Suppression

At 17, this shouldn't be any trouble,
something so petulant and childish.
Never should I acknowledge it
with this much hurt.

Still, a wave of sadness crashes,
and paranoia sets in,
"It's sure to go downhill,
"from here on out."

Subconcious suppression. It cannot
be undone now,
conceal it, don't feel it,
nobody needs to know.

Being Human

I am but a fool,
a being strung together
by mistakes, one after the other.

I am but a child,
an idiot woven together
by fears and petulant bothers.

I am but a human,
a creature knitted together
by faults and imaginary tethers.

Contra

My life is a contradiction,
for I dream of
expensive luxuries,
and living with frugality.

I dream of skyscrapers,
big and tall,
while thinking of the cool little corner,
with the cool little cafe.

I dream of long freeways,
great suspension bridges,
and tight switchback roads,
7000 feet above the ground.

I dream of exotic food,
prepared for me by other hands,
and not forgetting the rice cooker,
nor the chicken in the stove.

I dream of contra,
and live in irony,
for one ways are only useful
for the streets paved downtown.

Sailing (Haiku Practice)

Steady as a rock,
floating on the ocean blue,
sailing right on through.

Unnecessary

Ash would my bones be,
had I been on fire,
frozen would my skin be,
had I plunged into a wintry pond.

Time is a merciless vessel,
who stops for no one,
and throws off those unfortunate
enough to hesitate.

All these years spent
carrying around my walls,
which only recently became
one-way bridges.

All this time spent
on finding who I am,
what I stand for,
and where I want to go.

All these hours spent
lazily, indecisively,
impulsively, foolishly,
with progress only on occasion.

Irony In Rhyming

Headphones in,
to shut the world out,
prose makes her happy,
and rhyming makes her pout.

Hope is the thing that perches in the soul, and sings the tune, without the words, and never stops at all. 

-Hope Is The Thing With Feathers, Emily Dickinson