Our estimations are plasmic
Distorted, nebulous, and through it all, intoxicating
We all like to think we have that tragic hero
Did we lose our wings?
Or did we just stop believing that we had them?
Hush, you say, and chalk it up to the situation
Minstrel is such a beautiful word
Why would you abuse it?
I don't need you to know who I am
You should look out your window
If you will let the world rush past,
You should at least watch
Don't drop your dignity like a flag

Stop fidgeting

Is that what you call toeing the line?

If there are boundaries you're testing

Don't just nudge them

If you have reason to test

You may as well take a running leap, 

Headfirst, arms extended,

Thrilled echoes of battle cries

Ricocheting through your mind

It would be better than standing there as you are

Nervously peering across lines that only exist in your head

This is why none of my English assignments get turned in

Supposing I told
My story in a haiku
Wouldn't that be strange?

Maybe two or three?
Would more syllables help me?
I don't believe so.

To think your story
Must fit into seventeen
Syllables. That's mad.

You make me think of melting ice cream
And vague gold-dusted evenings
And the absence of you leaks sorrow into my blood and bones
Don't leave
Pack me into your suitcase and we'll go
Cold sunshine and the smell of your bedroom
The cheap imitation of your voice locked into my memory
Nonesense words and nonsensical ideas
High-larry-us conversations
Sometimes I laugh so hard that my face hurts
And I can't see through the tears
And I sit there like a broken clapper monkey
And sometimes I laugh so hard that I nearly pass out
And my face turns red
And my diaphragm burns
And it aches to breathe for a day after
Dear, pack me in your suitcase and we'll go

Wind and
Negative space and
Whistling

And how do you know,
how could you know
Or they

And now look what's
Been done
And now look what's
Happened

And I can't save you
And I can't see you
And I am blind
And I am just wishing
And
And
And

I am so tired
Of this upside-down routine
At least darkness is a constant
Light's the flighty one

Negative space
All stars go out
All bulbs die out
All fires burn down
And I am far away from
Any place where I could reach
To save you

When the sun comes
Where the sun shines
That's no place to be
Not for such heavy burdens

How I miss the kiss of sun

I am having fits of Emily Dickinson

And thus, this poem by her.

They might not need me, but they might
I'll let my head be just in sight
A smile as small as mine might be
Precisely their necessity

I have it on a card somewhere.