If she could grow up to be anything in the world,
She'd be the last thought on his mind before he falls asleep at night.
Or maybe the last person he danced with to the sounds of the winter evening.
Hers would be the last lips his taste,
The last goodnight he whispers as she drifts to sleep on his chest,
The last hand he holds onto
She'd be his last first date, his last first kiss, his last first dance
The last, greatest love of his life.
If she could grow up to be anything in the world,
She'd be his last choice.

I see those words of trite frivolity
Words of surface anger and childish spite
Words written to hurt others instead of relieve their own pain
Defended by your words of seeming righteousness
I see your words that seem to propagate
The overinflated egos of the tedious, tiring, and mundane
Yet attack just the same the differences that make life interesting
I see the truth in your hypocrisy
I see the lies in your delusions of grandeur
I see popularity has been mistaken for true friendship
You lead your flock of insipid sheep to decimate the poetic landscape
Without acknowledging the beauty in the jagged rocks
Words hurt just as much to read as to hear
Even when they are not meant for my ears
I feel those words that have been seen as heroic
I feel their truth in an honor perceived by the selfish and vapid
There are no apologies for defending those who have already defended themselves
It breeds a mob mentality that works against what you claim to stand for
Freedom in all things
Free speech, free love, free artistic license
Yet censoring the unwanted by force feeding your opinion as fact
Spewing repeated derision, contempt, and disdain
That is not peace in poetry
That is not an honorable act
And it is not an oversight, sadly
I prefer peace and tranquility
To an eye for an eye
Vengeance has no place here

I wonder
if my body is mine,
I mean,
if it breaks
will it **** me
or will it **** you?

Some of the things that we do to survive will absolutely **** us.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

the sunlight slaps you
so you retreat
and you cover up
the blood gets caught in
your white security blanket

and everything is okay

until you step back outside
the light draws attention to
the withered pale skin
and the watery pale wound
it doesn't stop stinging all day