I Hate Poems

I never liked poetry.
I find it fanciful and romantic and woefully unrealistic.
It breaks the rules I love to follow and allows the flow to expand in all directions.
I know it is art but I do not understand it.
I hate that there is no structure
And I hate that every form of poetry is written correctly.
I am uncomfortable with the rhyme every time I attempt it.
And flow is something I never seem to find.
I attempt to appreciate it and I attempt to embrace it.
I am in love with rap lyrics and remind myself that they started as poems,
But there is something that I still hate about poetry.

I have read the greats and witnessed their art.
I have attempted to join their ranks and allowed my words to flow freely.
I tried breaking the rules and feeling satisfied with what resulted.
I tested the waters and played with words,
But everything I come up with seems absurd.
I hate my lack of rhythm and dispise my lack of vision.
And I wish that flow was a gift I possessed,
But I am a rule follower and step taker,
And have never been a rule breaker.

I never felt that poetry served me,
Back when I felt that I had no feelings.
I never allowed the words to work inside my heart,
And I never saw the value in unstructured sentences.
I valued Grammar and played by its rules,
And clung onto its structure to validate that I am no fool.
I needed outside confirmation that I possessed skill,
And poetry is too free form to allow that will.
There are no rules,
And that intimidates me,
Because it leaves me to be,
Who I truly can be,
And to see all that there is to see.


Welcome, Home

This is my home,
A place that thrives on community and looks to serve its environmental duties.
This is where I have chosen to live,
A city that was built on whores and now lives for beer pours.
This is a place I see value in,
A home within reach of the mountains, fresh air, and the beach.
This is a place where I belong,
Where the intellects thrive with artists and everyone has a different view on politics.
This is the place that called to me,
With its forests and trees, and a promise to be free.

And for once in my life,
This is where I have chosen to lay roots,
And I chose to break the cycle of of movement,
I chose to face my fears and commit,
Because this community is too strong to not see value in,
And this unique point of view on life is something I want to embrace,
And in any case this is where I’ve signed a lease,
And this is where I’ve made promises to stay,
Until the wind blows me a different way,
But for now I embrace the play and love another day,
In this place where I want to stay,
In suspended adolescence,
A place where I believe dreams do come true,
In the city I dare to call Home.

How To Handle An Existential Crisis:

Why must I have all of the answers?
Because I seek them out.

And Why do I always have to figure things out?
Because there is no other choice.

Why does no one seem to be on the same page as me?
Because they do not feel the purpose I feel in my soul.

And Why am I never satisfied with the life I live?
Because I want.

How can I continue on with being so lost and yet so sure of myself?
Because it is a daily state I have come to accept.

And How do I know if I am headed in the right direction?
Because I trust my gut.

How will I know when I have found what I am looking for?
Because I will be smiling.

And How do I know that I am doing what I need to do to prepare?
Because I am breathing.

What is it that makes this life worth living?

Go Away

Why must you always rear your ugly head when I want to see it the least?
And why must you be the beast that I have no control over and dread?
Why is it that every time I lay down my head you creep in to disrupt my sleep?
And why do you keep waiting for me to fall?
Don’t you know anything at all?
That you do not need to keep on eye on me,
Because it is plain to see,
That I will always be in your clutch,
And that quite often it is all too much,
To escape,
Or pretend is not sitting there on a proverbial plate,
For my consumption or denial every day,
Crushing any words that I might say,
To deny this fear,
Yet this thing I hold near,
This thing that exists,
And something that I doubt I would ever miss,
If it finally did leave me in peace,
Or at the very least,
Allowed me to call it by its name:


Do Not Use My Purse

Just because I am a neat freak doesn’t mean I enjoy cleaning up after you.
And just because I’m trained in hospitality doesn’t mean I do housekeeping for you.
Just because I can cook doesn’t mean I have to do it for you.
And just because I bake doesn’t mean that these cookies are all for you.
Just because I’m understanding and I do the dishes for you,
Does not mean you can take advantage of me.

I know that you do not expect these things because I am a woman,
And that your jokes about feminism you do not actually believe in.
I know that you do not mean to offend,
But that is what I am in the end.

I hate being called a House Elf,
And I hate that you have no sense of self.
I hate that I make messes magically disappear,
And I hate that Thank You is something I rarely hear.
I hate that you do this without consciousness,
And I hate that none of this is malicious,
Because it almost makes it worse,
The fact that I am used for my purse.

I know that you do not think less of me,
And I know that this is not something to belittle me.
I know that you simply do not think of these things,
And I know that this is something to your attention I must bring.
But I would rather that you are just aware,
And that you actually care,
About the things I do,
To make life a bit easier for you.

Because I hate being used,
And I am no longer amused,
By the actions you take,
And the way that you fake,
Caring about the things I need,
And the life I want to lead.

Please Don’t Insult Me

No offense,

But don’t insult my intelligence.

Don’t place yourself above me in a superiority that only you see,

And don’t you dare talk down to me.

Don’t think that just because I am humble in my manners that the things I do don’t matter.

I learned to downplay my inquisitiveness in my youth and hide the answers I knew to be true,

And I was put down for being a nerd and that is all I heard,

I kept my mouth shut because it was not cool to be good at school,

And in the ghetto my intelligence was something to learn to let go if I wanted to grow,

To be thought of as someone who is pretty not one who is thinking.

But don’t think that my intelligence doesn’t exist.

And don’t you dare attempt to deny that I have the capacity to outshine.

Because I graduated Cum Laude,

And before that I was number six in my class,

I was an Honors Student since I started school,

Classes were easy for me to pass,

I have a vocabulary that is ever expanding,

And I have a feeling that I was never meant to fit in,

I was a silent student who knew all the answers,

And a bashful award winner,

I could list off more accomplishments in my youth than you probably ever considered,

But I will always be the last one to take credit.

Because I know that everyone has intelligence of their own,

And this is not something I hold alone.

So if I don’t insult your intelligence then please don’t insult mine.

Just give me the time to prove to you what I can truly do,

And I will do the same for you.

When I Wish Upon A Flaw

I wish that I could hate others the way I hate myself.
I wish that I could see nothing but their faults and where they have failed.
I wish that I could be blinded by their flaws and only see faces that I resent.
I wish that I could be content with their struggle and criticize them where they fall short.
I wish that I never cut anyone slack and refused to be understanding.
I wish that I could see them fail over and over again and never have hope that they will triumph in the end.

Because this hate is too much to bear alone.
And I cannot seem to escape the burden that I have chosen to shoulder.
I have trouble seeing value in my own face and I do not see the progressive actions I take.
I wake up to hate.
I go to sleep with hate.
I continue my day with resentment.
I never allow satisfaction.
I am restless and unsatisfied with life and myself.
I see no point in waking up and I have ceased to see value in trying.

Because what is the point?
No matter how happy I may be in a moment it doesn’t last.
And no matter how much I convince myself that I am making progress I don’t see evidence of it.
I see the same destroyed person in the mirror every day and I am disappointed.
I am weak and less than what I want to be.

Because I set my standards too high so that I am never satisfied.
No matter what I may achieve it is never good enough and I could always be doing more.
I can always be better person and I can always find ways to grow.
I can always seek more knowledge and I can always feel inferior to what others have accomplished.
I will always compare myself to others because I do not trust that my standards are worth living by.
And I will always feel the pressure of living this life to the fullest because I know what it is to have it stolen.

Because I fear fulfilling the fate of my father and I fear history repeating itself.
I resent that I am a self-fulfilling prophecy and I hate that it is within my power to change that.
I want to sit back and trust that life will get me where I need to go.
I want to be passive in my pursuit and rewarded for my casual attitude.
I want this life to be easy and I want it to divulge the secrets it keeps.

Because I want all the answers but none of the rejection.
And I want to succeed with this gift that has been handed to me.
I want to be grateful and I want to thank life for every day I get to live.
I want this life to mean so much that I am crushed by the pressure.
And in the end I fail to see what this life could be if I just trusted in me.

I wish that I could be strong.
I wish that I could be fierce.
I wish that I could be bold.
I wish that I could be brave.
I wish that I could have no faults.
And I wish that I could finally forgive myself for being human.

Learning To Take My Own Advice

Just keep writing.
— That’s what I tell myself when I am took confused to even tie my shoes.
Just keep believing in yourself.
— That’s what I say when I have nothing left to encourage my best.
Just keep trusting that everything will fall into place.
— That’s what I try to place faith in when I am finally about to cave in.
Just keep moving.
— That’s what I attempt to practice when I want to be past this.
Just relax.
— That’s what I attempt to remind when I don’t like what I find.
Just breathe.
— That’s what I whisper when the weight is crushing and life is rushing.
Just remember who you are.
— That’s what I attempt to do when I am left unglued.
Just accept that you are human.
— That’s what I demand when I am left with a shaking hand.
Just embrace your flaws.
— That’s what I say to others but refuse to do for myself until it smothers.
Just drop your pursuit of perfection.
— That’s what I want to do when I have nothing left to lose.

But I don’t listen to my own advice even when it is given twice,
Per day and the day that I see is wasted away,
To the point of holding no value and I am left without you,
The voice in my head and the only company I keep in my bed.
And I refuse to listen and put my best foot in,
Because the thought of failure is too much to bear and the threat of never finding myself leaves me with too much to care,
About and think about and attempt to forget about.
These words are for You,
And these words are something to chew upon and reflect,
And meant to help protect the person I am becoming,
And the future I have been shunning.
— The one where I am truly myself and I am free to be everything I can speak, but never did think, was a part of me.

What Is Self-Identity?

This is all I get,
This is what life handed me,
This is all I have to forget,
And everything I have the chance to be.

But this is something that I do not get:
How can life be so uncertain?
And how do I not know the right answers already?
How have I been living this long?
And what is there left to learn?
Does this life end in this physical plain?
Or does it continue in a space that I cannot see?
And is that what I want to believe?
What am I supposed to believe in?
Which religion has the right answers?
What should I find value in?
And what is not worth my time?
Who has all the right answers?
And why won’t they tell them to me?
How come I have to figure this all out on my own?
And why do I feel that no one else’s answers will fit my questions?
How can I be so lost in life?
Will I ever “find myself”?
And what do I have to offer?
What are the truths I can see?
And who do I choose to believe?

Who I am?

The Person I Hate The Most

Sometimes I hate myself.

I hate that I get high and I hate that I always seem to get by.
I hate that I often lose my phone and that I am threatened to lose my home.
I hate that I can hate myself so much that I do not see that there is anyone I can trust.
I hate that I ooze hate and that it is a reflex I can’t negate.
I hate my attempts to rhyme and I hate that it doesn’t work out half the time.
I hate that I think I’m something special because I have reached my threshold.

Because I hate disappointment.

I could turn this around and talk about what I love and tell everything else to shove it.
I could say that I love that I am brave and that I have things to say.
I could celebrate my body and the strength that I have built upon me.
I could be proud of my wandering mind and trust that there is still more value to find.
I could be easy and do the things that please me.
I could lie and deny this hate that builds inside.

But I know that it’s there.

It is a burning that tears down my soul,
And a feeling that is difficult to ignore,
It washes over me without a choice,
And it is in those moments when I lose my voice,
To the crushing sounds of another,
One that wants to smother,
Any sign of strength I might be holding onto,
And the tasks on which I thought I’d follow through,
It debilitates and resonates,
These feelings of hate.

I cannot help but listen.

Because what is the point?
How can I fight?
When there is nothing worth living for and nothing I like?
Hate is an old friend,
One who inspires the movement of this pen.
And if hate can do that,
How can I hate hate?
But it’s not hate that I hate,
It’s me and the things I allow myself to be:
An addict,
A bad friend,
And someone who has sunk into depression.

Hate is nothing I want to be.
But it is a part of me.
And that is plain to see.