I, phantom limb, sense there's mo re

to miss than flesh.


Laugh along with Go

d, pick

at scabs, wrinkle my nose.


Notice

sunsets, grab for mothers' hands, choke

on water.

My poems are pretty nice, I know
These premeditated thoughts I type up
To show you a sliver of me
But you haven't met me in person

On the other side of this poem
The other side of the screen
I'm just another high school student
Plodding along with the rest

I have a few people
(like, one or two)
Who I talk to occasionally
So I can call them friends

I have a loving family
There are seven of us in the house, though
So it's a bit crowded
And crowds stress me out

I'm a bit of an introvert
So even though I hate to be lonely
I don't really mind being alone
Prefer it, actually, most of the time

In person I'm small
And a bit quiet 'till you know me
Won't talk till you show interest
Then talk your ear off in excitement

I do tend to ramble
This shows in my poetry sometimes
Mostly because I don't have chance to practice
Normal conversing behavior

I talk too fast, and too much about myself
I'm a bit annoying, to be honest
And I'm pretty absent-minded
Forgetting to eat or go to bed on occasion

In person I'm sarcastic
A bit sassy too
But I'm always scared I'll hurt someone
And at the slightest confrontation I clam up

I favor silence, and solitude
As (unhealthy) coping mechanisms
Because I hate bothering people
And will withdraw if I think I'm being irritating

In person I'm shy and solitary
In person I'm too needy and excitable
In person I'm a bit naive and lonesome
In person I'd rather die than hurt anyone

So you know my poetry—
A bit sad and fierce
With a few encouraging works thrown in—
But you haven't met me in person

h.f.m.

stop that.
curtailing the rewards of love
around the softness forming on her face
upon the news, you've broken up
and there's not a chance
of feeling any contrition
because you're all about yourself
most of the time, anyways.

She, wrapped in light and acceptance.
you, in the dark, smelling of bark and river
overnight.

thinking of Her again
stop that.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

I hit the target
Every time, almost
Regarded as a ghost,
A sacrificial host.
Oh look! Another
Accidental joke;
A cruel hoax
To stoke a beat
Betwixt my bones,
To gift me worms.
Watch me squirm
Beneath the dirt;
Coax the roaches
From their holes,
Crawl, alone
Across the Earth.

-SLuR

owoo! girl touch me, pop me
some more of that bubbly
don’t you need me, want me
some more of that body

that song’s gotten pretty stuck
in my head and with pen and paper
i get a little obnoxious but don’t
you love it when i do?

I hold coward’s doubt

Tuck it away, behind my ear

With wisps of hair to hear

Your whispers, clear.

Unlock the coffer of my thought

With skeleton key, fumbling-

*******, the most intimate parts of me.

Bony hands grasp at my invisible flesh

Clawing away, at the nothing that is left.

slate sleepy streets wet
you make like a wizard
funny feelings from your fairy dust

is the wild prospect of
misinterpretations making you hard
for me like your fear of my flirt

gets me turned on?
these warm shadows sail
dumb conversations at a coffee shop
the core of you is warm and i am cold