inability

you try to write something or two.

and hardly anything comes out.

and in school

you want to cry all the time

because you fucking love it all

all the physics

oh the physics are just a wonder

and all the biology and the anatomy of things

that make you feel smaller

than anything

that you can curl into your own school uniform

cease into walls

and dis

appear.

and the fact of the matter is people come for chores

to write down diagrams

print them onto their minds then

on paper.

once I held books and I held papers and I grew so much dreams I could let them

slip through my vains burst through the cavities of my body as if I were walking potentials

as if the very ground I walked upon can at once be a tree

if we were to look at it a little harder

and fill its roots with laughter and silent dreams of those unable to speak because to speak is to voice inability.

I grew to shrink into awareness

into consciousness

that my words are too afraid to be laid on paper

and my mind will be scorned for its chaoticness

despite its nectar that is nothing short of fantasy

these are the last few months and I will have a highschool degree as if I hadnt cried in these corners

of what I am and what I want to be

as if I havent laughed at ever wanting to be

as if I hadent hated every speck on the wall and in my locker

as if I hadent loathed what people were trying to make of me

as if I hadent broken down

because I couldnt.

inability.

I cant be

an ordinary,

note taking

tested and graded

student.

and as it will be

death to my sentimentality

some odd 1440 days later

I, in a shinier,

more metal like corner

less friends

more hair

crying of what I am and what I want to be

still absolutely clueless

and incredibly chaotic.

and maybe a tad brilliant.