I imagine a perfect Christmas waking up to the sunshine on your heavy eyelids.
I imagine a perfect Christmas racing to the tree, slipping and sliding in your warm fuzzy slippers, to see how many bundles surrounded the tree.
I imagine a perfect Christmas, a Christmas unlike mine.
Now, I’m not saying I had a terrible Christmas, but it was untraditional to say the least.
As a child, I felt so special.
I had one of those blessings from an event the exact opposite of that.
I had two Christmases, one with my mother and one with my father.
Christmas Eve was always my mother’s and Christmas Day was always my father’s.
When I was little, my mom would tell me that she called Santa every year to tell him to come to my grandmas house, where we did presents, a night early.
Imagine, as a child, thinking that you were so incredibly special that THE Santa Clause, came to your house an ENTIRE night early.
I actually felt like the queen.
My mother and I had Christmas on Christmas Eve at night, and let me tell you, seeing the presents under the tree and have to wait TWELVE HOURS to open them, that was a child’s hell.
Then when I awoke in the morning, I had to get up and leave to go to my father’s.
My father got every Christmas, which I never thought was fair, but what do kids know?
Right?
So yes I had two Christmases
So yes I got ‘more’ presents,
But now as I grow up
I miss the perfect Christmas
I imagine this perfect Christmas.
A Normal Christmas.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
I miss my best friend
I miss giggling
I miss arts and crafts
I miss netflix watching
I miss my best friend
Letting go of your favorite balloon as a child was heartbreaking but you almost felt at peace knowing it was going up and going to reach the stars one day
Maybe I need to think that
Why does high school need to tear apart good friendships and create groups of plastics
Best Friend is a not a label i give out lightly
So how do i rip it from someone that i’ve superglued it on to and it’s sit for 4 years
I cannot make their decisions
I cannot choose their actions
All I can do is sit and pray
And it kills me
I see her change
I see she is not like before
I see that she doesn’t really care
I see that group rubbing off on her like sharp cheddar on a grader
Collecting all of think mold inside of her
She become so full of it she forgets to clean herself off.
She forgets her roots
Her tree is flourishing with fruits and leaves that the people around her validate her for
She forgets her roots that i loved
I cannot cut her down
I cannot turn her into a stump
The only thing I can do it sit along her trunk and wait to see
Wait to see if when all her fruits falls down she remembers
Wait to see if my balloon comes floating down
Wait to see if that superglue held on
Wait to see if my best friend comes back
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
She was determined and depressed
She was motivational and melancholy
She was happy and heart broken
All wrapped with a bright red bow on top.
She had the love of her life
She had the world's most fabulous mother
She had the most inspirational best friend ever, strong and fighting the odds.
She had this smile of light and a life to be lived.
Why did her brain have to tell her otherwise?
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC
Beaten and abused
Used and broken time after time again
Everytime I rupture there is this pain of becoming new again
As soon as I feel I am worthy
As soon as I feel I am sharp
I become broken again
The two sides of me become worn and tattered
As people use me to correct the mistakes they have made.
They are the one who have made the mistake, yet I pay for it.
No matter the bite marks I get, or the hands that have explicitly touch me.
Nobody keeps me for long
I become thrown on the ground
Walked all over
Though one might pick me up, I always end up back on harsh, hard flooring.
Looking up to the heavens
I grow continually weary as more and more use me.
I can feel myself shrinking into this nothingness.
They sometimes try to even disguise me to make me new again
Added accessories to me to cover up my flaws.
But under it all I am fatigued and overworked.
But under it all I still show the burnt yellow and pink top
But under it all I am still myself
For I am just a pencil.
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
She looked at me and asked,
Tell me about the sun in the sky
Tell me how it feels to have the rays peek through your eyes and into your body.
Tell me how the sunlight warms your skin and kisses your hair.
I looked at her, confused and concerned.
Yet she gave me this look in her eyes, like a stubborn bull, and she would not let me back down. This women of this radiance. Who dress falls on her like it was made for her. Everyone of those flowers stitched for her, but the lines seamless. I feel like I would picture her running through a field barefooted, for no reason than because she can.
A women who I look at to be.
I blinked back, acknowledging her stare but needing time to think.
Not much of a talker, I press my lips together, breathe and let my introvert go.
Well - I begin
The sun is just a huge star right? I look to her for validation but her eyes trance me and more words spill out of me.
And you can ‘buy’ stars and name them after people right? More looking, and my head follows my eyes to the ground.
I always thought that whoever gets the sun named after them is a pretty lucky fellow.
I continue with no hesitation-
The sun is warm tea
Not too hot, such as fresh off the kettle
And not too cold, like when sitting on the balcony all morning.
It has the flawless recipe. The perfect amount of the spice, honey and sugar flowing through you. Down your throat like a peaceful waterfall, not rambunctious and over powering, but a steady flow of heavy water kissing the surface of the lake before it descends into it’s body.
I feel tears rolling down my cheek, and I don’t question why, because I begin to feel a warm daisy in my stomach, slowing blossoming, giving me a reason to continue on.
The sun is a child’s smile.
It’s not hurtful like wind
Or like adults.
The nature made the sun, and the sun made nature.
They move in rhythm, never focused on anything but themselves.
But no, not in a selfish way
More of an understanding way.
Toddlers leaping giggling at the only thing to be described as nothing at all.
I pause, knowing that it’s not all sunny everyday.
Breathe.
The sun is, not always there.
The sun is sometimes covered behind gray condensation, as if it’s playing peek-a-boo with a toddler.
I never understood how toddlers just thought something was gone when it was covered,
But with the sun it makes perfect sense.
Even on the cloudy days I must remember, the sun is a flower in the sky
A sign of peace
A sign of happiness
A sign of hope that may not always be visible, but you know it will come back one day, every day.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
When does love stop and become not-love?
How does someone hold your frail hand, look into your eyes, to tell you they love you in sickness and in health, making the biggest promise of their life?
How do you know when that ‘one’ is ‘the one’?
When does flipping pancakes in love become cold coffee left on the counter from the one who slept on the couch that night?
When did a promise become a suggestion?
And that suggestion became a chore?
And the chore became more?
Once you were drowning in love, head over heels, now upside-down drowning in your tears over a promise,
a suggestion,
a chore,
How does one go through something so painful and the arms they once ran into and no longer open, but clenched with the blood stains from your aching heart.
The one that you told all your secrets too,
The one that loves you...
loved you…
How can anybody really stay in love?
When did that lust, turned to love, turned to loved.
You feel that your world is flipped,
but I promise you, you will see the horizon again.
You will smile as beautiful as you did on your wedding day
You will laugh as you did on your third glass of champagne on your honeymoon
You will feel as loved as you did in the beginning.
One day, you’ll be okay.
And it’s okay if it’s not today.
It’s okay to have little footsteps waddle up to you and ask, “Mommy, why are you crying?”
You are her superhero, but superheros are okay to cry.
Even superman flies low on some days, but you can do this.
Wipe the sorrow away, though the scars may stay the war is over and the peace has begun
Stand brave warrior, you have a whole army behind you, ready to catch you when you fall and push you up on your feet when you can’t do it yourself.
Because when you stand strong on the mountain of tears and fears, with your baby girl in your arms,
You will see the horizon again.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
Anybody that is anybody knows the most fabulous and trendy accessory are socks.
Crew, No-Show, Knee high.
The ever versatile socks are the most righteous thing.
The Ancient Greeks may have had some dark ages, but they were the first people that we know of that thought,
Hey shoes are cool, but what if we made them more flexible and soft.
Thus the mighty sock was born.
Now there are some of you who may think completely different about socks.
Maybe they are boring, or annoying.
You are feeling the Albert Einstein side of socks. (He didn’t wear socks because he didn’t see the point, tragic huh?)
Well friends, though you may be genius you are completely idiotic.
Socks are little hugs wrapped around your feet. All day. They are like butterfly kisses that mae you smile every time you look down. What is better than that?
The answer is nothing.
Queen Freaking Elizabeth loved socks and went to the inventor of the knitting machine (which was originally created to make socks) to have custom socks made.
Not only are socks just incredibly wonderful and stylish, they were invented to help save the world… from sticky feet.
Socks help prevent your human sweat drops from seeping into your shoes, making a perfect nesting place for the teenage mutant ninja turtles. Disgusing
In conclusion, nothing can or ever will be more awe founding or perfect than socks
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
Home
House
A home may be a new place everyday
A house is a place you live in
A home is made of love
A house is made of concrete and steel
A home is where coffee rings stain father’s old coffee table
A home is when mother would yell at him for not using a coaster, but kissing him after her furrowed brow disintegrates
A house is where marbled countertops are so clean it looks as no life is here
A house is where slammed doors almost drown out the yelling that came before it.
A home is where the goldfish has lived for 2 years, and nobody knows how, literally I think he’s a wizard fish
A home is where dog hair is not lint rolled because that baby will be rubbing all over it as soon as it’s cleaned.
A house is where no pets rome because they are messy
A house is where messy is bad
A home is where you may not always be alright
A home is where it’s okay to not be alright. There will always be tissues and arms waiting for you
A house is a painted smile
A home's walls full of messy fingerprints
A house reeks of new paint
A home is a couple twirling in the kitchen, love burning in their eyes, after 20 years of marriage
A house is a arm around a waist that looks like it doesn’t belong
*A home is made of love
A house is made of concrete and steel*
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
Hands in my pea coat pockets I shuffle down 8th avenue looking down. Whenever a pair of shoes that have seem to be worn in adventure passes I lift my head to stop them.
Excuse me, Excuse me. I ask the intriguing shoes.
I’m either met with a puzzled look, an impatience look , or a sympathetic look. Sometimes there is a look of all three
Looking at the owner of said shoes I boldly ask,Do you have a story?
Here, I can usually guess their response based on one of the three looks they gave me.
A look of puzzled usually leads to more confusion on their face expressed in lines created in their face by a furrowed brow and scrunched nose.
A look of impatience usually leads to a middle finger, and a cold shoulder met with an even faster pace, or a phrase along the lines of ****** Freak and more ****** phrases that I’m sure you can guess. (My favorite so far has been ****** now that’s a story)
With a look of sympathy I’m sometimes given a quick sorry followed by a cold shoulder (see example 2), sometimes a Sorry, what? Due to their actual interest in what I have to say. These looks lead to the best stories.
One rainy day I was met with lady bug rain boots scuffed around the bottom, yet still shining a bright red that I guess wasn’t even that beautiful on the store shelf, and my guess a size 2. Looking up I find wide green eyes staring right back.
Now this was no look of the three I’ve experienced, it was a whole new look.
A look of curiosity, but not puzzled.
A look of eagerness, not impatient.
A look of care, not sympathy.
And so many more looks hidden in those big green eyes that seem to hold the world.
Though I was aware of the tiny feet, I was mildly surprise when I was met with those green eyes at an almost 2 foot level.
Excuse me, excuse me, Do you have a story?
The ladybug boots with green eyes smiled at me.
Everyone has a story, but I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
Walking in a forest of naked trees, stripped of their leaves too soon, shivering in the wind.
Cold soil beneath my curled toes seeming to pull me under.
Pulling me under to where I wish to be on these frigid days.
Maybe the earth will keep me warm because God knows I feel nothing but chill wind above it.
They tell me the orange bottles with white caps will harden the soil beneath me some days.
Hell some days I even convince myself that I’m actually going somewhere.
What a joke.
But the delusion can’t last for long.
One wrong step and I fall into a hole, deeper than the one before
I keep thinking I hit the lowest one until life goes so low I look up to see hell.
Why do the doctors think locking me up will help me.
Why do the doctor think if they chain me to ceiling the ground will stop pulling.
Because it ******* doesn’t.
It stretches you.
It pulls you.
It yanks your body, your mind, in a thousand directions.
All while they tell you to focus on them.
They put a mirror in front of your ******* face.
Reminding you that you won’t ever be normal.
Look at your skin. Scars make you a warrior right?
Well why am I never a veteran
I’m a soldier every day
In a constant battle
With naked trees surrounding me
Making the cold soil beneath me
Seem warmer and warmer with each day
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC