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Kate Willis Jul 2018
Forgetting is the hardest
part of losing you -
but I’ll continue to jump rivers and
climb mountains for a chance
to see you again
and engulf my world
with your tilted grin.
Kate Willis Oct 2016
I’m dead
But at the same time
I’m not.

This anxiety
Has taken over my life for the worst.
I can’t seem to escape it no matter
How had I try.

So now I sit here
In my 12x18 room
And think
About how my life used to be.
Kate Willis Feb 2017
Do you

Sitting alone

My breath

Throat closed

Eyes quivering

Hands shaking

Muscles tight

Eyebrows furrowed

Nightmares exposed.

Do you
Kate Willis Mar 2016
Somber eyes
Fastened mouth
Broken fingers
As I stare out my bedroom window at the sky-
At an unidentifiable moon that seems to faintly glow behind its shadow.
Unknown to the rest of space,
Unknown to me.
This is a continuation, or the beginning (not middle) of "Ending to a Poem about Existence"
Kate Willis Feb 2016

Filled with the dead trees
From our backyard.
It’s shell hard, yet soft, protective, gentle.
Covered in a picture, words,
And a name
That brands it as theirs.

The insides:
Torn because of anger
And disgust.
And all it can do,
Is bleed it’s dry
Black ink.

We take for granted,
These small,
Yet large pieces of art
The ones that tell us all about their life
And about the ones who created them.

They sit, quietly,
Across the desk,
Lined up with their brothers
They have been read.
Kate Willis Mar 2016
Once upon a time
a long time ago
in a land far away
there lived a princess,
a damsel in distress;
with a hope
that one day
her life would be made whole
with a kiss from a prince.

A prince,
a hero  of sorts.
He’s fought dragons and
monsters and
He defended his kingdom
with all his might
with the hope
that his life would be made whole
with a perfect
damsel in distress.

At the center of the tower,
the one in which the princess lives
is a man,
of an unfortunate, horrible
And just like the princess,
and the prince,
the antagonist, the
is just as cliché as the rest
with a hope
That he will rule the kingdom.

The one guarding the girl,
the damsel in distress,
is the monster -
the dragon,
the one from childhood stories.
He shoots fire from his mouth
the color of blood
and he defends
the princess with all his might,
with a hope that one day
he’ll taste the prince’s blood.
Because all fairytales are cliché, right?
Kate Willis Sep 2017
Even in the harrowing hours of the night,
the witching hour, you may say
I stand in an open field in nothing more than a scarf and hat
awaiting the world to come crashing down with fire in her hands.
My ******* perk from hiding,
a warm and loving embrace from the cool winter air,
and the hair on the back of my neck raises with intent on reaching the sky,
I stare forward at the midnight black - awake and so full of stars.
Kate Willis Jan 2016
This is a story about falling in love.
About finding that one person in your life that makes you feel like you, not like someone trying to be you.
About that one person, that when they enter the room, makes your heart hit a brick wall going one-hundred miles an hour.
That one human being that makes the tiny peach fuzz on your arm stand on end whenever their name leaves your lips,
and makes your face as red as a jewelry store garnet whenever your eyes meet.
That one person that makes your voice stutter, your tongue hold itself at the back of your mouth even when they’re standing all the way across the room, unaware of your reaction to their presence.
About the one person that when you say their name, you can’t help but smile like you never have before.
This is a story about finding your soul mate.
About finding that one person that you can’t live without: that if you go a single day without seeing them, it feels like a year in a different country.
About that one person that makes you feel intoxicated, high, full of life when they’re around.
That one person that causes your hands to shake uncontrollably when they’re near.
This is a story about falling in love… with someone that may not love you back.
Kate Willis Apr 2016
When I went to the park today
I heard the birds singing
and the water moving-
ever so softly against the wind.
The squirrels,
their erratic tails and fur
bounded across trees and
ate nuts as they stared
at the funny looking squirrels below them.
The ones with the shorts and the shirts on,
and the ones with the long hair colored so strangely.
Those squirrels didn’t quite look like squirrels at all.
They drove strange boats and paddled in the water,
and a couple of those strange squirrels
seemed to have large furry companions
that definitely didn’t look like squirrels.
And yet whenever they come near
they act like they know the squirrels
they take photos and videos
and make memes, funny pictures
and snapchat videos of them.
But they aren’t.
They aren’t squirrels at all.
They’re humans,
yet some think they are squirrels.
I went to the state park, Strouds, today, and saw a bunch of squirrels that kept staring at people. Decided to write a poem about them.
Kate Willis May 2016
Those red lips,
forged by MAC
are but only one color
in the endless stream of
existing shades.
A random thought that came through my head during a car ride through the city.
Kate Willis Apr 2016
Why are we so
with the liquid paint
that we slather on our
morning after morning?

We stroll the isles of
Fifty shades of Nudes
to find the shade
that makes us look like
Painted glass
Porcelain dolls,
and Fake.

Why are we so obsessed with
Maybelline and
Covergirl and
The brands that contour
our faces
and create an illusion
a canvas
Over-painted by

Beauty costs
Clear skin.
But it brings this sense of
false hope that
we can accept ourselves
after we put on this paint
and call it beauty.

We see Photoshop,
the blurred lines,
the perfect wing,
and the rosy shade of blush
that seems perfectly
Too perfect to be real
Too perfect to be real.

And yet we strive,
for this unattainable beauty.
The **** we see on
drives us crazy
because no matter how hard we try
no matter how much we waste
we can’t seem to get that
contour right
and that wing sharp
and that mascara clump-less
and that lipstick perfect.

And even though
we cannot seem to get it right,
we buy
we strive
to be the perfect shade of perfection.
Because we’re obsessed.
I edited this again; added and deleted some things.
Kate Willis Feb 2018
I found Fear on a street corner
with his hands stuck in his pockets
and a whistle between his teeth.
We waited for the light to switch,
for the two of us to go our separate ways
and never meet again, that is until one of us mourns the other.
But as we stood there I clicked my jaw back into place
And nodded up at the large red hand holding us in place.
“This thing’ll never change, will it?” I offered informal banter,
yet Fear turned his shoulder to me and continued
the shrill notes between his two front teeth.

After a moment Fear craned his neck,
the whistling stopped.
“I don’t talk to strangers,” he replied quickly
and returned his gaze to the street light above. I shuffled
my feet and pondered
about stepping into traffic
letting the cars sweep me into the air and take me far away from here.

I had one foot on the dark pavement –
“I wouldn’t do that,” his voice came through the whistling
but the sound never ceased. He didn’t
turn, but through the back of his head I could feel his eyes on me,
tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
“Getting run over hurts –
getting run over by ten cars hurts worse,” he said.

I stood in silence but didn’t move my foot from the pavement.
“For someone who doesn’t talk to strangers,
you have a lot of life advice,” I huffed and brought my foot back to the sidewalk.
Fear’s shoulders tensed, his hoodie scrunched, the cowl brought up over his head.
In one quick movement, he moved on the ball of his foot to face me,
but only his silhouette came through the shadowed fabric
And he said to me,
“why else would I be here?”
As if he were some sort of god sent
down to protect me?
To keep me from stepping into traffic and–

“You have a lot of nerve -,”
but he was gone and the light had turned, a brisk person in place
instead of the hand.
My neck cracked as I searched for him but
Fear was gone.

And I was left alone with three seconds on the timer before I’d be frozen
in place again with only one foot ahead or behind.
So, I shuffled across the street toward
a destination unknown, and found myself
at the mercy of my own actions.
I never saw Fear again.
Kate Willis Apr 2016
Does that moon,
the one that casts a faint glow against my side of the Earth
know that it exists?
As I look into the eyes of that large rock in the sky,
I wonder if it knows I exist.
Does it know that I look up at it at night,
that I stare and write poetry about it,
that I wonder about it’s own conscious?
Kate Willis Jan 2016
And then,
As the moon glowed in the distance,
casting my shadow against the nearest wall
and the rain continued to pitter patter against my roof,
creating soft, iridescent music to my ears,
and the street light began to flicker,
placing a darkened shadow against my sullen face,
I began to realize
that our existence,
all high and mighty that it is,
isn't so bright and fabulous after all.
And that we are all just a tiny blip
in the existence of time.
Kate Willis Mar 2016
As dark and dreary
it stands alone at night -
hoping for solace.
This is my first attempt at a Haiku.
Kate Willis Feb 2016
It’s the color of the sun
The one with rays that beat down
And warms your skin on a bright
Summer day.

It’s the daisy garden,
The one just outside your front door;
It’s scent, so fresh and sweet
Fills your nostrils with the smell of summer.

And the sweet, sharp wheat
The ones that make you sneeze
And yet you can’t help
But drag your fingers lightly against their flesh
And take in their musty scent.

Or the shutters of your neighbor’s cottage,
The ones with the soft pastel that stands out among
The white siding
And the pale door

It’s the bow in your daughter’s hair,
The one that she fought
But you insisted,
Because it’s beautiful
The way she looks in that hue.

And it’s the color of your happiness,
The one that shows through the bright smile
That stretches across your face
And bleeds golden joy.
I love the idea of describing color without specifically telling the color within the poem until the end. Refer to "Red" for the first installment of this series.
Kate Willis Jan 2016
You stare at me through the cage walls,

Your eyes full of wonder

And heart filled with love.

Your hands hit the glass that separates me from you,

Or you from me.

And you stare

Like I’m some kind of zoo animal.

You’ve dreamed all your life, since you were three

To see me in my natural habitat,

But since my old home is all gone,




Your dreams have changed.

You paid ten dollars,

But what is one Alexander Hamilton

Compared to the experience

To come see me in action,

Licking my paws and ears

As I sit here, bored

In a cage that resembles nothing but a fake home made of plastic and

Fake rocks.

There is a show at noon.

I’ll have to go to a separate cage, one with a view from above.

And you and a hundred others

Will watch in amazement while I chase raw meat that’s dragged around a pole.

You laughed and say it’s funny, awesome, how fast I am.

You should have seen me when I was home.

I was better.

I chased real food.

It wouldn't be so bad

Except for the fact that your world seems to romanticize the idea

That I would want to be stared at

To have you stare at me through a glass wall

While I sit there,

In my cage


Out of my natural mind.

But, it's all for your entertainment, right?

I mean, all you paid was a single Alexander Hamilton.

And now,

You stand there after I’m back in my original cage.

You stare

On the other side of that glass wall,

The one that protects you from me,

Or me from you.

And you stare

Like I’m some kind of zoo animal.

— The End —