I don't know how much more
I can find trust ignoring the lore
That I keep on writing til my fingers are sore

This strange heavy book
with an even stranger look
that a stranger once took

I want to think
that it is full of insightful ink
giving me good reasons to always stay close to the brink

But when my heart grows fonder
today when I catch myself, ponder
my mind only recklessly starts to wonder

And I've been reckless before
my heart and soul given to a false poet who calls me a *****
it tinted my deepest thoughts, it might be blue forevermore

I'm an expert on overthinking
still can't help but drinking
Wonderland's poisons up til I'm shrinking

If I could only say
that on some distant day
I'd learned my lesson not to pray

For you can never know
maybe it's only the gardener, just a poet for show
beware of what he might sow

The poet examines her work
leafs through the crumpled papers
watching handwriting change
from entry to entry
sometimes within poems
as if emotion dictates scrawl-
lighthanded, looping, or harsh and flat

She stops on a few
drawn in by memory
or lines like dreams
where she imagined sleepless nights
or the end of a life
anything her mind could imagine
fleshed out with the fluidity of a stream

The words had always been in
her brain. It is impossible to know
if they would have disappeared
with nowhere to go
if she hadn’t guided her pen to paper
everyday, writing about whatever
or whomever. Like the sketch artist

she has gotten better everyday
the words appearing quicker and quicker.
This might be due to English class
it’s hard to say
regardless she has grown-
like a tree budding in Spring
learning everything has a purpose


The poet is not just a poet
she catches snippets from novels-
the dialogue or introduction or
internal stream of consciousness
clanking around her brain
She once wrote a fairytale
about a boy who spoke to trees

All of them are precious-
they are pieces of her soul
spread out on lined paper
calling out for a life that imagines,
wonders, feels free,
does not stand still-
floats on the breeze like the eagle

She has learned a thing or two
from Sylvia Plath:
the good stuff
the quality of dissonant language
the stanza-length-decision
Before she would write whatever
sounded nice- she might still

The poet, satisfied, closes the journal
imagining that one day
her poems would reach into the
minds of the world- gently
drawing out dreams-
inspiring words like she has been inspired
And she closes her eyes with an exhale

Swollen eyes, dark and deep,
Hollow pits from lack of sleep.
Rolling down her porcelain cheek,
A single tear, helpless and meek.
Downturned lips kept tightly shut,
Holding back thoughts and words that cut.

Bitten nails wrapped into fists,
Battle wounds curve round her wrists,
Hate and shame across her skin,
She learnt to hide it, she learnt to fit in.
Insecurities lurk beneath tattered clothes,
A world of secrets that no one knows.

The looking glass shows her broken, afraid,
And to herself this is how she’s portrayed,
But to lens and to eye this girl cannot be seen,
To the world she appears as any other teen.
Surrounded by friends she laughs loud and smiles wide,
So no one will know the pain she suffers inside.

Tears for you will not be shed,
Thoughts of you are buried and dead,
For there is another that you call your own,
While I, envy-wrought, stand alone.

My heart, to you, will now be closed,
And feelings no longer will be exposed,
For now another holds your adoration,
While I, unsuccessful, suppress frustration.

If this were a contest, the victor you'd be,
And I clearly beaten, by you and by she,
But life is no game, as I've sorely found,
And by your emotions and past you are bound.

Though I must admit, upon my discovery
Of your new flame, there was no recovery
For my heart; it had shattered already,
But I pulled myself up, and with voice unsteady,
Swore to remove you from my life and my mind.
It's done. Behind. To you I am blind.