f(x)

I would like Math to love me—

Show me the world succinct

Truths and certainties

Laid upon numbers and variables

Only the white of paper

And the black of pen

The value of tangibility

The charted minimums

And maximums

Knowing where

The function of life

Curves and bends

—And whether

Pain and suffering

Ends.

I gathered people like dewdrops

Collect upon a lonely leaf

They were made in the clouds

Of pollution and acid rains

I beckoned and waved—

The wind forced my hand

Yet upon my lonely branch

Ne’er a hopeful bird did land

Only dewdrops grew

Little parasitical things

They burned and ate

And I turned yellow with grief

Pocked with holes

In sickly sheen

Death beckons

And I hesitate

But the solid form

Appeared

So comforting

A being

A rubber wristband

Encircling a

Pale arm

Extended graciously

A plain white

Sterile shirt

Hung loosely

’round their form

And bed hair,

Bright eyes,

A smile

Innocently wise

I would lay

In their embrace

Nestled wordlessly

Drifting

Into peace

If Life had not

Eaten my soul

Suffer blue skies

Dart games in the dark

Poison slipped

into white paper cups

Flowers spilled

Their petals splayed

Like droplets of blood

Cry a small stream

In a foggy shower

Hate inanimate things

For not having to feel

Despise cumulus clouds

Then cry some more,

This time with rain

Soaking your socks

Then you can

Be dramatic in the bathroom

Wet hair dripping

Eyeliner name:

Spooky clown

Because you love to

Wrap depression

In a romantic flurry

And

Your conscience

Becomes a blur

The Struggle for Originality

I found myself knee deep in poetry

Not knowing which direction to go

I settled, staying ’neath nonexistent leaves

Telling myself I’ll remain

Until the frost becomes much too cold—

Then, I could write of my

Fucking goddamn depression

Bass drop

It’s three o’clock in the morning

And I’ve been kissing individual framed photos

In my shrine of Poe Whitman Plath

I harbor such a pretentious heart

I could not bear to part with mediated prose

(Man these tumblr poets

And their penchant for simplistic thought)

—I’ve drunk so much irony in my tea

I can no longer taste its potent punch

I am so well-versed in the craft,

All my alliteration attempts are absolutely art

My words are like stars, night, dewdrops, love, eyes, the sunskyandmoon

I can write so fresh, I’ll write of farts

I’ve nothing to prove, nothing to lose

Whether I rhyme or not—

Conform or not—

There is nothing to gain

In being a contrarian.

lowercase

the utility

so poetic.

like i’m

merely speaking

words

words

words

bared meaning

the art

in the obvious

thanks rupi kaur

not sure

if i hate you

but boy,

do i love

red wheelbarrows

Hurting and healing

Like the rise and fall of my breath

༄