America, please unlock your stone-set ears
And listen to your weeping son,
Who needs your counsel of centuries,
Your eyes that blink freedom at the dawn.
Land of patriot plight and Iroquois pride,
Your light (the star that shocked the world,
Nestled deep in Washington eyes,
In Jefferson hands and Roosevelt mind)
Has drunk deeply the venom cleaving

[In response to one of the principals at my school denying the literary magazine the right to publish one of my poems, which happens to be about gay people. ("A Ballad for Two Men.")]

I hear it everywhere, oppression’s
Favorite onomatopoeia:
(clink, clink
clank)
In suffocated elevators, singing a sad
Kind of chime as they reach heights
They shall kiss again and again,

Leaves fell from trees in ragged streams
To greet the flight of autumn’s kiss;
Like golden tears they flew the night
In mourning for our parting.

That eve the moon betrayed the night
And glowed too bright for any sun;
A phantom sphere with silver sight
And a cape of weeping stars.

A wind deployed its faceless form
Between your hair’s soft waving strands,

[I'm submitting this poem to a local writing/art contest, so any comments or constructive criticism would be snazzy wazzy. Thanks!]

Silence—
You are a steady killer who cannot confess.
Mouth taped shut and eyes wide open,
Your hand (flying, dying, crying all soundlessly)
Has made murder a circumstance,
A footnote—a fact sleeping in trivia.

You’ve vanished,
You’ve forgotten.
You’ve learned to waste miles
Just like you waste hearts.
You’ve gone so far away
The roads all know your name.
I wish I never did.
Hands eyes lips arms.

The photographs ensure
That I can still trace
Every curve of your face
In my mind’s pathetic race
To reclaim you.
But I’ll never relive
The golden friction

[Long time no write, eh? Don't worry, I'm still alive. And still writing love poetry. Yeesh. It's kind of funny, I've never experienced anything remotely similar to what I wrote about in this poem, but here it is. I pretty much just wanted to use the word "translation" in a poem. No lie.]

Foreign beauty, your smiles need no translation.
Though your words dissolve to letters without

[This is one of my strangest poems, but also one of my best. The Ashen Angel is a symbol for society today. This poem basically talks about how society is fading and how everyone is too lazy to actually make change, so they look for the easy way out. If you have a different interpretation of the poem, I'd love to hear it! Enjoyzerz.]

Regrets float down her fingertips:

SO HAPPY!!!!!! I am now an official published poet!!! I submitted to Ashe Journal (which I actually heard about from Jeff, so thank you SO much, man) and just got back an email a few minutes ago saying they'd like to use my work in their magazine. Huzzah! After I read it, I jumped around my house yelling, "Hot diggidy damn!" over and over. Good thing no one was home! Yowza, I'm so ecstatic!

Well, considering all commenting on my poetry has stopped, I guess I'll write me a regular journal. Things have been all righty...just same old, same old. Tennis season started last week, which is yay, because I get to play a lot of tennis, but also boo, because I get to play a lot of tennis. And to tell you the truth, being around so many straight guys really cramps my style, yo. =/

[This poem's different from my usual schtuff, but me likes it. It's some pretty powerful stuff...]

Just sitting there,
Not a word to my lips,
Not a fist to my fingers,
Big man,
Black hair and scruffy cheeks,
Collar popped but
I didn’t hear it,
Speaks a language
We can both understand—
Faggot.
Sights aligned for
A freckle of time,
I swear I can see
Winter in blue eyes.

Man walks (glides—steps singing
softly beauty’s verse) and
in a second makes my all.
I see beyond the air,
a crown of stars around
his head and dawn
blooming in the heart,
while cosmos dapple
naked knuckles.
I don’t know this prince,
but I want to
be his kingdom.
His skin must feel
like
spring after winter.

[Emo supremo, for the win! =)]

He tricked my eyes with jungles of light;
He cheated my mind with words.
His Sun was really dressed in moon,
His halves split into thirds.

His voice, it rained a melody’s hand;
It shone a robin’s verse.
But his whispers coursed with lies and ash,
His footsteps sang a curse.

I didn’t know that fiction thrived
In his smooth and gentle hands.

It’s everyday I see your handsome face,
The spring rejoicing in your amber eyes,
The sun alive through golden beams of hair;
But I have yet to hear a single word
Escape from your lips, that hold the future in.
Why so silent, my humble god of heart?
The language eyes can speak is holy, yes,
But words employ a beauty more profound
Than simple gazes ever hope to hold.

I'm listening to this guy named Yann Tiersen right now. Anybody heard of him? He's a French contemporary classical composer. The music's pretty grand...very French [duh]. I recommend!

[I feel like crap. Again. My school has a four day weekend this week, and I was expecting to be having a grand ol' time with my friends for lots of it. 3 days in a row I've been stuck at home. With my family. Ack. I'm sick of my family, I'm sick of winter, and I'm sick of feeling like a poop quesadilla. God.]

November has evicted
Us once again;
A winter transmission