They tell us to tie up the stars with our earlobes,
And say the only reason I'm not poetry is that
I try so hard to write prose;But the cons of finishing an assignment tally in somewherearound sleepless and confused.  When my fingers find the pulse in my temple,
My temple collapses into my brain.
I will burn my blood as incense becausemathis the language of the gods.  Maybe if I take baths in textbook paragraphs
And conjugate my life into a verb
I can draw a rabbit from my hat trick;
But it will probably look more like a stick figure.Paintnever listens to my choreography.

I want to begin feeling squeaky-clean
Like light-up tennis shoes in the hall after recess

I need you to leafplummet away from me
So I can pretend I'm a tree.
But the only person I can push off a building is my maroon sonnet asphyxiation brain.
The little girlintheartroom told me she was going to kill herself

And I went dial-tone-deaf
In an opera cacophony
And her phone wouldn't ring her phone wouldn't ring her phone wouldn't ring.

I keep my very best friends in a drawer but we don't talk anymore
And I tell people that all my knives
Are for butter and the sunrise
And try to act surprised when people point out bags under my eyes. This is high school, after all. Scratch my GPA into my skin againand again.My standards aren't standardized bybubbling in a test.I haven't used C in a while. The periodic table is missing the element of surprise.I'm surprised at how many equationsI've remembered to forget.