Today's a day to write a crappy poem that no one'll ever read.

It's a day to sit outside, stare at the clouds, and mope about the poem you just wrote; questioning whether these clouds were really meant for you or if they were meant for your…

I'm 18 years old, and I still don't know when I grew up: it's the summer after senior year and it's just about that time in early august when everyone starts saying goodbye. We all think that we'll see each other so many more times, that we'll go on a crazy road trip and visit all these colleges across the country, just to hang out and remember those high school days that…

I could step away from my life, and I could write for hours. I could give my life to the world, and maybe tomorrow I will... But today, I live. Today, I feel my emotions, I cry and scream and shout for joy with friends. Maybe tomorrow, I will give my life away in word after word, after word after word. But today, I live; you can join me if you wish.…

Do I dare push the big red button, that tells me, 'do not push'? Do I dare step on the grass, clothed in a, 'keep off grass' sign? Do I dare eat, from the tree that bears the older-than-sin command; 'do not eat this fruit'? Do I dare disobey? Do I dare to continue, the evolution of mankind? Do I dare write beyond the confines of the sixth sentence? Count.

I have a little quote taped to my writer's desk, "Life is actually really simple despite how much we writer's like to complicate it. All there is to it is laughter, and the pursuit of that laughter." Not sure who came up with it, it might have even been me in some of my younger days. Doesn't matter where it came from though, only matters that it's there and that it reminds…

"Goddammit mom!" He exclaims as he walks into his room, "Why do you always open my window?!" Even the ceiling has magically changed color by that yellow radioactive dust everyone calls pollen. He sneezes, and shuts the window, getting pollen all over his hand. He sneezes, and gets pollen up his nose while wiping away the snot. He sneezes, and sneezes, and sneezes, cursing…

I am walking alone on a road, with an eternity behind me and an eternity before me. I see see the footprints of others beside me; some forming, some being forgotten. There are times when I try to follow in these footprints. But I can never quite do so, and always end up in my own again. And you know what, I don't know where this road is going, nor do I really care to…

Sorry guys, I know you were something that I actually took time to write. This is more like a little piece of crap that I'm sitting at my computer of a toilet forcing out so I can say goodnight. Because I believe in sleeping, and I believe in dreaming; but also because I believe in saying goodnight. You see, saying goodnight is like sharing your dreams, and a dream that…

"Let the little birdy sing her song, or listen to her wailing from the grief." My little daughter read that in a poem once, and now she sings it to sweep up any little broken shard of silence she leaves lying around. And oh, does she sing it. God, her voice is something terrible, but I just let her keep on singing. It gives her something to do, keeps her from asking about…

So, umm, whatever happens to those in-between moments? You know, those moments where nothing really happens, and that we all forget the moment they pass? Do they cease to exist because we forget them? Do they even really exist in the first place? Well, I know they exist in the first place, 'cause I'm in one right now. I'm just wondering if this little moment in which I'm…

I have heard it whispered through cracked doors and cupped ears. I have heard it screamed from mountaintops and grave-like valleys. I have heard it rhymed with many another things, that never quite compare. I have heard it carelessly thrown around in utmost perfection, by self-proclaimed mutes. I have listened, and I have tried, but not succeeded, to write it down. I call…

Black ink tattoos the ancient skin of his LIterature degree, stretched upon the wall with a dusty shard of glass, planked by sanded plain black wood. He steps through his apartment door, whose cracked paint resembles the roadmap of his life: lots of streets going nowhere. His Timex bleeps its midnight chime while he makes himself a cup of tea, as it does every night after…

She looked right through me, pierced me with her graveyard eyes. A stare that transcended optical barriers and cautiously moved its lips, as if to whisper across a bustling world, "You are not alone." Time snail-crawled across our eye contact... But even snails do not crawl slowly enough. All too soon there was only a slimy residue and a memory left of the stare that fixed…