The people who know what to say.
The people who say what they mean every time.
The people who talk, talk behind others backs--it makes them cool.
The people who are loved by everyone.
The people who get the inside jokes.
The people who want to be in the circle,
and The people who are...

I am not these people.
When everyone's talking,
I'm not.
I'm listening,
until I say something.
And then those people go quiet.
You could hear a pin drop.
Because what I say is not what they want to hear.
They want the funny.
The teasing.
The flirting.
They want the right thing every time.
But I'm not those people.
I don't have the right words to give...
But then, they smirk.
Almost turn away,
but not quite.
Inviting me in, kinda.
Almost daring me to make a comment again.
Just so they can smirk at me.

Sometimes I forget
That my vases,
Porcelain and decorated with intricate cerulean details,
The result of years of hard work and sweat,
The ones that are now shattered, jagged, and ruined,
Scattered on the marble floor in shards,
Appear merely as wooden blocks to the passersby.

To them, it was once a sturdy tower
And it will be again, as if time had waited.

To them, my problems appear small and ordinary,
Easily fixable.

I wish I had known this earlier.

(author's note: basically the previous poem, but with some edits and also I recorded me reading it.)

 

Dear America,
What would have happened if we never stole this land?
Never polluted it with our cold superiority,
our ships swarming with sickly death,
our flashing bullets thirsting for blood.

If the people native to this land,
who tended it as a arboreous, continental garden,
were allowed to remain, 
in entirety?

Rather than as the scattered splinters
of the last tree standing
in a sacred forest,
burned to the ground
by the unquenchable flames of greed.
 

---

Dear Europe,
how do you feel that your reckless descendants
have polluted The New World
worse than the old?

That they have crushed it beneath 
hundreds, thousands, 6.5 million pairs
of heeled boots and polished dress shoes,
stilettos and Nikes,

Toppling the refuge of ancient forests,
Soiling the clear waters with the mud caking their soles,

Throughout history we have been fighting for equal rights. Either for our own or someone else's. Women’s Rights. African American Rights. LGBT Rights.

We recognize these movements as we see them happening all around us. We oppose or support them. We rarely stand in the middle.

As we watch these movements barrel downhill we watch people trying to spear these movements to stop them.

Destroy them before they reach the point of no return. Their criticizing comments hold us back from taking all the steps we need too.

This is why racism and sexism and homophobia and all other hate still exist.

We have heard the speeches, the comments, the subtle rebellion. We have seen all that has been done to stop these movements.

I have seen the movements. I have heard the hate. Martin Luther King Jr. had his dream, and I have mine.

 

Somewhere in the woods,
On a dreary night,
At the dreariest hour,
Diana stood on a stump,
Her hair loose;
Pale as flour. 

The pine surrounding her,
In its ominous moans,
Sang to her in their dark,
Terribly ominous,
And far deep,
Yet calming tones.

"Hark!"
They begin to shout.

"Cease, must it be! 
We still stand,
But only for this land,
and not for your false harmony!"

And there Diana stood,
Unbothered by it all.
She had heard their plea,
And answered their call.
If not them,
Then who shall fall?

"Humanity! 
Dreadful!
Just to speak it is a shame!
There is not us,
Or our mother, Diana,
To blame!

It is them!
They have filthied us,
Drenched us in their rotten nature!
There is nothing natural about this,
Nothing good in this danger!

We have shouted and burned,

Quadratic Formula Poem

X marks the spot,
Where,
If you pessimistically encounter a bee,
You should contribute something to it’s existence,
Or, perhaps,
Take the same something.

I’ve heard,
You know,
That bees,
On their birthdaays,
Appreciate a gift that is square in shape,
But rooted in thoughtfulness.

Yes,
A gift containing bubbles or bobbles or babbles or blubber,
Nibbles or cobbles or pebbles or rubber,
From which you have removed a quadruplet of aces.
This,
My dear friends,
Is how to cover your bases.

Go,
Enter every best-birthday-gift-for-a-bee competition.
I promise,
You’ll be boasting first places.


Author's note: the spelling of "birthdaay" is intentional
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