Bad Poetry is the White Spaces Between the Lines, Me Thinks

Secrets

Reading the Valentines' Day Secrets
On PostSecret
Reminds me of all the boys
Who have come to me,
Their eyes searching for love, love,
Any kind of love.
As if it will solve all their problems
And make them happy, finally, finally.
Here is a secret, my Valentine's Day secret:
It is not love that makes you happy.
It is not the other person beside you smiling,
It is not the girl nor the boy who whispers forever.
It is you that does it. You.

Happiness is you.

Always First and Last

The last time I skipped was a week ago.
The last time I danced in front of a mirror was two days ago.
The last time I sang by myself as loud as the air was yesterday.
The last time I laughed was an hour ago.

The first time I skipped was as soon I could walk
My legs tripping in confusion, creating patterns out of energy.
The first I danced in front of a mirror was when I realized
That behind the glass that was me, not a shadow mocking.
The first time I sang by myself as loud as the air was when I felt
The tingling need inside my vocal box.
The first time I laughed was when I
Opened my eyes
And saw the beauty of this world for the first time.

Wishin'

I wish I was a hippie.
So I could sit up all night
While guitars playing protest
Sing to the desert sky.

I wish I was a beatnik
So I could ponder truth
While fighting to stay alive
And speak in poetry to my friends,
Crazy as I.

I wish I was a hipster
So I could speak in words even I don't understand.
And wonder in the Biggest Apple
Losing myself just so I could know where I was going.

But perhaps it is best
That I am me
And only me.
Otherwise it'd get pretty confusing.