you don't need to stop

you don't need to stop

i who am so good with words
fail at giving you words
you don't need words,
sitting there on the floor.
all you need is your smile
and your hands.
your joy is obvious as they "flap."
you don't need to stop.
you don't need to stop.
it's who you are.
when you babble and shake your head
(in character, the only word in my language you know
is no.)
and sit, unwilling, unmoving,
you make your point.
words don't make points like that.
you don't need to stop.
you don't need to stop.
it's who you are.
you don't have a disease.
you aren't disabled.
you don't need to stop.
you don't need to stop.
it's who you are.
i expect from you what i expect from everyone.
and that's what's fair.
you are as capable as you can be.
you don't need to stop.
you don't need to stop.

(This is for my girl Danielle. She has Down's Syndrome and is on the autistic specturm. That's who she is. She is no less normal than I am. I love her for her sudden need to run and shake across the room. I love her for her crazy laughter on the ground in the student center at BYU. I love her for who she is. We are all strange and different and weird. Imagine how bizarre our talking and touching and hugging seems to her. She is beautiful.)

bad poetry is like bunnies but with less fur and shorter ears

i have spent all of one old,
distinguished benjamin franklin,
his eyes twinkling that founding light
beneath half-moons,
on books filled with poetry,
all poetry,
all lyrics and songsofthesoul
and i can not wait to lose myself,
forget my body, only words, my mind,
in their pages.

today my mother stood in the bed of our new truck,
dressed in a pink bathrobe,
my old work visor, still needs to be returned,
upside down on her head,
and her seeing cane in one hand,
a bowl filled with holy water in the other.
she poured it on the truck and we intoned its new name.
sunday afternoon car christening whimsy
is when i remember how much i love my mother.

let me write my bad poetry and you can't paint the world whatever color you want

when i read poetry,
feel the soul of another reaching out,
through the dead trees of history,
i remember what my goals are,
where i'm longing to go,
what i wish to become,
to have, to know,
and i realize:
my gosh, i am pathetic and i will never make it.
but then my ADD takes over and i run
to paint circles on my belly.

last night i took nyquil
and woke up in the dark
to find an alien had taken over my body
and i had six fingers on my right hand.
i fell back asleep, only to awaken again to find:
i'm insane and drugs don't help that.

i think i'm in like.
with you perhaps, or maybe you.
no, wait, that's it:
it's love.
the feeling down my spine,
the glow in my cheeks,
the wit on my tongue.
that's love, and i like it.
can you be in like with love?

pshaw!

my head is all clammy and closed off
i think it stilted senctences
and breathe from my mouth
my hands are freezing,
my feet too hot,
and i think i have a cold.

i like imaigining where i'd be
if i were at school today.
is it fourth period yet?
or am i still in child dev.,
learning about the reproductive cycle?
what did i miss at lunch,
what clever jokes could i have made,
which now must flow through and out my mind
untill another day,
perhaps tomorrow,
when i shall go to school.

my phone is dead
and i feel like someone has cut off my hand
my right hand, no less, leaving me
only the dirty left.
what time is it:? i don't know.
what am i supposed to do today?
i don't know.
i hate this life.

bad poetry two: versus the snow monster of tibet

i have made a decision.
it is rather like a pickle.
crisp, fresh, brined with brilliance.
and delicious in my mouth.
here is to decisions and pickles,
the stuffs of the good life.

every time i make a decision that means something--
something that will change me, for the best,
i feel like a phoenix, bursting forth from ashes, old,
into a chirping naked chick, new,
and like this metaphor, my decision may be cliche
but it means something to me.

i love you jennith.
i do, i do.
this poem is narcisstic
and so are you.

ooooh you rogue, bad poetry!

people are silly
that's the great secret of mankind.
who needs relgion, who needs philosophy
i've figured it out,
and i'm offering it free on myspace:
people are silly.

i'm a bubble of delight again,
a ball of cotton fluff,
sneezing with distaste at my own glee
smiling and giggling at another's smile.
i've been fixed, finally,
and, no, he doesn't look a thing like jesus.

Ah, rhetorics!

I gave my soul away, yesterday.
One hundred and two poems,
Stuck into a photo album,
Brown cover, cream pages,
That's me, all sixteen years and three months.
Neatly contained and indexed, dated for ease.
Chornologically orderd.
Now some one else is holding me,
Not quite knowing what they have,
Reading those poems and sighing,
For they are awful.
They are, after all, my soul.

My wallet, made of plastic,
Has a girl, on a duck,
Floating away into some unknown sky.
Is she so small, to fit on its back?
Or is the duck a product of radition
Or ill done scientific research?
Did it ask her polite to ride,
Or was she kidnapped, never to see
Her little mom or tiny pop?
Ah, rhetorics!

We shall see

I have not done this in a long time
Let the words flow off,
Let my body fill the chaste and pure page.
Now I give, I take, I leave these words.
Have I lost the skill, the way I once had?
Has time chipped it into non-existence?
We shall see.

It is another beginning,
The start of an end.
One more year in a school
That has defined and shaped four years,
Taken me from a child
To a slightly older child.
And from there, I move into
An old apartment,
Old camp chairs lying
Overturned on the porch,
Graffiti on walls failing into depravation
With “The Rest of Your Life”
On the mailbox.

I am dodging questions
With the wrong questions,
Leading the conversation away,
Toward something less dangerous
(Or so I thought, until, still,
He says it.)
I am afraid of saying yes.
I am afraid of my own emotions
Afraid of not knowing them.
And unsure of where they’ll take me.

Everything seems so important when you’re 16.
The world seems so full of possibilities,
So full of places and things,
And yet you are still the center,
(Is life a twinkie? Am I the cream?)
The only thing that matters.

snow is happiness

when it lies upon the ground,
spread lazily over cars and trees
and trampolines.
and i, in boots and a hand-made scarf
bound about like a puppy,
in the bright, light powder,
winter's sugar.

love is happiness
when you kiss a boy
on Valentine's and he whispers,
soft, barely audible, his moist breath
tickling the inside of my ear,
"i love you."

bad poetry is happiness
allowing me to release my all
onto the screen, so it no longer fills me
too full.
my magic pensieve.

today it did not snow

and that made me feel empty,
longing for soft white flakes that
fall around me in a twirl of light and cold.

i can't say
that today was very exciting
i wore pig slippers and skipped across the stage,
people smiled at me for being happy.
a reward for my joy.

eating pizza
everyday for the rest of this week
sounds appetizing and like something
i would like to do
if my metabilism was like nicole kidman's
and my pizza calorie free.

i want to go shopping
for my clothes are suddenly all boring--
i've worn them all before and i can think
of no other way to wear them; now, i am
lost for clever combinations that show off
my figure and my eyes.

in english tomorrow i shall presnet
a monologue based off kafka written from
the view of the lady in the fur.
i am scared, for she is not the usual
and going against the grain is not my strongpoint--
especially not in front of people.

unadalturated loathing
is a funny thing to sing about
but when they dance across the stage,
their voices combining with the cd player
i can feel my pulse quicken and my body wish to join
their frenzied prance across the stage.

another day in february

i was a zombie today--
i stayed up late and woke up early
late to bed, early to rise
makes a sleepy and crabby and achey

School
was not fun
for i had to run in weight training
and sit still in english, tearing apart the story
of a man turned into a bug.
i thought of myself as a bug and was scared--
i hope i never go insane.

Walking home
that boy used language i don't like
he knows i it, still he persists
until either i'm desentized or he
can say no other words.

Now i sit
here after school, craving pizza
and wishing for something warm and fatty to fill my belly.
it is hard to be a , sometimes.

i am done.

first post

i am writing the story of my life
the ins and outs of my daily existence
but truly, i do not want those i know
to know me as i really am.

so i write anonymously
like a teenager deep in angst
confused at life, its blank spaces and busy days
put it all together, a big fat bundle
and you get this, an attempt at self-explaining
to nobody.