BreathingAnagram

Don't recall The first time it happened, The first time I noticed; But the first time I realized      (Realized I'd noticed it happened) It   changed, (what everything nothing really nothing but nothing was the same after that) Sun's out now and it's never gonna be cold enough to keep me in again oh god I didn't know he could do that why didn't we notice that before it's beautiful when did he-- Oh Oh he can be impressed.

I love that we can communicate in music In music In notes and beats and rythms In schisms One two three one two three Operatic conversation Complications Worked out in the timing The timing Siiiiingiiiiiing Projeeeectiooon and then stop. stop. stop. stop. One two three four five six Drum tap dance drum chorus Drum... Drum... Drum... Build... Up.... ChorUS ChorUS Us the world and stages and Places Scenery lifetime communication Elation Salutation as we cross the halls and wave and pass by Pausing Breathing Holding and stop... walk... by... day... goes... on... goes.... on.... goes....

That kiss was like a knife in my chest While I was suicidal. Fitting that you'd kill me In a cemetery.

An Adult now, She's tasted love and let it taste her back, Scoffs at freedom like at last year's dress. But still she reads her books in private.

Maybe someday I'll be famous And someday it will matter that I've spent my days filling up these books With thoughts of you and him and her and I myself And I myself will be worth more Than the 99 cents I spent on this book And the smile (I really meant) that I flashed at the clerk.

Bullies and players and hearts breaking and bombs dropping and goddammit I have to write that paper but I want to sleep and we all just want to lay back down and go to sleep and I cant even punctuate this because a period means and end and there doesnt seem to be one in sight and winter is coming we can feel it in the air and in our bones and in the frozen looks that chill our melting hearts when all we want is a fire to keep us warm

The hand on my shoulder was warm. I looked up at a man in a dirty camouflage jacket and black skull cap. His dark beard and eyebrows were bushy and a bit tangled. "You okay?" I shook my head. He sat down on the cold curb next to me. "Wanna talk about it?" "A friend of mine, she's 16, she, uh… she was pregnant, and she lost the baby." "Oh my god… is she okay?" "No… No, God, I've never seen anyone this way. The father-" "Is everything okay?" A woman in a dark blue suit and 4-inch heels stopped and knelt down on the dirty pavement to look me in the eye. "Her friend miscarried," said the man. Her hand flew to

So in the course of writing this poem I realized that Things Don't always come out in tidy little appropriate passages passable as poetry pretending to be pretty when really it's all a mess of stress and emphasis, genesis of some new form, testing the water like writing this tested my strength. Sometimes, it's a word. A sound. *A silence* SOMETIMES writer's block hits you like a ton of bricks, sticks in your head. You don't know how to fix it so you nix it, throw it all away.

        Primal elegance surpassing all my failed attempts at words, expressing what that naïve part of me longs to hear voiced; but the part of me that knows without thinking understands that words need not be tripping off your tongue for it to speak. Don't stop. Speak to me.