Writing

Every Day I sit

In a spine-crushing chair.

And I’m not sure how I take it,

The nicotine in the air

Do the others even care?

I’m shaking in my chair.

I felt the coldness of eyes on me. Looking up, I see a boy with chocolate eyes, staring into my soul. My heart skips a beat, but it’s not a good feeling like in the books, no.

Green plastic on the ground

Green plastic on the leaves

Green plastic all around

Green plastic in the air

Where is the grass?

when they say copying is the sincerest form of flattery,

they mean art.

when I say copying is the sincerest form of flattery,

i think about how your voice

has the same cadence as mine,

I'm holding your frail body by its throat.
Ribs showing, spine poking from your back,
More skeleton than flesh,
You stare back at me.

it seems i have somehow lost my flair for poetry in the midst of college

the words bubble up and then fly away before i can write them down

i really do wish they would come back

after all, i’m having to hold in everything