In my five semesters at Michigan, I've taken three poetry classes and one independent study.
But I don't consider myself a poet.
I write whatever comes to mind and rearrange the syntax so it sounds somewhat lyrical when I read it out loud. (I don't know.) Here are some poems I've written for class that maybe aren't 100% terrible.
1. the break up
someone really stupid once said that people accept the love they think they deserve. well that’s bullshit because i knew i deserved better.
the way i see it, even in its realest and fakest forms, love and feeling loved can be better than no love and not feeling loved at all.
i think that’s why i held on for so long. because starting over with someone new is harder than waiting for the last petal to fall off of a wilted rose.
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2. don't tell me how to love
remember always that
how you pass time ultimately does
not define who you are
or where you’re going.
who you allow to
pluck your delicate petals
and strip you of the
stress cannot—
and will not—
shatter the passion now repressed by
late night calls and mindless
sexts that eventually lead to
at least one weekly session
during which you’re forbidden
to feel.
because god forbid you
attempt to move past small talk
and become vulnerable with
someone that reminds you week
after week how tragic is the
picture you’ve painted yourself.
god forbid you have
any emotion as a participant of
this lifestyle and ruin
the image that keeps him coming back.
but remember always that
the fire remains and will soon
reignite the fragrant red.
and then what will become of you?
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3. how not to lose me & what to do when you do
I.
treat me as you would your mama
when grocery bags overwhelm her arms
and she fumbles with her car keys
respect my time as you would your own
because my patience is beginning to wear
like the denim between your thighs
challenge me like you would your father
when the shot clock sees 01
and he doubts the nba’s most valuable player
protect me as you would your sister
when her prom date arrives at your door
with that roaming hand and fucking grin
II.
fight for me as you would your wildest dreams
persevering until every ounce of you is
spent
weep in my memory as you did buddy’s
when your family decided it was time for
him to play with the puppies in the clouds
then mourn this loss as deeply as you did the last at-bat of your career—
bases loaded, bottom of the ninth
you’re out.
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4. there’s something
beautiful about the way water collects in your eyes and pools over the edges, desperate to escape.
calming about the way your eyelids flicker in your sleep, like a filmstrip playing scenes from a movie.
unsettling about the fact that both heads have their own minds—the lower one always more persuasive.
pathetic about my inability to release myself from the maker of my tears.
