I'm not a poet by choice
If I had been given the chance, I would have most certainly asked for a more useful skill.
A talent that would have allowed me to solve world hunger, or cure cancer would be nice.
As it stands, I am a "poet."
I rather dislike calling myself one, it seems so pretentious.
I spend so much time in my own head; thinking over rhyme and meter, assonance and alliteration, that I rarely pay attention to what is going on around me.
I mumble stanzas to myself and cover everything with post-its filled with rhyming words or phrases.
I honestly do not have much of a plan for the direction my life will take.
My only goal is to get out of the midwest.
Somehow I managed to not let the narrow-mindedness and negativity that I have grown around effect me.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
Now that I'm old enough to realize what a problem this is, I think it's time for me to move on.
I consider myself a modern thinker.
The Leaf
Jutting bones under crinkled skin,
With a gust of wind
comes tumbling down.
Down carefully onto cracked concrete,
Only to be crushed
under childrens feet.
Untitled
It was the stillness,
that settled deep even after the stars were asleep.
The somber sweetness that suffocated all things surrounding,
seizing them into the solitude.
Untitled 2
We can speak now, or forever hold our tongues
because its cold beneath this silence.
Something’s breaking deep down low.
I don’t know what’s waiting there,
But its gotta be better than what’s keeping me here.
