I've been writing lately.

I am lacking in much-needed-writers-feedback right now. All of my usual go-to people are, well, far away to say the least. And because there has been nothing jumping out at me to write about, I've decided to post a few poems I've written over the duration of my stay here. Enjoy.

Bitch

It feels as if they’re

screaming it,

writing it in black permanent marker

all over your body,

capitalized, bolded and underlined:

Attention should be warranted,

but never wanted,

and saying exactly

how you feel or think

is never acceptable,

unless with an

un—            justly

judged and deserving

every fault scrawled across

your skin, mind

so long as the box is

maintained, filled

and others are kept

waiting                        outside

to get in—to

a circle that looks much better while

standing on the outside

looking in.

Window Shopping

holes punched through

bone and skin and muscle

display vital organs

for sale

in the window of a department store,

as the pedestrians

stroll along the bricks

crimson drips, spatters, leaks

onto hardwood floors

made from linoleum

and the shell that once held

afore mentioned vital organs

struggles for air

without lungs,

opens lids to see

without eyes,

pumps blood feebly

without heart,

but calculates death

even without brain,

knowing that the end is near

for the shell of

flesh and bone lying on

the hardwood linoleum floor

in the window display

of a department store,

selling vital organs

to passersby and regulars.

Unmotivated

To take action—

will and way.

If one is lacking

can the other suffice?

May the will make a way,

even if it ceases to exist?

And might a way give the will,

even if it has crumbled?

All that’s left is a measly helping,

queasy in the stomach—

bitter as chocolate and

weeping birthdays.

Society’s Expectations

I am already caged,

fighting against iron-wrought bars

composed of societal thoughts.

Words lose meaning

as soon as hands become involved, and

create new bars, reinforcing old.

Yet, in history, no model is forthcoming

that exemplifies ideals between my ears.

Leaving me questioning—

am I abnormal?

That pit-in-my-stomach feeling,

is that a warning of my fears?

Will everything lose significance?

Only bars of iron rattle as my voice cracks,

a passive answer, but an answer nonetheless.