HeartQuake

It seems like I can't go long without finding myself hopelessly crushed out on some girl at school. More often than not, these girls are either already spoken for, not interested in me (aren't they all?), or both.

For once, the girl I like appears not to qualify for any of the above. Of course, I've been wrong before. If you remember the last time a crush inspired a poem, I later discovered she had a boyfriend, to whom she's since become engaged. Well, that made it easy to move on from her.

I suspect I'll be wrong about this girl too, because this aligning of the stars, as it were, feels a little too perfect. Either she won't want to be my girlfriend, or my parents will interfere with our relationship if it even begins, or...something, anything, could dash all my hopes and dreams again.

Before that happens, though, I'm going to put my thoughts down as another poem. She may never see it, but maybe someday...



First crush is obvious.
But when is it first love?
When they love you back?

In which case, I've still not had my first love.

Trust me when I say
I'm a lovesick moron.

You could see that for yourself anytime I opened my mouth.

I spout off half-formed garbage.
Even if it's fully formed, it's trash.
Or I shovel in tasty trash.
You're the one who said you wanted street tacos.
Next chance I got, I blew seven bucks on three street tacos.
Messy, meaty, spicy belly bombs, they were.
Of course I tried to play it cool for you
Even as I dripped in sweat.

I'd have shared them with you.
That was my idea all along.
But as luck would have it, you couldn't enjoy them.
The day before, you were sick.
You couldn't come to class.
You were still sick that day,
And you had to present an essay.
Creative nonfiction.
And worst of all? You didn't get the chance to present that day.

But I had my way of making you feel better.
When I dropped my umpteenth joke
About being Andrew Garfield's secret twin,
You complained you had no celebrity lookalike.

I was quick to say, "What about Grant Gustin's girlfriend?"
And I showed you her picture
As she held the man's lethally adorable dog.
(One of them, anyway.)

Your response: "What are you, crazy?
I don't look like her!"

"What?"

"She's a-a-a 10!
I'm maybe a 6 or 7!
Look at this woman! She's gorgeous!
I'd date her!"

My thoughts, I didn't air them.
I should have - you'd probably have appreciated my wit.

"Yeah, so? I'd date Grant Gustin given half a chance.
Hashtag #ManCrush, and it's not even Monday.
But the point is,
I
think
YOU
are beautiful."

I didn't say that.

But I hope I warmed your heart anyway.

Just like you warmed mine by saying,
"At least I know I'm kind of Grant Gustin's type."

Which is good for me because the more I can look like Gustin,
The better.

Does that mean I'm your type?
If so, I'd be surprised.
In our class alone, there are plenty of "types" to go around.

There's the skinny, chain-smoking Greek anarchist
With all the ink.
There's the baby-faced dude always wearing blue scrubs
Like he stepped off the set of Scrubs.
There's the tall-haired guy with the glasses and the Vulcan eyebrows.
Calling Tom Keen...

And then there's the guy with whom you have
What could be the start of a verbal slap-slap-kiss relationship.
He's a funny guy, and undeniably handsomer than I will ever be,
But sometimes I think he digs too hard
Under your fingernails.
Also, he's so...old.
Parks and Rec rules say the age difference between you and him
Would be too creepy.

But remember one of the other essays we workshopped?
All that woman's first few lovers were "types."
"The Right One" wasn't a type.
I wanna be your Right One.
Would I be so lucky as to find mine in you
If you were my first real love?

I have to wonder.
Especially because of how much you look like
The female lead in my book.
My passion project.
Not a total, spot-on resemblance,
But more than any other non-famous person I've ever seen.
(If it helps,
Know the woman I had in mind was Chloe Bennet.
Daisy Johnson, you know.)

As spunky as you are,
I doubt you're as sparky as Fionna Lee.
Your hands aren't as warm as hers.
But then again,
I only know from the one time you casually brushed my bare arm
The one day it was warm enough for me to go
"Sun's out, guns out"
Before the end of tanktop season.
You wanted to prove you were cold under the A/C.

Maybe you don't have Fionna's fire.

But maybe you have Daisy's Inhuman Quake skills?
In which case,
Could I be your sparky Sparkplug?
Or, even better, your burning-heart Ghost Rider?
(Hey, don't hate. I ship 'em.)
If you didn't know,
I'm the weird boy who shipped himself with Daisy in his fanfic.
Himself as an Inhuman with blood magic.
HeartQuake, perhaps?

(Hmm. That could also make a good ship name for us, LOL.)

Ironic that I would be the fire in our potential relationship.
Sure, I was born under a fire sign in the heart of summer.
But I've long identified more with ice.

Or maybe you're the ice.

I don't know anything anymore.

But I know one thing.
That creative nonfiction class of ours?
You've counted up your demons and shown them to us all.
And then some.
You told me a secret you wish you didn't know.

I feel horrible for not responding in kind.
The best way to do this for me
Would be for me to show you my books.
We could both psychoanalyze me that way.

But then the ending.
I promise, I wrote that long before I met you.

And then we could meet up somewhere.
Anywhere.
Except my place.
My parents won't approve. They never do.
They can't stand the thought of me having a life.
Especially a love life.
Nothing to do with you, I swear.

But at your place? We could Netflix. And chill.
Literally, of course.
And maybe, eventually, figuratively too.
Last night, I dreamed of something in between
Those two extremes.
Maybe you could introduce me to Daredevil
And finally let me see
If I get cuddling right when I write.

Let me be your five-ten, 180-pound teddy bear.

I really like you.
Please show me how good we could be together.

Lady Smith

For the umpteenth time in my life, I've found myself crushed out on a beautiful and unattainable woman. (Well, maybe not so unattainable, but given my perfect undateability...) And in this case, I've felt the need to express myself about it through poetry. Though this may be an angsty practice, I still hope you Pinecones, at least, approve of my latest piece of work, the title of which is not meant to reflect any real names. I hereby present my latest lovesick geekboy poem: "Lady Smith."



Like Stiles, I've fallen for a lovely strawberry blonde.
Like Lydia, she's a unique character indeed.

She studies the same subjects I do in school,
But not for the same reasons.
She wants to put her English-major skills to work
As a teacher, like many of our fellows.
For now, she works in a metalwork place,
A modern-day blacksmith's shop.
Hence my secret nickname for her...

"Lady Smith."

While she doesn't get to do much metalwork
(Because her boss is fettered by outdated sexism
And treats her like the SSR treats Agent Carter),
She still knows her way around a welding torch.
She wants to teach?
Maybe someday she'll teach me to weld.
I doubt I'd get much use out of that particular skill.
But still, wouldn't it be cool?
Fire and metal, all together.

There's what sets us apart.
She has plans for her future.
Legitimate, practical, focused.
As for me?
When I grow up, I'll be a starving writer
But only if I get to make my own way
And those who say they know better
Stop interfering with every aspect of my life.
After all, it's not work if you enjoy it.
Practicality just isn't my forte, I'm afraid.

Then there's the distance between us
On this earthly plane.
Twice a week, we share two classes in a row.
Four hours in all.
Outside that time, though, we live an hour apart
When the traffic's good.
It's not like either of us will ever have a chance
To drive to the other one's house,
Pick the other one up,
And go to the movies or dinner
Or a concert, likely my first.

Which, frankly, sucks.

After all, part of the reason why I've been single all my life
Is because I've never liked a girl my parents would approve of.
My parents would like Lady Smith.
It's rare that I've felt this way for someone about whom
I wouldn't be afraid to bring home.
A real Gwen to my Peter.
An Allison to my Scott.
A Fionna to my Alex.
An Evan to my Jay.

And she's got great taste in pop culture,
A major plus for me.
Already she's motivated me to try something new
With a lovely, intricate winged logo.
She knows not my fascination with wings and flight.
She knows not the titanic attack she's waged on my heart.

Best of all, we're both tired of where we live.
It's the weather. Her town's too hot.
Mine is what Goldilocks would call "just right,"
But I call "just wrong."
Wherever she goes,
She could bring her future teaching credentials.

She wants to move north.
Anywhere north.
So do I, because far in the northern wastelands
Lies a storied place where I can potentially meet my goals.
I could write the magical stories of archers and speedsters
And zombies and fallen angels
And survivors of the apocalypse.

Together, we could achieve so much.
Now, there's just one problem...
As much as I've learned about her already,
I don't know if she's free
To test the waters with me.
Or if she even wants to try
With one as inexperienced as I.

Dare I ask her out?

Cage

It's been a couple of years since I wrote this poem - which got me extra credit in my poetry class way back in spring 2014. That's a time I just wanna remember so much (especially 'cause it's when the world was first graced with the presence of the Ghost Stories album from Coldplay and The Amazing Spider-Man 2), even if I was in a bit of a dark place at the time. And because I'm feeling like I'm in a dark place tonight (even with the aid of The Peanuts Movie), I've decided to share my old poem with you guys to see if it helps me feel better. It probably will - usually, it does.

So here's my work, called "Cage."


Would you keep a cat in a cage?
Not all the time.
Not if you don't want him to get fat
And useless and lazy.
Kitty needs his playtime
So he can stay cute and cuddly.

Would you keep a wolf in a cage?
Maybe, if he were tame.
Maybe he can be trained
To chase squirrels from your apple tree.
But can he ever be truly happy
Living in comfortable captivity?

Would you keep a cobra in a cage?
Could be for research.
Could be to see if you could make
A less dangerous beast.
Just know that you run the risk
Of getting venom slung your way.

Would you keep a human in a cage?
Only if he deserved it.
Only if it would keep the world safe
From his different personality.
But what if his crime is nothing more
Than being a misfit?

There's a reason why the expression is
"Pacing like an animal in a cage."
You are controlling a soul
Yearning to be let free.
Maybe he needs a little leash.
Would you give the human some slack?