You are like middle class meets star gazer
Your eyes on the sparkle in your dream but you don’t know if its found when you are sleeping or running through your always going, never ending life. Your responsibilities sky high, so much on your plate that you are forgetting that happy is already on your platter you just have to slow down to taste it. Wanted time wasted on the idea that success will bring you happiness. That money is where this is happenen… You are sometimes on the right side, spending time and care instead of money and pulled out hair.  Contemplating the weight of the wind, What spirit really means. Exploring where you begin and the universe ends .other times you are all kinds of, I don’t want to say wrong but not right … maybe left, left out of place, left behind your fast paced life, left wondering but not left to think out loud. Not left with feeling right.im not suggesting that you should run in circles but if right is right then take it. Hold on to your hopes and make it. If you feel like you fake it either quit or fake it tell you make it part of you. You said that you are always in your head, I think you are always in a hum, Seeing the connection in your life and always putting it together wrong. Maybe the stars are where it starts. Maybe they are a map that connects our life with our hearts. Maybe money is just paper, and people are too valuable to break down in such simple transaction. Perhaps middle class means nothing, just like money… because classifying people makes no since. That sentence a lot like money, so alike always boxing people in. you are a successes chaser, not knowing how you define the word. I am trying to give it a definition. But you may replace the word all together, reconfigure a new sentence. This is just a star gazers perspective, to someone who’s self-reflective, here’s just a perplexing statement about what success is. One star gazer to the next one, just let go a little and figure out this conundrum.

I feel like sumi ink running down a wet media paper
Like I’m getting ****** up into its fiber
Before I ever had the chance to make the right mark

I feel like a tear that has been wiped away
It pushed from a cheek to swift, in hope haste would make
Feelings wash away, before they have time to settle
Be recognized for their real self, their actual impact

I feel like a under developed painting that wants to be an original
But has been put under too much pressure
To feel free enough to make an original mark

I feel like a statement that wants be made
But only finds things that have earned titles as cliché

I feel like a book that has been put down and forgot before
You ever got to the good parts

I am a heart wrenching sob and tear streaked cheeks
I am a sumi ink layered in perfect complexity and visual texture
I am original, authentic,and the best book you haven’t read yet
I am full of good endings, beginnings and all in-betweens
I am, I will be, stop trying to rush the ending

Dear middle class friend
You have to know that I love you and know we come from difference
I am thank full for your existence and teaching me how to blend in
Find myself inside the lines of a different class
you take the time to teach me how I should act
You come from power I come from poverty
But I can mask, just change my cloths and vocabulary
Im educated and observant
Subservient to what you say
Speaking of your problems
How you hate the rain
How you over booked yourself
Should you go to the yurt or to the football game?
Not trying to undermine
To lessen your distress
Or infer you have a mistress
That money isn’t happiness
Just remember when you talk to me
You are forgetting who I am
Because of how I dress
Disguise myself to well I guess
Remember
I just found a place to live
Food is hard to find
My parents split
My siblings flail
Cancers killing someone else…
And you forget
That money isn’t mine
And I am short on time
My problems are different
I just can’t relate
I have never seen a yurt
Or seen a football game
Or been on stage
I don’t know what to say
Dear middle class companion
Thanks for offering to stand in
When I want to complain
But don’t feel bad
And take my hand
I try to feed me again.
I don’t need fixing, or sad eyes
Just try to sympathize
I know you don’t understand
We come from difference
I hope for acceptance
Maybe understaning
But I don’t know how to say
Ill never care as much as you
About such silly things.

when a frail skinny girl hold out her secrets. Just a note that reads" I just don't know why I am not beautiful, the thought of not being skinny or pretty enough is eating me alive"...  sends an echo of heartbreak and a calling. A calling that is answered from a deep place in me,  answering you are beautiful! In the loudest most assertive, complete, confident, life altering voice I scream from every cell in my body, you are a lovely creature! How awe struck this world must be that your feet have felt its existence. And that same voice now answers your calling, is assuring you that I love you. You want to know the depth, you want to know how I know. Its easy to answer because its a voice that rings, that is an alarm in every cell of my body, that goes off as the right question is met with an obvious right answer. Can you not hear it? I love you.

Letter to the boy who never writes inked words that spell out   I   love   you. But still his ink bleeds in ways I have never seen and it captivates the art inside me. The words them self may not be saying what I wish to hear but the portrait drawn in each letter is creating a beautiful big picture. I am glad you let a lovely spirit bring you to rainbows found in music that spills from your room. You see beauty everywhere and always point it out
I standing right beside you and  I can’t help but feel left out
So I see the fall and all you awes and then I look inside of me
Look hard
Alone and
Scrutinize myself
So here are something s
For between… just you and me

1)When I blush it may not be the subtle pastel you would choose,
But it blossoms on my cheek the color lovely. Crimson colored glasses show all my venerability, making me something authentic. And I like it most days. You can choose to hide your face, to look away but I love the way I am burning.You can't choose my pink or pick it.It is the color it is… well its authentic

2) I care about others to the point of it being a sickness. I have numb hands because anxiety acts in quickness, just like my reactions I am real, emotional and passionate. I see my beauty now and think you can’t have it. Even if I agree about all the other beauties you refuse to see me, and I am lovely, bright, I fit my hands just right, my legs are long and strong and remind me that my feet are my wind, a feather taking me to every place I have ever been and will be.


3) When you talk your words form poetry, but you can give up any time to get to know me, and I’m a piece of art. My colors are what words were made for. My beauty bending the conceptual understanding of language and a word itself. My eyes at any point in time saying more than your fingers ever could, slowly typing out word that beat out simple meaning. Tears fall from me heavy as bricks falling from a height, weighed down with the sorrow picked up through my life.

4) Im not bitter because you didn’t think I was hot. Because shallow boys make me their toy and they all want to play. And that makes me bitter and fules me with hate.  It was nice to find someone who cared a little more, who knew there were four letters to my name. who talked and shared interests. Only bitter now because you like my inside colors, but you didn’t think I was pretty enough to paint. And the deeper pool really was just vain. Tipping at the edge I am just pulled down the drain.

5) Is a secret. I use to hate my smile; my teeth are far from perfect. People were mean, you can say anything about it and I can say I have heard it. Red lipstick is my purple hard. Showing I made it through something mean and mad, perhaps I wish I hadntnt but I had and this is my prize. This is the honorable reminded I wear it with pride. Beaming, my red lips framing what had held me back from smiling for years. And I smile from ear to ear its beautiful.

6) A confession, I hate that you don’t see me, but I love what I see myself. I wish your hand writing wasn’t more appealing than the empty echo of what they tell.
So here is a letter to a boy, who writes in lovely scroll. Who couldn’t love me, if he knew me all. Simply said, I hope you find someone right, not me ever, not me tonight. Bitter without the sweet. To the boy who only writes but doesn't read, who expresses but just cant see, to the other lovely soul confused by all the color... I just needed to write you one last letter.

tingling. my fingers warn me
that anxiety is nibbling
that my heart is transforming
it beats then tweets
a bird locked in a rib cage
That is rapidly shrinking
feathers fall as wings beat fast
a cage that grips the bird at last
I gasp for air and feel the choke
my hands cover my mouth
I know that I will faint if i
let air in again
faster
faster
faster
until I feel the bird passing
my rib cage loosens grip
my hearbeat take
a sweet doves place
a little sad
and more worn then before
and I am forced to take this
Scared, torn and beaten *****
as a token that says life
can just be living sometimes

I look inside a mirror and see
frigid ice crystalize around an iris
Reflecting this coldness
chilling my spine and reminding me of loneliness
even when its taciturn pools
of tears sent ripples
laughter fled and long missed giggles
my eyes see winter
where they once saw
wildfire dancing
and doves sing songs

I look into the my hands
each fold of skin hiding secrets
every etched out finger print
like a deciphered  map
trying to take me to a place I haven’t been yet
perhaps 3D puzzle
that fingers haven’t fit yet
every short torn nail
every cuticle
looking for a space to fill
is as sad as the heart and eyes before them
I beat. I look. I feel
its all so hard right now
to be a living declaration
given word to life’s just living

I remember crying during lunch my senior year of high school
My math teacher’s eyebrows colliding turning one plane into a fractal image
He had sat there every day for nearly four years
Helping me struggle through an unreal number of numbers
Literaly and figuratively
And again and again the numbers on my math test said
You are less than average
You
Are
Stupid.

But behind the eyes of a determined math teacher
Never read, what my insecurities where screaming
Refusing to believe the numbers, I sought one thing
Some unspoken meaning
I almost found it the day of my graduation
I almost found it between my teacher’s eyebrows
Wearing it like a point of pride
I was the first of my family to hold
Such a light thing as a diploma
Instead of a heavy head
Weighed down by ******
It nodding under all the pressure
The first to feel the lightness of feather
Instead of a sixpack
A lame back, from manual labor
I was flying
College was my next undefeated feat
Again I let an institution tell me what I was
Test scores tell me what I should meet
Intelligent measured by something
That couldn’t understand its diversity
Trying to tell me I was less than average
When I was just an individual
Above a point of comparison
Excelling in conceptual understanding
Debating and good energy

I could construct social interaction
Like gold, I learn to read people
The power in my phone
I learned that it wasn’t the diploma that I should be proud of
Not the thing I sought after
Not what I would show my little sisters and brothers
To show them how to live better, how to be stronger
Burn brighter. Burn longer.
So here I am
Red faced and scared
spoken word
was hiding, but always there
in between my math teachers scrunched brow
Was the answer
I could have cheated if I had known how
If I knew what question that needed answered
Had realized it was never in his book
I should have listened to what I saw
Not to the math test I took
I
Am
Not
Stupid
I haven’t failed by choosing something outside of school
That I am not defined by the score
By numbers or lines
By this institutional rules
Test scores or even rhymes
I am not less than average
I just don’t average out
That power isn’t really in a piece of paper
Power is found in your words
And chosen behavior
That silence and insecurity
Means nothing really
The answer wasn’t in his book
It was in his look
And his persistence to prove
I
Am
Not
Stupid
He just wasn’t good enough with words to prove it.