I'm listening to someone give up. Someone I knew—someone I liked. I'm listening... but still, I'm too late.

And in high school, people are always watching so there's always a reason to pose.

We didn't get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid I had no chance with you.

And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through ther empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.

Watching those guys pummel each other so no one would suspect them of being weak was too much for me. Their reputations were more important than their faces.

If you're angry, you don't have to write a poem dealing with the cause of your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead... write one. I know you're at least a little bit angry with me. And when you're done with your poem, decipher it as if you'd just found it printed in a textbook and know absolutely nothing about its author. The results can be amazing...and scary. But it's always cheaper than a therapist.

No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue. Yet we push it just the same.