This is a poem for the sophomores.

Ten things I know to be true:
1. I'm graduating in 9 weeks.
2. Senioritis is worse than they warned me.
3. Everyone plays it off like they are unaffected.
4. You all can write amazing poems.
5. Sarah Kay is my hero.
6. I'm so damn hungry right now.
7. If I didn't TA for this class, I could get out after fourth.
8. I don't really know why I decided to TA.
9. I want to be a teacher, but I won't.
10. You all need to stop being so cool.

Because as I sit here watching you, I see myself
and it isn't narcissistic, it's depressing.
Because sitting in the corner, you all judge me.
I know you do. I can see it.
And I may only have two years on you,
but you've got a long way to go.
And I've got even farther.
You lay down on your desks
one of you is checking his pulse
and I don't understand how you are not captivated.
This shit is real.
We didn't talk about slam when I was a sophomore.
We read Thoreau.
And he'd be offended at how little I actually cared.
Actually, he probably wouldn't.
It'd take a lot to offend an existentialist.
But you all, you don't care either.
And I'm not existentialist, usually, so guess what--
I'm offended. And I don't even have the right to be.
Your blank-lined-paper eyes are just the cover.
Underneath I know you have pages upon pages of the things you cannot explain.
The things your mind explores while your face remains un-engaged.
We are waging a war against the angst and apathy of teenage mockery.
You are making him tired.
He asks for your opinion.
Begs for your engagement.
And you chirp like crickets to the sound of your indifference.
You will fade.
But you have the option to shine.
Open your hands in front of you
to catch the knowledge bestowed on you.
Unclench your fists and let out a cry of faith.
The world is waiting for you.
So is he, and so am I.
Live beyond your years
and laugh in the face of fear of being shot down.
Because you will be shot down.
And you will get back up.
And the scars are stronger than porcelain skin.
And standing is the only way to begin to walk.
And walking is the only way to begin to run.
And if you ever want to fly, dream of it.
Because maybe someday you will.
But most likely someday you won't.
And that is not meant to discourage you-- it is meant to piss you off.
Prove me wrong.
Write the world a poem that will change its' mind.
Because I know one thing is true.

You can all write amazing poems.

March 5th, 2011.

My room is super cold.
And I feel like a giant weight has been lifted.
The truth, it feels good to let out.
Even when it's not that pretty.
And today was like any other day.
Really, it was.
It's funny how your mind can completely fantasize
about how a certain "day" will map out.
Simply because it is 365 days apart from a significant moment.
Why does it matter?
The earth rotating should have nothing to do with
the memories that flood swiftly into our heads
when we remember what day it really is.

It's like any other day.
And I'm really sorry that I hurt you.
You, as in my best friend.
I never meant to.
But, take a few steps in my shoes.
Then quickly take them off and put yours back on.
I'm not a perfect person.
But I'm trying my absolute hardest.
And I would never do anything
ANYTHING AT ALL
that would ruin our friendship.
I pinky promise.

When I think about it,
today is just like any other day.

I'm throwing it all away.

Guilt.
Shock waves of it are pulsing through my static heart
making it hard to circulate through my tangled brain
feeling the membrane break through the walls of understanding
when I finally say, "I'm through--with everything that is you."