At the Rate we are Going

At the rate we are going 

Will we run out of phone numbers?

Will we run out of creative names for social media accounts? 

Will we run out of room for houses and furnishings? 

Think about how many dogs come calling to the name ‘Max’

Is any idea worth anything anymore? 

Is any thought even your own anymore?

At the rate we are going, creativity is dying. 


Expedition to the clouds 

Is a far more exciting-sounding adventure

Than seeing if Atlantis was a real 

Lost city 

Or if the Mayans really did just 

Vanish into thin air 

Like they never mattered. 

Almost like they never 



Think of how many groups of people 

Who’s ideas, 

Names and faces 

Are forever forgotten 

Think of what happens to you when nobody 

Says your name ever 



Your skin is like the paper 

That I take my pen to.

I like to play connect-the-dots

With your freckles and a sharpie 

Making constellations of stars 

And sometimes swastikas

I named this poem before I wrote it

Sip your beer, 

Tell me sweet, soft nothings in my ear 

My love, my prize 

Don’t leave me out to dry 

Take me inside

I don’t care whether or not we cried

What matters to me 

Is that you see

Maybe one day you can even have my heart 

It’d be one hell of a relationship to start 

To spark 

To go fall in love on the swing sets in the park

Push me down the slide 

Shoving our gentle feelings to the side 


Cancer in my head is what I had 

And the dream doctor said he needed to clean my brain 

Everyone by my side, even my deadbeat dad 

“You’ll feel a little pain,” 

said Dr. Dream

He injected me with a drug making me float downstream 

I was there on a raft, wading down the river

There were monsters, dinosaurs, and every type of strange beast 

Then down the way was a big fucking bunny rabbit

Not big at first, he grew to the size of a house  

And I fought this bunny on my raft, with large laser-lightsabers 

But! This bunny rabbit had friends, next door neighbors

Neighbors that have big fangs and sharp claws 

I sit in my raft, floating downstream 

My head feels fluffy and poofy like cream 

I sip calmly at my drink

The bunny rabbit doesn’t know what to think, 

I’ve outsmarted him this time

I start to panic when a bell starts to chime

Then the pain starts to hit

And then I start feeling sick

“You just had your brain cleaned for the week”

My head feels like a space pod, controlled by robots 

Try and act sober and ask for another treatment

R.I.P Poetry

Rest in peace to my forgotten ideas

Ideas that may have been genius

Ideas that maybe have gotten me to go somewhere with my dumb fucking life 

My dumb broke life 

My rich, genius, forgotten ideas 

The poor things must be cold 

So forgotten, so alone

Maybe someone can save them 

Or not, 

Either way none of these ideas really mattered,

They never even existed, 

So rest in peace

You will be forgotten  


The blade calls and it beckons my name, 

I can’t cut again 

I can’t feel the shame 

The shame a bloody arm gave

A bloody arm cut down to the bone

My skin would scream that I’m all alone

Sleeved shirts in the summer and jeans at the beach 

The infected skin is the color of a pale peach

The bloody arm is sliced again 

I’m nowhere to go and without a friend

Sitting at the table with my mom, picking at my food 

She asks where my smile went, and why I’m in a dull mood

Rolling up my sleeves, with all the bravery my heart can take 

“Help me” I say, and my mother drops her plate