Sometimes I Don't Have Titles For Poems

I still have not forgiven the world for even the most pettiest of things. Rage is the fuel that spite holds on to. Is there a way out or through? I don’t think so.

It feels futile to write
when the world has a gaping hole
in the shape of empathy

I used to laugh at my teachers
when they would tell me that
the lack of imagination was the real problem

I could not imagine it so

The embers of a small fire in my heart
continue to smell like a dead ocean
A desert lost to tme
Friends who age twice as fast
Chemical burns in the soul

Maybe today the air will feel different
Maybe today I can gift my friends
the red sand sand and rocks
that burned at our feet
We would place them in an altar
and use them as sacrifice
instead of our parents hopes and dreams

Maybe this one time
A familiar voice calls my name
and I turn around so fast

That I am fifteen again
driving around in my parent’s van
that I stole
This time
as I drop my friends off at their homes
I get out and hug them
and tell them all the things
we needed to hear

That we are worthy of love
no matter if we earned it or nit
that hope lives in the small crevices
in our hands
the same ones that we used
to throw punches, pull triggers,
and pointed accusatory fingers with
because we have all forgotten our ancestors
and replaced them with irony
and burning planet

How every history book we open
does not have the face of our grandparents
and that not matter how tough we act
it still hurts us that our parents do not tell us
they love us enough.

We would laugh at every time we thought
we could outsmart the desert
Its punishing heat
a hell on earth
How could anything survive out here?

And yet we did.