Here’s to the girl who hates repetition.
Here’s to the eyes that always wander and
Here’s to the nights where she lived on a little longer.

Here’s to the skies that bloom with ambition
Here’s to the heart that races over the word no and
Here’s to the girl who never might know.

Here’s to the gun in her head, loaded with ammunition
Here’s trigger rusted with wear
Here’s to the heart strings yet to tear.

Here’s to the broken and shattered rendition,
From hells unbidden and noise unridden
Here’s to the girl who remains hidden

Here’s to the walls lit with a fiery ignition
Here’s to the times of late night fruition
Here’s to all that ****** repetition.

There's a huge bean bag in the corner
the color of rusted tree
and a white painted outline to hold two drawers
of colorful condoms next to the Keurig Machine.
Three circular winded fanciful lights strung above,
shedding semicircular splotches on the walls.
Looking out on the Brooklyn Bridge in the 1893
painted on in black and grey haunts.
There's a magnetic pillar to the left of the too-deep chairs
that at least are comfortable,
but no one has legs that long.
A magazine rack to the right lends a variety of color, from
Love Match to Lavender, it's a mismatch island.
Smells like plastic and a cold air, with a hint of college sweat.
And there's the squeaky roller chair full of business textbooks and drawings of pigeons and bitten fingernails and arms that lead to the edges of the paper.
Masked with worn All Star sketchers and three clocks ticking,
Long labored skies and horcruxes gathered round the edges.
Yet somehow with all the oddities combined,
it's safe and sound under the flag including.

Don’t expect me to say “I’m okay,”
because I started to go to therapy.

Don’t expect me to smile
because I stopped hurting myself.

Don’t expect me to heal
when I can’t go a day without the thought.

Don’t expect anything from me,
you’ll be greatly disappointed.

And don’t expect me to say thank you
when you stay,
I’m too selfish to say anything.

Or maybe I can’t talk, move my lips to form words,
haven’t you noticed?

And now that I’m here,
I can’t even cry without fear cradled next to the tears.
No, no crying for me. Not again.

Don’t expect me to leave my dorm,
When out there, I can’t hear their voices,
because somehow those who don’t know anything about me
make me the most comfortable.

Don’t expect me to say the truth “I’m empty and lost and emotionless and apathetic and so full of nothing, I don’t know how to break,”
because I go out from my dorm
or go to class or any of the clubs.

And expect me to say “I’m fine.”

There was a little bird I knew, clamoring on and on about the little things
Such as why we line leather with wool and why the sun moves round in circles
And how the boat floats on water.
Bright as her white feather, with eyes wide, taking in the world with
blatant skies filling her.

There was a little bird I knew, learning and pestering mentors and teacher
For the secrets of the earth. What lies underneath the dirt and rock? What holds us together?
Whispering winds to float away on, always too far horizon stars.
Long, fluttering, and dragging feather worn and torn away to her content,
and a disappointing mother saying, “why’d you pluck such beautiful feathers.”

There was a little bird, clawing for knowledge and wisdom from the elders
who said, “no, stay and fly around the same trees and make a nest, be content with this.”
and she did, saying, “I will be content with this.”
and she stayed under the dark canopies and hid away in her nest.

There is a little bird I know, silent and sullen in the reeking shadows
waiting under the leaves, through rain lashing and sunny vibrance
that never touched her feathers.
and her mother said, “why’d you turn your eyes dull. You had such beautiful eyes.”
Disapproving stares, distraught apathy, and cavernous hallways

with no ceilings and no beginnings. It started like
this.
       Brok
               en
sentences.

Broken can be repaired.
Can her eyes be bright again? Can the world shut up and
                                                                ­                            stop breaking?
Lies have clawed at her              L
                                              ­ B              U              
                                  ­           E                   F                   Eyes
                                               A              I
                                                ­    U    T             But did not turn them ugly.

But the lies made them             G      Y
                                             U       L
In the way that muck on white leather is distasteful and
how crimes on another are leeches between toes.
                                                                ­                                            And so the bird I knew,
                                  died.

Someone told me in English 254
"We don't give anything value without disaster"
and I found it to be true.
In American Society we label disaster
with monuments of metal and stone.
and then forget about the spaces between
trees
            and the wild open ranges.
And in class,
                         we moved on,
to talking about                                     fish and enjambment.

If I knew, maybe I’d say something,
Why I miss my cats more than my parents
Why I miss the teal walls of my room and the full sized bed
more than I miss my family.
Why I miss the green trees and ravine behind my house,
all I hear is a withering beeping outside my five story window.

This room is so small
and I have to bear it with another
and although she and I get along,
Alone is weighted with wondering when she’ll be back.

Home is more an empty house than a room full of family.
Home is less talk and more birdsong in the background.
Home is…

Not these tight corners and partying bellowing music down in room 809,
not the concrete walls painted white, or the lofted beds I can’t sit up straight.

Getting away from my family was easy,
and my friends hard.
Leaving was easy.
And wishing hard.

I feel, less independent,
there’s only so many places to walk.
No car to escape, nor a room either.

The closest I get is headphones and online friends.
And yet they are so far away.

Maybe I’ve read to many books,
Or maybe I was born unable to turn a blind eye.
But looking out at these issues I can’t fix,
most I can’t even name,
ingrained in my way of living,

…. how can I help? How can i pick up your pieces and set them back in place?

I can’t, all I can do is look on with haunted visions and
cherry picked blossoms.

People use ‘I can’ as if suddenly everything will change once you utter those two words.
That’s not how it works I’m afraid,
I tell empowerment groups and kids alike.

Maybe I’m horrifically pessimistic, calling myself a realist,
And there could be a reason, with what I’ve seen,
All the news we consume,
I couldn’t always ignore
the stories of deeds and people
highlighted in cheery cherry picked blossom lipstick.

Let’s not begin on the manipulation,
I wouldn’t want to bore you
with a million different and consistent stories.

Money donations make me feel important,
does that mean I’m only egotistical if I donate more?
What if I help out, build a park or walk down those crime scene lanes
with a hundred different people, demanding a constitutional right?

When I read, ‘equal protection of the laws’, and turn on my tv,
News station’s bias and political affiliation is not what I asked for.
And then they show me another crime to beget those simple words,
As if they are so complicated to understand by our nation’s leaders in court.

I can’t turn my eyes away, I don’t want too
Not from our history or our future, much less the present.
So, without speaking of these issues, after all, we hardly do that,
And when we do, it is bargained for and silenced, then…
Shall I present an idea?

I’ve not got a masters degree, nor a specialty in this or that, but love isn’t going to save us. Determination’s halfway there. But the humanity of it all always seems to fall away as time goes on.

This is all too much for today,
maybe I'll just...
read a book or write a poem.