played a rigged game
of solitaire missing
            the Queen of Hearts
from his deck,
            and therefore never
once, not one time, won.
          
But, he continued shuffling on-
           with hope his luck could change
and  just one time win this game.

It was noted, by all who saw
           him, shuffling alone, bereft,
that never once, not one time,
           did he ever cheat.
He was destined to
           always play this
rigged game,
honestly.

From horizon to horizon
stretch flowers
waving, trumpetting
refracting brazenly, dazzling

as children, blinded,
fumble through,
coughing on pollen
drowning in nectar
deafened by the buzz of fat, sated insects

brutally and thoughtlessly robbed of the chance
to find the startling beauty
of the solitary blossom
on the wasteland.

I'm a ghost,
Something you can't fathom.
I walk around these halls
Hoping to find a cure..

It's there,
I know it is.
I've heard legends,stories,myths you tell little kids
"It can be cured," you said

It's all in my pretty little head
There are no shadows
No black,dark things
Lurking. Waiting. Plotting my demise
It's all in my mind.

I'm just a ghost
Roaming these halls
Waiting. Watching.
For the cut to become a scar.

Deep breath in
Deep breath out
Plaster a head-turning smile on your lips
Build up your perfect façade
I am strong
No you are not
I am fine
No you are not
I can handle it
No you cannot
Don't think about it
Think about it
Don't cry
Cry
I am-
no
you
are
*NOT!

I wrote a poem for my English class and my teacher said he didn't like it.

I wasn't mad because I got a bad grade, I was mad because what if I wasn't strong enough to look past his opinion and keep writing? What if that one negative comment made me quit altogether and never share a single word again?

What if he ruined my future because he couldn't look past his idea of what a poem should be?

A poem does not have to rhyme or end with closure or even make sense to everyone who reads it.

A poem simply has to reach part of someone's soul who had no idea that these were the words they had been waiting to hear and these were the words that were meant to save them.

This is what a poem is, not a grade from a teacher or a rhyme in a book. A poem is a method of coping and a way to understand the world with ease.

I wrote a poem for my English class and my teacher said he didn't like it. But I am stronger than he thinks, and I will continue to write poems that he does not like and I will continue to love them in spite of his opinion.

We ran naked in our winter clothes
thinking all the while we were dressed.

When the juice hit our throats
we hid behind some leaves.

Lost in the dark forest.
Banished from the garden.