nothing feels right

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

birthday candles

have white words

and big teeth

told us wishes come true

and that dreams are worth having

counting years in flames

to twenty two

his brother is having a baby

so young

only two plus two

a baby with a baby

planned and hoped for

stars hanging from the ceiling

in anticipation

i am still only a child

peeing on sticks

praying for negatives

and bottles of wine

smoke in my car

doubting if i will ever feel

sturdy

branches that carry weight

roots that go deep

inviting flowers to grow

on my fingertips

recycled to make paper

that i will dress up in

writing

always writing

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

they are getting business degrees

becoming a statistic

chrome wheels with cold leather

savings accounts and mortgages

fences that frame their wealth

not cage them

like the corners of my pages

a box to fill

but not to fit into

my pencil

unlike the hardwood

in their summers homes

is cracked

borrowed

my lead poisoning the paper

collecting pages not progress

in writing

always writing

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

their futures are exploding

obliterating childhood doubt in its wake

clearing space for newness

for fresh fragrances

of milk and honey

sticky on their lips

sugar in their teeth

the sweetness

i crave as i sip

my cold tea

dreaming of taste

flavor

of honey

of lucky

still sipping

spilling and staining

cloudy pages

writing

always writing

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

september used to mean something

tests with clear questions

only one right answer

books were for reading

never collecting dust

a spine intending to bend

wrinkles not weakness

but knowledge

now words taste

stale in my mouth

turning them bitter

weapons to spit

or swallow

or write across my skin

brandishing scars

tattoos that sink

until my school days

return in waves

when pencils weren't broken

but sharpened

when bells were the ending and beginning

not the alarms in my bead

vibrating

shaking

ripping the paper I write on

always writing

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

maybe i'm ageist

once too young to succeed

couldn't be taken seriously

childish instincts not to be trusted

adolescent experience

the giddy whistling

of cheer and innocence

the bright skies painted in eyes

the fakeness

the fables

yet

soon i was too old

the creases under my eyes

craters like the mood

filled with smiles

that they weaponize

and critisize

the fantasy of recklessness

that was once celebrated

now shamed

my body aches and grows

able to hold life

between the cracks in my hips

stretching like the

love growing

but

my sexuality is less naive

harder to manipulate

and subjugate

less attractive the more

power

i hold

the fire i can breath

the no i can yell

they yell too

that my thoughts are irrelevant

too mature to relate to youth

too dark to sell a dream

too depressed to comepliment a page

a feeling that shouldn't be remembered

yet i will still write them

always writing

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

i seem to be

a little too much

still never enough

i go too far

but fall too short

energy too dark

too personal

but also too fake

too distant

my existence a juxtaposition

a semicolon

neverending search

for finality

always running

with no end in sight

sweat on my brow

no will believe in you

until you become something

"i knew all along you'd make it"

they'll say

as you sharpen the knives

they put in your back

grown cold

like the steel

sharp

like the edge

cutting through the dillusion

like paper cuts your skin

blood drips

polka-dotting the white

as i write

always writing

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

my niece and nephew grow up

on a screen

while I'm across the country

regretting a dream

becoming an unfamiliar face

a forgettable name

my sister voice through a phone

updating me

on the sports

the piano lessons

sunday school

while i count haircuts

and holidays

away from them

sending presents

from amazon

mailing pieces of my soul

in writing

always writing

nothing feels right

don't you agree?

a cookie-cutter life

a+b=c

a question with an answer

i'm still searching for it

under covers

in the closet

that a cross once kept me in

living in the curve

of a question mark

within the warmth of paper sheets

where we could live forever

in a

memory

fantasy

fabrication

mistification

as life gets faster

and longer

and flat

i'll be here

writing

always writing

always writing

but nothing feels right

don't you agree

except one thing

writing

always writing