seem to contort myself
Into expectations I never wanted.

What a shame,
What a shame you say.

What a shame?
Shame for what?
Being interesting?
That’s not how I see it.

Boring people are lowly peasants
And us peculiars are the kings!

Surrounded by people
Yet still alone
The lone wolf traveler
Isolation-prone.

Socialism isn’t her thing
But she pretends it is
Masked she is
But she is not a hero.

Nevertheless
She wants to be heard
But she whispers
Hoping that he will hear.

Upon the gate
Words inscribed
"TRESPASSERS BEWARE"

Behind me mist recedes
Steep cliff revealed
At the brink I tense

My footsteps echo as
The gate looms larger
Damp black rocks under

Hits me the tortured's howls
As I step across the threshold
Legs steady, eyes set

Dense fog obscuring
Flame and body
The torch flickers

A winding path I follow
Patient and unwavering
With sword unsheathed

Cold wind announces my destination
Before me the chasm yawns
From my hands the flickering torch
Fell boucing down jagged rocks

I grasp the hilt of my sword
Light refracting off the blade
I hold it outward through the fog
Its light dimming by the minute
And await the terrors to come

Rumbling from the distance
The gate crashes down
Darkness falls upon this realm
The chilly wind picking up
All sounds coming to a halt
I close my eyes

Steps unsteady as I pick my way
Not knowing how many
Gasping I pull my feet back
As it touched empty space
Then tentatively I inch
Forward with a heavy breath
Until I stop at the very brink

For a minute staying still yet
With a lurch I slip into the chasm
Cloak billowing above me I
Flail around in a frenzy
I feel the cool hilt still and
Point the sword downwards
Taking a deep breath and
Bracing for the impact

I inhale
All the words and the pages.
I consume
All the plots and the ink.
I require
The letters and spaces
Like oxygen that I need to breathe.
I exhale
My thoughts onto paper
So that they won’t ever die.
I release
My viscera into the water:
My soul caught up in each line.

Am I invisible?!
Because you’re avoiding my eyes.
What are you hiding?
Look at me.

Am I silenced
Because you ignore my cries
Are you deaf?
Or are you just cruel?

a woman
holding a sign
saying:
please help
need money.

she might be fake
but what if she’s not?
does it really matter?

I feel like I should be crying.
But there wasn’t much
To cry about
In the first place.

I smell
Brownies
The warm, luscious smell
Enveloping me in sweetness.

It’s made from the box?
That’s ok.
It still smells good.

Isn’t it funny
That people always put so much effort in
Just to look effortless?
It’s kind of contradictory,
The way people work themselves like that.
Shouldn’t we be proud of
All the hard work we have done?
I am pretty sure we should,
But instead we are ashamed.
We are always ashamed that we struggle sometimes.
Isn’t it funny
That humans
Are always ashamed
To be human?

I can’t find the butter for my bread
I refuse to have anything else instead.
I can’t find the missing puzzle piece
That will complete my masterpiece.

I still wait.

What?
I don’t know.
Why?
I don’t know.

Wow. This is why I have no ideas.

Knee-deep in the snow
Don’t know where to go
My fingers feel numb
To the cold I succumb

“Thanks for asking, but 𝑰
am fine, just a little tired.
𝑪𝒂𝒏’𝒕 complain, you know?
Everybody gets a bit
stressed sometimes, what with
all that we’ve got to 𝒅𝒐.
It’s not like 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 is any different
than any other day, any other person.
𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 somewhere has it far
worse than I do, so don’t feel sorry
for me. No, 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 your compassion
for a person who really needs it, not
𝒎𝒆.”

I thought you were a poem
And then you were a song
Or maybe even a dance
So graceful and strong.

I thought you were a poem
But you seemed like a dream
I thought you were a poem
But you’re really many things.

How fast
Beautiful things
Turn grotesque.

It’s ok if you’re not ok.
Life is a lot of nay
Not yay.
But that’s ok
Because you still
Have a fight to fight
A thing to say
Don’t let life
Get in your way

I walk through the foggy mist
I feel the souls around me
The lost ones I am amidst
I’m not talking about dead people
Instead the ones who are ignored
I’m talking about the people
Whose hearts are battered and sore.

I know
That there is no one to blame
But myself.
But I feel like
It is wrong
To put all the blame on me.
It might just be
Because I am myself,
And I do not wish to be the problem.
But it is the truth.
I am the problem.
Is it justified
To believe I am at fault
And to believe I am the problem
When I am?

What’s your favorite color?
I want to know everything
That I don’t know about you.
Where did you get your middle name?
Where were you born?
I don’t mean to intrude,
It’s just I want to learn
About you.
I want to learn
You.

I wish I could figure out people
They’re such a big mystery
I don’t know if it’s possible
We can study and learn our history
But we’re so complex, it is not plausible

It creeps up 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 of you
The darkness.
I can feel it too.
It reaches up and 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒔 you
And pulls you
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
Some days it has me in a 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌
A headlock inside my 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅
Locked because I
𝑪𝒂𝒏’𝒕.
𝑮𝒆𝒕.
𝑶𝒖𝒕.
Some nights my mind 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 at me
Like it’s 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚
Like it’s 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 me for something.
The 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 fly so fast they’re like 𝒋𝒂𝒃𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔
In the boxing ring.

I try to fight them.

Some nights I come out 𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔.

Not tonight.

I’m 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, feeling each 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒘 like a million 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒔 on my 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕.

𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.
𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.

𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.

𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.

Why can’t I 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 how to 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆?

I am a cliff.
And I’m a person falling off the cliff.
And I’m the person PUSHING myself off the cliff.
Wow, how masochistic.
I don’t enjoy pain.
And yet
Every time I see a cliff
I jump.

As jumpy as a cat
Who runs away
At the sight
Of a single cloud
For the fear of rain.

Music is when
Your bones vibrate
With the happiness
Of listening.
Or something less dramatic,
But still similar.
It’s when
You get goosebumps,
Or you can’t help yourself
But hum along.
Or at the very least,
It’s listen-able.

So “The Box”
By Roddy Ricch
Can just
Go die.
No offense
To all of his fans
And Roddy too.
Just my opinion.

I used to think that
Time ran slow as peanut butter
Just to annoy me.

I don’t think that anymore.
Now I think
Time speeds by like its trying to imitate The Flash
Just to annoy me.

Wake up...
                                                           ­              I know you’re there...
                                            Malia...
   ­                     WAKE UP...
                                                           Please...
      I miss you...
                                                          ­                      Are you here...?
                              Come back....
          
                                                       People need you...
            I need you...

We deal with our crap
And others’ problems too
Until we break and we crack
And we go KABOOM.

A porcelain doll
Shatters when she hits the floor
Only shards are left
So she mends herself again,
Again, again, and again.

Trying to put labels on things
Is extremely exhausting.
Everything is just too many things
To characterize.
But that’s okay
I’m gonna try and put labels
On myself anyway.

I feel like
I could be characterized as a waterfall.
For example,
When I write one poem on HePo
It takes me about 15 minutes to finally
Shut up.

Why do we look up into a stormy sky
Stare out into the grey because we could not see the light
Hope is a fragile thing, how is it not broken yet?
The walls are closing in, feels like we’re breathing our last breath
What do we do? Who will we save? This land of the free and the brave
Is sinking into fiery waters of all of the lives that we gave
Defeat us not, we won’t despair
We keep on going, we don’t know where
Sacrifice, hope, human resilience
We are pressing on with purpose
That’s our human brilliance
Search on, search on, search on
What is it we will find?
An ember of hope burning
Whose flame will never die.

“I laugh when I’m sad,”
I said.

And then
I giggled
Softly.

You smile when it rains,
You laugh when the skies turn grey,
When life gives you lemons,
You **** on them.

When the clouds clear up,
And the skies turn blue,
It doesn’t matter to me,
Because I’m with you.
I’m with you.

I am always lost.
I am so lost,
I’ve lost myself.
I am always
Lost in the future,
And I’ve lost
Knowing what I’ve lost
Because I’m so lost
I don’t even know
What I got
left to lose.

Help.
I cannot seem to be able to voice my opinion to adults without coming off as rude.
For example:
Person 1: you should do (insert something here) first because you’re reading all day, and by the time you have to do (something mentioned before here), your brain is exhausted!
Me: But I don’t read all day. I only read at lunch today.
Person 1: are you gonna be a smart-aleck with me now?? I wouldn’t do that if I were you.
Me: Sorry. Never mind.

But seriously.
How do I point out a fact that may prove the person wrong without sounding rude?
Especially when they’re older than me.
I’m only thirteen, and I suppose it seems disrespectful for a 13 year old to do so, but I don’t think I sound rude.
Is there anything I can do about that?

Are we meant to dissect
These poems with laboratory
Efficiency and precision?
Are we meant to
Pull them apart and
Split their seams and
Inspect them for flaws?
Or
Are we meant to
Let them spill into us and
Let their loveliness warm our
Souls!
Let them speak and sing and
Sweetly stutter, with a flutter
Let them trace our spirits back
Let them, like a flame, attract
Us until we are, like moths, consumed—
To love a flower, let it bloom.

I always dreamt of being free.
But every time I broke the chains,
I handcuffed myself to sadness.
I am familiar with this blue entity,
Who suffocated my success.
But I will not pity myself
Anymore.
The point of these poems
Is to liberate me
From self-made chains.
I just want to help
You guys and myself too.
Because the pen is more powerful than the sword,
And I won’t duel with myself anymore.

I lie.
Then I lie
To cover up my lie
With a lie.

All these lies
Are stifling
But I can never say
The truth.

You won’t
Accept
My truth.

Why would you?
I lie too much.

Hope is our only salvation.
Money and power will get us nowhere.
We think we know so much
Until the wise tells us we don’t.
We are always afraid,
Whether we want to admit it or not.
I am not exempt from this population.
I am always afraid.
Afraid of failure.
Afraid of success.
Afraid that if I do well
You’ll expect it all the time.
I am afraid of not knowing-
You might be too.
So we pretend that we know what we don’t,
So we can have lies to lean on.

If I began to write my life story
The pages would be meters long
The book would be miles thick
The words would be tiny and barely legible
And it would always be unfinished.

There is a lightbulb
In my brain
That is cracked
Not working
And is barely not shattering.

There is an idea factory
In my brain
That is shut down
Rusted
And barely standing up.

I am out of ideas
My brain is not working
My mind has become catatonic.

My ideas have called sick
My good words have taken a day off
And my rhyme quit its job.

My rythym is on vacation
My inspiration failed the interview,
And my structure decided to collapse.

I don’t know what to write
So I write nothing
Unless nothing turns into something
And my sick tree bears fruit.

Success can’t be achieved
I refuse to accept that
Giving up isn’t the answer
Every day it’s proved to me:
Happiness doesn’t truly remain
It’s a complete deceit that
I always have a choice
The reality is
I can’t get out of this hole I dug
I am by no means persuaded
“The sun rises after night.”
Or
“You must always keep trying.”
I really must declare
“Night never leaves.”
Since it is impossible
I could escape my pain.

Sadness is like water.
You sink beneath it
And it tells you to stay.

When you do,
it shrinks you
And wrinkles you
Until you’re nothing more
Than a clump of pruny skin
In a bathtub of sad.

To be honest
I’m usually happy,
I’m the happy me everyone needs.

But when I break
I crack
I cry ‘cause I’m human,
I hold the sad like a blanket.

But the blanket is ice cold
Yet it still takes a while
To throw it off my shoulders.

There once was an ignorant child
Who most certainly wasn’t too mild
Her first name was Quinn
She committed a sin
Being not polite but instead quite wild.

I haven’t written poems in a week,
That’s enough to make me freak,
But HePo wouldn’t work,
It made me go berserk
I think it may need some tweaks.

Got a
Weak mind
Weak heart
Weak fingers,
So I let it all
Slip right by
But still, sometimes
It lingers.

Rhymes are liquid,
That I know.
They are as liquid
As melted snow.

Rhymes are liquid
They can flow
And take the shape
Of what you shape it so
Rhymes are most definitely liquid.

Rhymes can leak
Out of your mouth.
Just like water
Both liquid, no doubt.

Just like room temp. mercury
Is rhyme’s liquidity.

Rhymes not contained
Can be a mess.
Just like how
Spilled milk
Is not the best.

This poem here
Is evidence
That rhymes being liquid
Makes so much sense.

Just LISTEN
Let me SPEAK
I’m breaking down and
I just want to SCREAM
Just so you would HEAR me
For once!

But instead I c r y.

I want to know what you want me to do
So I can do the opposite.