White.
The world is white.
It is full of different shades of white.
Is the world white?
Some days I feel as though the world is black, but that may just be the darkest shade of white.
Black.
I know the world has dark days, but that is all they are.
Days.
Twenty-four hours pass and the world transforms into grey.
Grey is a color of the new world that will replace the old.
A dingy, broken place becomes just a little bit brighter.
I know someday this world will be such a light grey, it will once again return to its former glory.
When that day arrives we can only hope the changing world has changed us as well to a new color.
The color of a blank slate.
The color of hope.
White.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 8:35 AM UTC
rainless morning, awoken by comforting delicate taps on my window
velvet curtains lifted and fragile opalescent feathers revealed
the hummingbird sings songs for you
and my heart flutters in time with the tune
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
The tree.
It’s waving at
me.
Calling
me.
Begging
me
to come out. Run away from
Here. This prison, holding me back from my
deepest
longing.
I hate it Here.
I need to go. I need to run away from
Here.
Run to
Him.
That tree…
I dream of the other tree.
The tree under which we promised with our
lips;
Promised that
Someday,
we will have each other, without having to
Hide.
Wait.
....Run.
But maybe,
if we want,
*we will run anyway.*
The tree keeps waving at me.
It hasn’t given up.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
i changed a £50 note
into pennys for you;
but you still want change.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
My poems hide in my morning cup of coffee.
In good hair days.
In nights without homework.
In the little victories of life.
My poems hide in board games while camping.
My poems hide in falling of a horse, but getting back on.
My poems hide in crazy and untraditional habits.
In rearranging and organizing my bedroom.
In summer trips to the emergency room.
In the dents, bruises, and scars that I seem to collect.
My poems hide in compliments from strangers.
My poems hide in the eyes of animals who have grown up alongside of me.
My poems hide in moments spent with my best friends.
In sleepovers in the motorhome outside my house.
In Tulip Time parades twirling my baton.
My poems hide in the embrace of a long-distance friend.
My poems hide in my parents, and in the times they are proud of me.
My poems hide in the memories I’ve made.
In mission trips where 9-Square and hacky-sack are the main pastimes.
In seashell hunting on a clean, white beach.
In being a queen in the eighth grade show.
My poems hide in the trips that I take.
In the adventures I have in ordinary settings.
In the twenty four hour ride to Florida.
In the states I have yet to visit.
My poems hide in my relationship with God.
My poems hide in all the beautiful, trivial things around me.
My poems are constantly hiding, waiting, begging to be discovered.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
This building is so new, and yet there are already
spills on the ceiling.
How could something so pure, so full of potential, have
spills on the ceiling?
This baffles me.
If the people inside wanted to ruin the beauty and the goodness of this place, they would spill on the floor, the carpet, or even the walls but they would never
spill on the ceiling.
How could this happen?
We did nothing wrong!
These
spills on the ceiling
are staring me down, daring me to run, to give up.
But I will stand my ground
because I know that
Someday,
these
spills on the ceiling
will come crashing down. And though it will hurt, there will finally be a way out, through the hole that appeared where the
spills on the ceiling
had been.
And we can run away, where the spills can never
hurt us
again.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC