on the origins of nothing

where did nothing come from
is having nothing a constituent of actually having something
is it parallel to having everything

is nothing everything
is everything nothing
there is nothing
concrete in everything
or nothing

you cant wrap your arms around either
you cant rap your arms around my house
but its there so
maybe there is an end to everything
but our arms arent wide enough


I guess
theres something
pretty healthy
about not having everything
and not having nothing
but simply having
something

you are
were
my something
and now
in this state of
no ground
no actual place
I ma not sure
if I have nothing
or everything
either way
I need to wrap my arms around something
and usually
I like putting them
around
you.

this isnt a poem. as if any of them are.

disappointment.

that is the single solitary feeling

I have

at my last day in highschool.

and I understand there isnt much

to simply

graduating

but

this is all I have at the moment

so please

take some time to read this through.

since childhood

I havent been much successful

at anything

but things

like

reading

and

art

and science

and obviously this seems

like a great deal

but I wasnt good with people

and I wasnt funny

and I wasnt pretty

and people were bored

but science was a great massive existence that

I could be in

be in without end

and I would end

I would end

before I even came close

to its tips

and that gave me

such comfort

the arts

the arts were an actual concrete

representation

of what it is

to be human

and I got to see

the journey of my ancestors

through it

and was there anything greater?

the highest form

of scholastic education

was

high

school.

I wanted to be small

this was science

after all

I wanted to

in comparecen to my

educators

be at the verg

of disappearing.

2 days from now

I will have taken

my last

final test.

I am not disappearing

I am living full frontally

with a great unhinging

unfulfillment

not even close to learning

or being

slightly displaced

disappointment

disappointment.

I am sorry

that how I feel is hurtful.

I know you put in

effort.

I dont exactly know why this isnt working

but I know it isnt.

and your absolute control over my

'grades'

that may or may not determine me

'future'

is almost burst out laughably

the least

of my concerns. 

its really not much, except its almost everything.

this has become serious

this has become very serious

my mother

who usually is the model

of all things a single human being can achieve

or strive to achieve

highers her voice

almost knife like pitch level

calling for one of my sisters

and in the haste of the moment

fifth attempt at writing

a poem

I want to pull out het throat

this has become serious

this is not

a hobby

this is not

a past time

this is not

a part of me

it is dominant

it is

massive

it is sadist

and its too serious

its too

everywhere

so I never write anymore

or when I do

I just repeat

for the sake

of not losing

this is

too serious

but I AM

a writer now

and its terrifying

and I cant stop my self

from constantly pausing

and looking at books

and my own lancing words staring back at me

and really wondering

where is the appeal

what is the purpose

and I'v come up with various reasons

being inspirational

being remembered

helping others

being able to communicate

and I come out of this loop

of insufficient thoughts 

with always the same

every reason

too weak

or too vain

and the love slowly wethers 

and am only left

with fear

is this too serious?

fear seems to be my only drive

most times. 

publish

usually:
when one ties a certain topic
with a great amount of emotion
one cannot
unbiasedly
and very logically
comprehend it and classify it

with writing comes what is massive
almost
uncontainable
I rais my arms to
maybe hold it
a little
but I dont even know
where to put my palms
this whole topic
        poetry
and books
and so on
is extremely massive
I cannot see its edges
I cannot hold it
I just rais my arms
and try to keep
up
what is falling
down


"I am too fond of books
to write them"

simultaneously
I am too fond of books
to let them free
I am too fond
-the word fond
is soo weak-
I burn
with  too much
uncomfortable
laughable
embarrassing
inconvenient
even
harmful passion
to simply
let
poetry
free.


I try to write it
and sometimes
I cant bare the sight of my own words
most times

and consequently
I cannot even look at
other's

poetry
will
you please
let go
I can be a scientist
if you were to maybe
untangle me

so is
the likes
of the lover
instead
I cannot take off a ring
or say
a few words
and not even see
your face
you
you
take shelter
in the center
of my bones
and I wish
and I
each morning rise
and midnight
half dream
be
you
be
falling
un-uniformed poetry
I burn with the
'there'
of you
 so much
I speak you despite the laughter
or silence
 after
there goes
my lover.
*publish*

when I'm asked later.

this is where I was 5 years old

and I suppose I have been unable to understand so many things
and so many people
and so at 5 I was far more afraid thanI was curious.

but when I am asked in the future
how was this place for you
I wil say

this is where I was 5 years old
and I was 15 here
and I was 8
and I was 12
and I was 16
and I was 10

and finally I left it at 18
and I had been so many people
but I still was practically the same
I was always shy
kind of bright
but also very slow

and this is where I first
learned to paint
quit well
some people liked it
I had been really under the influence of
and idle adolescent crush at the time
I painted with so much passion
I thought he'd find me so interesting
if he knew
I could create something
mildly beautiful

he didnt
I didnt really paint much for a year or so

I never had any crushes

this
at 8 years old
is where I first had a bestfriend
where I first went to her house
I met her sisters
I really wanted to be like
them
they were tall and slender
they had long straight blond hair
and really small features

this
is where I was first
 bullied
it started at 6 years old
it was public
and sharp
and brief
at 10 years old
it was vigorous
and personal
at 15
or
16 it was not very
obvious
but deeply hurtful
at 18
almost whisper like
and hilarious


this is where I first was so intrigued to the point
of holding my head
and
repelling class mates
and waisting time
with
'questions'
that had
no
real
answers.

and this
this is where I was first asigned t write something
and
this is where I first read something
in front of other
this is where I first
had an audience.

so
yes
overall I have hated this place
and I have lived with the idea
that I will always have to do it
and I will always hate it
but here I am
in miniature
heart break.

there will be no late night activity
not lonesome inability
to fit in the masses of girls
throwing themselves
forward and backwards
this is 12 constant
unstable
magnificently interesting
overly
torturous years of my life
this is where I was first 5 ears old
and this is where I
cried everyday for 2 consecutive years
and learned tat passion
is untamable.

the symmetry of ease.

I look at my mother and father
at the middle of their ages
they are so much like me
yet they have something
I would really like to have
the symmetry
of ease.

I spend most of my time
whatever of it I can spare
trying to unravel things
quit convinced
that there is massive
heavy loading unencessity of things to
dig through
on anything
of value
people
like to think
that things -and maybe hence comes
the tradition
of putting
dirt
on deceits
loved ones- are safest
when buried.

I heard my father
at 18
liked to read vigorously
he read on the radio
and I suppose
people liked to hear
novels read out loud
with the push of
stuttered
 passion
of an
'on the cliff of
teen'
rough
in his words
and self reflection
novels turned
into live
fire like
poetry


and I heard
that my mother
with her logic
was easy going
but more than anything
compassionate
and wondering
and so unmoved by
whatever is or
may be
'society'

I dont really
truly know
how my parents were
a 18
how they are
the statues of
goodness and graciousness and
human building blocks
of my dreams

but I
where I am today
have spent the last 18 years
of my life
trying to block,
shed away
most
if not
all
of the things
I'v been
'taught'
to be.

rumi

I dont dream
of a someone
that can clinch my heart
in the twist
of their fist
yet still chooses
to hold it like
a new born toddler
drenched in fear

I only dream
of satisfaction
then
I can  have the
rising pillar of ease
of dreaming
 no more.