Everywhere she looked
they followed her

it was obvious from
all the tattoos

they had on their arms
if she passed the test

she'd be one of the chosen
or else drugged till death

true love, her cause
true love, her wealth

' Stop struggling & we'll let you go'
they said & she froze

unwilling though to lose
their cruel embrace

while they were watching her
nothing could go amiss

so she said
' this is not a hospital'

& wept
they just looked on

They say that when love is real it finds a way.

That if you're meant to be together it will happen.

That if you love someone then to let them go and if they truly love you they'll come back.

But what if both of you are so scared and waiting for the other to fall in your lap you never make the move that gets one another back.

What if when you let them go. They think there's no chance and even though they still love you just as much as you do them... They don't realize you still love them also.

What if you're so busy waiting for fate and the powers of love to fix your life, that you miss the opportunity in front of you. If only you made the move.

Love is powerful because it makes us do things we never would have. Not because it magically fixes everything.

I've found
That once you start
Digging your own grave
There are two types of people in this world

The ones who will help
Who will grab a shovel
And join the digging
Then give you a shove in
Once you're done

And the ones who will hinder
Who will steal and break your shovels
And shove dirt back in the hole
And when the time comes
They won't let you jump in

i am smoking a lucky strike clamped with old tweezers.
i am sitting on the back porch of my friends house
he is asleep. it is 2 pm. i am alone with the rooms of accumulated years.
i feel like an intruder. or maybe a burgler.

there are children next door screaming as i tap out the lucky strike into a dish full of his siblings.
i wonder if he knew them. there were 20 packed in tight.

i am wondering why i instantly personified a cigarette as male. i am worried for the implications of this.

i am hungry and still somewhat thirsty. the cigarette is drying my mouth even more but i don't have the will to rise.

a lawnmower has started up two backyards away.
i am worried for my strange superiority complex regarding suburban life.
i wonder if i am better than the mundane despite this observation.

my friends dad put his arm around me and patted me on the back. it is the most physical contact I've had with a male figure in about a year.
i hope he didn't see the discomfort.

i am writing a poem in this style because the matter of fact is all that comes to me. i am realizing i will probably never write anything worthwhile and spend my young years in the halls of retail: customer service. fast food. i will not travel the world. i will not take Polaroids of incredible things. i will only have my body to sell and the tasks that it can perform. my mind will be placed elsewhere for safekeeping. i am writing a poem in this style because i do not need to write something good. i am not a young genius. i am not a prodigy. i am smoking a lucky strike with tweezers, if that gives you any idea. i just want to write. i don't need to be beautiful. i can be an important ugly, a clunky tongued verse. a bad poem. this does not ruin me. this releases me.

I'm a puzzle
But half of my pieces
were thrown away
So I keep adding pieces
From different puzzles
I guess I'd rather be whole
Than be right