Alumnus of Earth

Line Poetry, Party Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Questions, Thoughts

Pomp and Circumstance. 

On repeat for an hour, one of the most trying performances of high school. 

Dragging on and on forever for another to bask in. 

What if pomp and circumstance kept on going after our bodies decomposed? 

When the soul gets its diploma

And moves away from the little town they grew up with. 

Will it ever grow homesick of the solar system? 

Things do not die, but no graduation is the same. 

Sometimes we think they go too soon. 

But we don’t lose them after a funeral. 

They don’t become nonexistent, merely 

An Alumnus of Earth. 

Let it Die

Internal Poetry, love, Party Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Societal Poetry

I keep on changing.

The smudge of disappointment on my lips

Doesn’t rub off with water the way it used to.

It stays, lingering on my flannel like cigarette smoke in a

Lightless firepit.

I’ve fallen out of love with the ghosts around me,

I know I’m one of them still.

—–’s going to be out and gone,

But she was gone the moment I saw her.

Serendipity’s fury turned to sudden disappointment,

Friends sent us blind daggers through

“Setting an example” tunnel vision.

They’ve promised their recompense,

So I swallow my words and smile.

My stomach’s contents are filling with the latent breaths of anger

Less and less, they starve, unable to feast upon that which gives me energy.

Disappointment is a coated synapse.

I want this to turn me into a better person.

I want the person I fell for to be falling at a healthy mutuality,

But I can’t impose.

Keeping my distance, biding my time. Leaving my fingernails alone, they’re grown so tall.

Deep breath in, and out.

Hundreds of friends in sight,

There’s no shoulder to cry on.

This isn’t the first I’ve felt scared, alone, in crowds like this

And it won’t be the last.

All I can hope for is the day to turn tomorrow,

The karmic scales to replenish,

And for happiness to return.

Until then, I’ll keep practicing my patience.

A miserable skill to garner, until the miserable voice in your head dies of neglect.


Party Poetry, Poetry, Societal Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I feel like Harry Potter in his first potions class,

If the cauldrons were filled with Henny and Dr. Pepper.


The Flip flipped my shit,

Whip this lick to stiff whicks,

Chicks’ thicc,

Mick’s quick,

Shift lift and thrift spliffs

“Hey look it’s Fitz”


Hundreds of honeys and buddies like these whack catacombs,

Dulces and sweeties and rich baritones

In the zone, fusion dancing, prancing

It’s tone confusion glancing like France in

April, that’s my staple Jasmine Tea free,

Suckling maple from Yasmin’s knee, whee,

Hold it there the gun’s a BB,

Huns in a three-piece

Trying for world peace

Dying in whirled fleece.

Cashin’s the mission

That moon juice I’m missin

The dank’s got me flitting

Like dark politicians,

The mark of the Kishin,

Those ladies are kissing

The Fitzy is fitting

You know what you’re missing.


(Props and love to the buddies at the Flip who host and play such dank events. They’re magic. Some of this poetry is fictious, some of it isn’t! Regardless, it was a tight night.)