I'm a colorful speck of honey with a scent of ever-changing lavender. I am the rain drop that brushes your eyebrow , the last hiding skittle in the bag. I am Every thing but a basic chicken and a warm nickel. 

I am the measure of translucent time that fades into an escaped world. 

I'm not drinking. I already said how I got the bottles.

Piece by piece.

I never wanted tho break. I wanted to glue your fucked up pieces together. I thought that maybe I had the right glue. That many glue was the strength that you needed. I believed that you was worth my time. Worth my headache. Worth my deterioration. I saw a light in you that turned out to only be a lit shadow of you're darkness. I felt the coldness that inhabited your heart. I saw my pieces of vulnerability in the floor around me. The only strength I had, the only pride I felt was when I picked up those pieces, put them in my pocket and left with a silent "Fuck you."

I am a Sea of Petals

Water don't run dry.

Honey Dew can be sweet at times. Believing in yourself is sweeter. My mind explodes with frustration and my lack of control over myself. The chains were completely expired to the point that I had none. No chains. No label. No category. Was I free? Or was I a slave to self-expression? Was I new? Or am I a tired washed cloth.

No.


I am nothing, but a petal of words thrown into the sunset. Nothing, but a sea of treasure that has been abandoned. Everything more than the piece of shits that crawl around, who live on excuses.

I am a lioness. I roar.

I speak.


I am.

Guns

Off.

When you take off everything you become vulnerable to yourself. You empty out the burdens of being not good enough, worthless , or incomplete. You allow the love for you to be pure. Potent. You take off the disease of a conscience and put on the curse of acceptance.

Adults

It's fun to say curse words and throw shit. The feeling of not giving much fucks produces a rush of confidence that humans yearn to obtain every second. The end it's always the same tho. Imagination eliminated.

Damn

There are old cheerios and ugly babies. I guess I blend well in the middle.

Birthdays Are For The Fishes

I am Art.

A Day in the Bronx

Eyes

Can I get much brighter? Am I only allowed to breathe. Let me reach for the sky and jump over the horizon. Let me see.

We're as strong as our home .

Congregation

Understanding oneself doesn't come until one understands the end of ones earth existence.

Art in the City

34th Herald Square

Prowl

People are going to spit on you while smiling. You just have to flick them off with the most enormous smile possible.

Naked.

We are born naked, we see naked, we leave naked.

Every Theme Has an English B

The instructor said,

“Go home and write a page tonight,

And let that page come out of you. Then it will be true.”

I know how cruel life and its details can be first-handed

The highlights, the triumphs, and the downpours

At the age of seventeen, I’ve seen its cores, I too have stories

It’s a struggle to establish a knowledgeable rank

With society chained into focusing on our outer layer

We often find ourselves out of sync

But then again, I am just a seventeen year old from Queens

Full of rebellion, uncensored thoughts, and wonder

I am outlined to the point

I am also like you, and take part in things you do too

I knock people out, (boxing)

My writing turns curse words into flowers, (poetry)

I am the new found Rachel Ray, (cooking)

And sometimes I can be a little Picasso on his good days, (art)

See, I am just like you

Watch movies? Me too

Body language? I read that too

I talk and I inspire

Sometimes I fall in love, but don’t mistake me for a Streetcar Named Desire

I like money for “thank you”

I like hugs and hand-fives for “you’re welcome”

I guess being true can be like you, don’t you think?

These pages I write to you are just thoughts, with extra ink

Being me is who I see in the mirror

It’s who I get frustrated at when I do badly on a test

Or who I give an imaginary hug to when I’m down

I am not just another individual, but a body full of story and emotion

Some of this I share with you, instructor

Some I borrow from you, and maybe you borrow some too

But somewhere our English B’s touch each others

That’s what people do

We extend hands and we together lead

We kind of need each other, right?

We all plant seeds.