Goldenrose

Most likely to

Trip 

While sitting down

Most likely to

Speak

Without making a sound

Most likely to 

Laugh

So nobody cries

I'm so mad I can hardly write poetry anymore, 

every word rushes out and tumbles down, 

knocking the inside of my skull, 

a dull roar that follows me to school and home again. 

You look like a poem 

I wrote at night 

the stars are trapped inside 

those eyes of yours 

and I can't seem to look away 

You look like a poem 

I wrote at night 

You vacuum the carpet in the same direction, 
straight lines like ribs, hoping to be noticed, 
hoping someone sees proof of you, 
the ghost of your hands pressed into the fibers.