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Yes, I know that it’s pointless
to write poetry but I’m not
betting on where it gets me,
nowhere’s pretty cozy and
you’re embarassed of my lower
class priorities, don’t excuse me
of my politics because you can’t
apologize for your ivy league
privilege and you’re probably far
too rich to laugh at this so if you
ever read my poetry I hope you
find it borderline offensive and
as classless as my liberal arts
degree in a mediocre passion that
I can only hope comes in handy
teaching public high school classes
in a neighborhood you haven’t
gentrified or even passed through
and pumped your gas in. I swear:
no blood, no phenotype, or late
loved one could make me take
this back or convince me that I’m
relevant–what’s a relative if I’ve
never felt related? I swear to you
and on her grave since she’s been
dead we haven’t been a family and
I’m not afraid to admit that this
whole time I too was pretending.
hypologia 
This is a gem.
I wonder, to the pain you’re expressing, and I DO use the word loosely as it clearly is Pressing, as obviously no one’s addressing, how long have you carried this? how many night poured over your heart for this? do you still lose sleep in thought of this? Oh I wonder, in our brief meeting, how I could see the weight of the streets in your eyes. how a metropolis of lone survival, only befriended by a socially considered animal pack to keep you company. the funny part is people say you have to live to suffer and no one ever talks like this. well shit, I’m twenty three and born into suffering and swelled and dwelled in and around it. how I wonder what a treasure trove of pretty and painful pictures must your mind carry daily.