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.

You can bring me flowers
And I can rest when I'm dead
And salt over the shoulder never hurt anyone
Talk ill of me when I die
Talk angry like you never have to my face
Blame me for it, I'll be laughing
Don't you know I love Queen Anne's Lace
And you with a strawberry smile
When we hold hands I feel safe and pretty
But we never had our matador Minotaur marathon,
Never had our Olympic gladiatorial precision-measured full-scale mission of rescue
Bring me flowers when I die,
I'll go first and you can follow shortly
So that I can protect you from the surprises waiting for you
Talk angry and expire, I'll catch you as you're falling
Bring me flowers,
I will smile with you,
We'll dance

Mix it, mash it, read it

I'm just going to drop a bunch of poems. Don't mind me. They're from my other poem-hideaway. And they are pretty old. I shouldn't really let them build up like this.


American Anathema
Here it is,
here's your plan
there's nothing beyond it,
it makes me sad to see you reach low like this

You want a fancy car
A fancy house
A fancy woman
  (who only says
 the right things,
   quietly,
 at the right times)
A large salary
No problems
Miniature models of yourself
         well-behaved and clean

You want a stable, antiseptic love
Something static and sterile

Here's news,
If ever I was in tune with
Hermes and his speed and unashamedness,
(He was ever proud of being the God of Thieves)
His partnership with Iris as messengers
It is in speaking to you, now

My dream is not your 'American'
Because if it was,
It would be neat and profitable
Copyrighted to unnamed sources
I don't want that

I want, chiefly,
something frenetic,
Nothing tidy about it,
Cluttered with memories both wondrous and awful

A proudly imperfect man
To share flaws with
To say "You too? I thought I was the only one!"

Problems to muddle through
And be caught in
And solve, with a happy crow of triumph

A small garden, which I will probably end up killing anyway

Loud, clambering children
Who will not be afraid to challenge me
Whom I will teach to argue intelligently
Raised to be civil and
Above all, to be curious

I will not mind the mud
And the blood
And the pain
So much at the end

Because I will be able to die
Without shame for the life I lived

What I am trying to say,
with the hope you are not injured,
is that I don't want a part of your envisioned future
I don't want such sweet synthetic sterility
I supremely enjoy the whole of the mess




Unwilling
We stole our moments unwisely
Escaping our own unhappiness 
When we were caught out
You stretched a hand to me sadly
I went away unwillingly
Oh, believe me when I say!
That day I went unwillingly

Daisies for Ophelia
Delicate as thin, cold glass
I cannot give you what you ask
Why can't I have my time to be
Alone and growing, healthy, free


Where is my bright future now
The silver lining to this cloud
The golden horizon I shaped is dead
Traded for the daisies about my head

There is a quiet that I crave
Away from the screaming inside me
Awash with weariness
Can I not have simple silence
Put a hand to slide over your eyelids,
 down your face regretfully
I won't stare at you
 because I've been there