cowardly ways.
stuck in their cowardly haze;
they’re blinded.
can’t see past their own pointed finger,
no time to see the dirt underneath their own nails
they would deny it even if they could.
say that someone else put it there,
no way could the tips of their fingers be touching dirt.
they’re better than that.
and the only thing those fingers will grasp is dollar bills given a value higher than their worth.
don’t ya know money is everything?
cowardly voices.
singing their cowardly song of blaming.
no time for self evaluation,
they’ve got problems to cause.
they’ve got solutions to give that don’t solve anything.
they’ll say everyone else is out of tune,
but in reality they sing to a rhythm only cowards know how to dance to.
cowardly eyes.
hiding their cowardly lies,
they’re stuck.
too far along in a game they’re bound to lose.
it’s a shame they’ll never understand it.
they’re willing to give up everything for something worth monetary value
and frankly, i don’t value their opinion.
so i’m refusing to listen to their stale silence.
i’ve got better songs to play
and better people to dance with.


the little things

her breath smells like cigarettes

but her lips taste like spearmint gum.

it’s something i haven’t quite figured out yet but i’m convinced the more tastes i get the easier it will be to understand.

i’m always looking for a conclusion so i can’t stop kissing her.

i don’t think she’ll complain.

doesn’t she know gum is supposed to erase bad breath?

she doesn’t usually break the rules

never stands too close to a building even though that’s where the ashtrays are,

doesn’t try to light up in the bar,

and she always puts the butt back in the box instead of on the ground.

she says,

the little things add up

and i couldn’t agree more.


i was a silenced gun that just wanted to be heard

my silence was not keeping me safe

fuck my safety

nothing that could kill could ever be safe

and with every touch of your waist i got closer to danger

but i wouldn’t wish death on anyone

and yet your fingers are my body’s trigger

you pull bullets from my lips

you leave handprints of gunpowder on my hips

and you sound bangs in my heart without leaving any holes

you un-silenced me

you told me i was too quiet

asked me if i talked more with other people

and i said

no, because your fingers are the only ones that could trigger me,


now i’m bang, bang, banging my way into your head

call it homicide

or suicide because you were the one pulling my trigger

either way, we’re at the shooting range

i’m firing with everything i’ve got

and you better not move my target

you are the bulls-eye that was always just a ring away


I’ve never really understood the game of basketball

I’m really not that good at it either

I was shooting guard in eighth grade and only scored three points all season

after that…

I chose to play different sports

I wanted to contribute it to my lack of height

Or my hateful attitude towards running

But it really came down to the fact that I hate rebounds

I understand they’re an important part of the game


I suck at them

And it seems like outside of basketball I always get stuck with the “rebound” title

It’s not fair to be the one pulling someone out of love with someone else

You see, in basketball, if someone misses a shot everyone is jumping 




Trying to force the ball to love the basket

In real life

After a missed shot with someone people jump into anything that will get their mind off of the person who fucked them over

A rebound in real life acts as an eraser

Which I’m fine with

I’ll erase someone’s bad memories, no problem

It’s when my eraser runs out that we have a problem

All the fluffy, soft, pink stuff fades away and that person is left with


The silver metal part of a pencil

No cushion

Nothing to hide behind



It’s at this point when they usually realize that 

I’m not their ex

Who they are still in love with

So i get pushed away and pushed aside and left for someone who hurt them in the first place

I’m not good at basketball

the most comfortable place in the world.

The excitement I feel when I think about crawling back into my bed after class overwhelms me.

My hands get sweaty,

My heart starts pumping faster,

And the corners of my mouth curve upward into a slight smile.

I never wanted to leave the cradle of covers and pillows to sit in these uncomfortable chairs.

The backs are too straight,

The legs are too long; they leave my feet dangling,

Putting stress on my knees.

I need a foot stool.

Or a reclining chair.

Then I would be more likely to pay attention to the teachers words instead of being distracted by my body’s impulse to sprawl out and get comfy.

The uncomfortable feeling of plastic and metal trying to align my slumping spine aggravates me.

I need my bed

And my blanket

And my pillows just right so my head falls into the corner and gets cuddled from both sides.

Comfortability is hard to find without a bed like mine. 


People say over time that it gets easier.

That the pain will go away

And bad memories will fade.

Positive moments placed on picture paper should be able to suffice.

I think, over time, people just get better at distracting themselves.

Moments of happiness erase feelings of sadness and mourning.

When the topic does emerge,

Even sometimes, years later,

The lump in their throat is just as big as it was before.

It just gets a little easier to swallow.

Just like it’s easier to swallow your food when it comes in smaller bites.

I’ve never heard of anyone choking on peas.


I’ve sealed many letters that never set sail in the mailbox

They were my words unread

Feelings shed onto paper unfiltered from hate and overdosed in pride

I had nothing to hide from these people but everything to prove

I was always taught numbers don’t lie.

But people do

This world is not a calculator

Opinions leaking into the paper formulated with disgust and looking like betrayal

It’s a shame letters sometimes get lost in words and words get all dressed up in sentences but then have nowhere to go

What a waste of a good outfit

Words fill the gap in between the blue train tracks on the paper

Carrying a load of stale stomachs, a car full of salty tears that taste perfect with the sweet smell of friendships coming to a end in the next car over

Some sounds are meant to never be heard

The sound of lost hope, the whisper of disappointment, and the yell of frustration

My paper is all too familiar with these conversations

The envelope will embrace them but they will never be read

Unsent letters feel good to get out

And even better to throw away