When we were children
we danced in imagination for hours
never having a firm grip on reality
but loosely holding some strands
no one stopped us
we ran wild
claiming the woods as our own
marking it with sitting logs
and home made paths
enduring the snow and mud
never will I forget our smultronställe

Weeping silently
between sobs I write an email,
which I will never send
it will grow old in the pile of drafts
that grows everyday
all to the same person,
who will continue
to ask me why
I don’t send him emails
an I will never have the right answer
maybe I’m scared
of judgment
but he will continue to ask

Is thirteen too young
to write with abandon
to publish work
to thirst for new words
to gaze with no purpose
to get lost in your own head
am I to young for poetry

Dear Teacher
I know you want no recognition
for your kindness,
but for all you did
you deserve
the poetry
and the praise
because when no one else cared,
you did.
my debt is immeasurable
thank you.

we are the late night dreamers
we are the cast down faces
we are the thinkers
we are the forgotten tarnished souls,
with too many scars for acceptance
we are the fighters,
who rally the war cries
we lose battles,
with other selves
and forget who we are

we are people
we are human,
sometimes we need
to be reminded of that

13 years on the planet
and I can’t get it right
the personality
the ****** expressions
the life
I can’t get it right
maybe I never will

As I found empty space beside me
I reached for loneliness
I found a hand
but no solace I receive
instead the cold
and ****** hand of the other me
when we embraced I felt a chill
not from wind or water
instead it rippled through my mind
making itself at home
forgetting the boundaries
I had set before
yet still hand and hand we walk me and the other