Stopping by the Woods With no regard for property right, I stumbled through the woods one night, Was miserable and all alone; I wanted only to get home. My horse was cold and so was I, But dollar signs were in my eye; The public can love nothing more Than #poems about the forest floor, A coat of snow upon the leaves, And some old man who now perceives, Some “truth” about the lives we lead, Perhaps some warning they must heed. I left that god-forsaken wood But had ideas that were good But couldn’t rhyme the last two lines, But couldn’t rhyme the last two lines. (Written for a school assignment.)

What It's Like To Relapse First it's just some nice, gentle tugging. It feels good, you tell yourself, and you're not actually pulling. You go about your business. And as you work, your free hand keeps tugging, ever so slowly, you pull just a little harder, but it's okay. You're not losing any hair. It's fiiiine, you tell yourself, and you add just a bit more pressure. I haven't pulled for weeks! You tell yourself as a sharp poke at your scalp marks the separation of hair from your head. I'm stressed! I deserve it! You focus on your work, barely noticing how your idle left hand continues to tug. You glance away from your book and notice for the first time the scattering of fine hairs across your desk. Suddenly, images of ghostly pale, bald scalp flash across your mind's eye, and you pull on your hat, grab your little toys to fiddle with, keep your hands busy, resist the urge, and when your hand reaches up, the hat is there to stop it. It's okay, you tell yourself. At least you stopped pulling. We're working to fix this. But as you return to your work, your scalp burns with sharp phantom pains at the scene of the crime, and the sight of that first dime-sized bald spot, white as bone, flashes through your head again. You miss ponytails. You remember how much you loved ponytails. No- you never really appreciated ponytails much. But now, now you miss them. You would wear a ponytail every day if you could. You think about your future, when the hair has grown out. One day you'll wake up and it will be long enough to pull back in a ponytail or a bun. One day you will look normal again without strategic parting. It's a discouraging thought that every day you don't pull is a day closer to that goal but every day you give in is weeks in the wrong direction, but c'est la vie. You pulled yourself into this mess, and you have to deal with it to the end.

A New Coonskin Cap Beneath the starry sky and bright full moon, Out of the forest wandered a raccoon. He toppled bins of trash in search of food, The hid to watch the chaos that ensued. The street awoke at sunrise and they found Their neatly order trash cans on the ground. They met that evening to discuss the fate Of the pest who had attacked their real estate. "We have to rid the world of this here pest!" Announced a man. His neighbors acquiesced. "I have a cunning plan! Let's set a trap! I call the skin! I'll make a coonskin cap." That night the 'coon emerged to stage his heist. He saw a golden steak and was enticed To pounce upon a cleverly hidden door. The omnivorous villain was no more.

"I'm tired of falling up the Penrose steps" -The Wombats

By the way if you like spoken word and are looking for music, check out Scroobius Pip. He does spoken word over hip hop beats and he's pretty cool... so if that sounds interesting you should totally check him out.