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Kieran Mar 2019
If you ride the wind,
Or at least motor yourself,
On a schooner out to ten pound island,
You may have the luxury of meeting Mooch.
He is the seagull who likes Cheetos.
Life for Mooch is simple,
All he has to do is sit on the arm of Owen,
The boy who pulls the sails
Or Captain Harold,
The man who built the boat,
And eat enough Cheetos to stuff his throat.
He never tells any of his friends,
For fear of missing out on Cheetos.
Oh, to be a seagull.
Oh, to mooch off of others
And still be loved.
Written about a trip in Gloucester harbor on a schooner.
Kieran Mar 2019
A wondering brain is a true sign of intelligence,
For this is a brain that discovers.
A wandering brain is a true sign of elegance,
For this is a brain that recovers
From internal battle of triumph and vengeance
Armed with only a pen for a sword,
From arguments started in only a sentence,
Pursuits with little reward.
I have worked hard to possess this mind
For crafted ideas and daydreams pursued
This entertainment leaves the present behind,
And my own little world is renewed.
But back to reality my brain must go,
As I lasso ideas up like cattle
For a brain running free where ideas flow
Is best used towards rules it can rattle.

So when minds build a world in fits full of passion,
Know that problems are solved in a similar fashion
I wrote this sonnet for AL Lit. It is not my favorite.
Kieran Mar 2019
Remember that
From far away
Acne looks like freckles
And grossly feminine hips
Are just curves

Remember that
To strangers you are nothing
But your looks are everything
And hair is just hair
And twins are just sisters

Remember how
When you were six
The names of different trucks
And dinosaurs
Seemed so very important

Remember how
When you were sixteen
The names you gave yourself
And others
Seemed so very important

When you are sixty
That to someone else acne
Is no different than freckles
And your name is so very important
Kieran Mar 2019
When my sister sits on the train
She loves people watching
And she watches the murals go by
Like sunsets and rises
Of new days
My sister does not dwell on the tracks
When we walk to the train.
They terrify her
She runs past them,
She is anxious and evening and morning.
The train is a path to the next day
I have never seen someone dwell
On the train tracks
Waiting for a train to come
To dissolve the path to the next day
And leave them dead
But I wonder
If that one who passed yesterday
Was once terrified of train tracks
And if they ever rode the train
Before there were murals
On a path to the next day.

— The End —