There are hills here.
I'm driving over the hills here.
I hit 90 miles-per-hour here.
All that is,
is me and the road here.
On the other side of here is there.
There are no hills there.
I am home there.
I am at rest there.
But while I am here
I will always wonder
if I will ever get there.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
The airwaves live in the day.
What they whisper,
I cannot say,
but what I know
is that when they go
their message will live on in my head.
And what's in my head
should not be said
and when the night ends
all that will be found
is a life I could not fit my arms around.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
Do you remember that morning?
Do you remember the silk scarf of the breeze?
How it carried the remains of the fire?
I knelt in the chilled shade of the garden,
black soil memorizing the curve of my knees,
ashes tickling my cheeks
and burning the back of my mouth.
The pods felt like fleece in my hands,
so small when compared to the size of yours
as they cracked open a pod longer than my palm.
You explained to me how the peas,
perfect and small and round and nestled together
were just like you and I: two peas in a pod.
Do you remember how those same hands,
rougher than rope,
lifted me to sit of your shoulders?
They lifted me higher than the burnt ladders
in your shed ever could.
I clutched your shoulders,
just as burnt as your shed and shrieked.
My fingers twisted in your silk sand hair,
yours laced loosely around my skinny ankles.
You never carried me like that again,
you never again held my hands in yours,
you never came back home.
The shed's ashes danced on the wind
just as you danced out of my life.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
The pen was an extension of her hand.
The line between skin
and dull plastic disappeared.
Words bled from the ballpoint,
her own blood poured out on the page
She filled page after page,
stanzas, epics, novels.
She ran out of paper.
She ran out of ink.
She ran out of words.
Her pen bled dry
and it would not breathe her words.
Instead, they were trapped in her head,
gathering dust with neglect, no way to connect.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
I surrender the battle,
But dare not surrender the war.
I will not let go of my dreams.
I have borne too many
Bruises and run too far to
Give up. All I want is to
Feel the sun the way I want
To feel it and feel how I
Want to feel. Without your look
Of disdain burning deep in
My eyes, making me feel much
Smaller than I deserve to
Feel. I will fight the shame you
Give me. I will continue
To fight and I will win in
The end. This is my life.
Live your own.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
I live on misery street
With misery homes
And misery rooms
And misery men
Making misery memories
With their misery mistresses
To forget their misery lives
And their misery jobs
With their misery bosses
And misery coworkers
Working to get their misery pay
So they can feed their misery kids
So they can focus at misery school
And get misery grades
So they can have misery lives of their own.
I live on misery street
Where misery isn't misery at all.
Misery is routine.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
I'm a UFO in this city
Unidentifiably bright
A spark in this desert night
Setting me apart from this war
Of society.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
I Am Sorry
For All The Poems
I Have Not Read.
I Think It Was
The Spacing.
Or Perhaps
The Title.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
And all we knew
was
that love does
not echo
.
.
.
but only a faint
(and desperate
and frail
and vain
and despairingly thin)
whisper
into the loudest
silence of all.
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC
New Year's Eve party.
With the popular kids.
That you don't know well.
But your boyfriend's going,
and you need to go too.
(for a New Year's kiss,
of course.)
Your favorite pair of jeans
because they are easy to dance in.
Your best floral tank top
because it's brand new
(and it's cold out, so you can
have an excuse to wear his jacket.)
Coral blush
because it looks good with
your skintone.
Purple eyeliner
because it makes your eyes pop.
And french manicure,
(your very first one!)
Done by your older sister,
aided with scotch tape
for the tips.
(It makes your hands look pretty,
and official,
like your best friends mom.)
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC