its not fair for the sky to be mean to the clouds for crying so much

its especially unfair because the sky cries every night too

silver sparkly tears washing off blue eyeshadow

but its ok when the sky does it because the sky pretty-cries

the clouds ugly cry

and thats not okay with the sky


its not fair that no one likes it when the clouds cry

because the clouds only cry because they are heavy

and want some of the weight to go away

the sky cries and everyone loves the sky

maybe because the sky is older

and can smile again when it is done

because the sky cries to get what it wants


but the clouds dont know why they cry

they cant help it

they are so heavy and it hurts so much to carry all the raindrops

and the sky does not care

the sky says, “but you look so light and fluffy

so i think you are not heavy at all

i think you just cry because you want people to talk about you

and you know unless you cry

no one talks about the clouds”


the clouds try to hold their raindrops in now

even though it hurts

and they are very heavy

because they live in the sky and they must

do what the sky says

when the sky is watching


but of course they cant hold it all

and the sky gets mad when they let out all the raindrops they were holding

so the clouds try to explain “I’m sorry

the rain was heavy and i had to let it go”

and the sky does not listen

the sky says “you are so dramatic

you do not have to cry so much

over something so small”

but the clouds do not understand

because the clouds have never had a reason to cry

not a big one or a small one

they just do


so the clouds start holding more and more and more raindrops

they dont let themselves have thunderstorms anymore

it hurts so bad

so

so

so

bad

and the sky still does not seem to understand that

the clouds just want to not be heavy


the clouds wonder if the sky will miss them when they are gone


they suppose that the sky will be glad to be rid of the rain


and then the clouds go away forever.

The voice of an angel,
that is sunset.
Clouds dancing with the sky,
that is sunset.
Nothing touchable by man,
that is sunset
sweet, completely pure,
that is sunset

A lover of music,
is my sunset.
A life full of friends,
is my sunset.
Never judging,
always loving.
That is my sunset.

What is yours?

I love her.

With her dark brunette hair,
always down over her shoulders in cascading waves,
Or ******* behind her head so that I can see her eyes.

Oh, her eyes.
Bright and alluring and sweet.
Alight with a smile that compares only to the one on her lips.

And her lips.
Always tilted up in a bashful smile.
And one side always goes higher than the other,
But I don't tell her because I think it's cute, and I don't want her to stop.

Someday she'll kiss me.
Because I'll never be brave enough to try myself.
And the lips I love so much will touch mine.

I love her

For her hair and her eyes and her lips and her mind,
Which is logical, but with a hint of romance and a vast imagination,
An artistic eye and a sweet, flustered girl just beside that.

She's perfect.

And I love her.

I love her so much.

I can't eat Ramen.
Which *****, cuz I love Ramen!
The broth is so good!


Curley fries are great.
They're better than normal fries.
Nobody knows why.


DVD's aren't dead.
I like the commentary.
That's why I buy them.


Thesauruses help,
But is using them cheating?
I will never know.


Okay, I'm done now.
Seriously, you can go.
They're just dumb haikus!

if it hurts
you’re doing it right.

graceful arms, girls.

pointed feet.

plié, plié…
first position, long legs, extend your necks- yes, that’s right.





i just wanna look like a ballerina again.

Summer friends share watermelon slices
while the water laps the shore,
while sea-salt air dries on their lips.

And both of them think that “Days
like these, with salt and sugar on our lips,
make for the best kinds of kisses.”

So summer friends share watermelon slices
while they dance in the sand, and
around each other just enough, and too much.

And both of them think that “this day is almost
perfect - and it would be if she were
holding me.”

When summer friends run out of watermelon slices,
they lay on the beach,
quietly wishing and wanting.

And both of them think that “I wish
she looked at me the way she’s looking at those clouds.”
With their fingertips inches apart.

Summer friends lay amongst watermelon rinds
while water laps the shore,
while sea-salt air dries on their lips

And both of them think that-

Both of them say that
“I love you.”

there is no blood in my veins,
only air.
little cells, little storms,
little words that echo in the cavities that are my chest,
my heart,
my lungs.
my head is not in the clouds,
it is the clouds,
and it rains, it is cold,
it is full of dust and heavy, heavy atmosphere.

any other day I’d hide from the storm
but today I stand with arms outstretched
and head tilted towards the sky,
catching tears that I can’t make
wishing for lighting to strike
to fill my
empty
empty
veins.

what did I wish for
at 11:11?

A million things, maybe, but none of them real.
They were barely wishes at all, just half-baked
whispers on this dead tongue.

what wish came true
at 11:11?

None of them, I think, for all of them
were said out loud. My mouth can only hold them
for so long before it bursts.

who heard me speak
at 11:11?

No one, I think, or everyone.
I can’t be sure (if it matters) who
was still awake.

“I wish,” I said, but I never finished.

what voice wished their half-wishes
at 11:11,
and was quiet again at 11:12.

I live life on the end of a yo-yo string.

One moment high in the sky,
My strings neatly wrapped away where they can’t get tangled, where they can’t get beaten and battered and torn by open air,

The next moment spinning so fast I can’t tell what’s real, toes brushing puddles I come closer to with every swing, strings on display for the world to see until I can find it in me to wrap it all up again.
And I know that one day my strings will wear thin, they will snap, and I will sink.

One day, when I go down, I will not come back up.

Have I succeeded?
As I sit in the kitchen,
Surrounded by sensation and temptation,
Bread and milk and cheese and
Everything I’ve tried to leave
Behind and I don’t eat,
Sipping on the mug of tea in front of me,
Ignoring pangs of hunger, telling me
I can’t go on much longer...
Have I succeeded?

You wake up beside her every morning,
She draws your curtains and blocks the sun, says,
“Sleep a moment more” and wraps herself
Around your waist, painted red fingernails
Dig into your sides and you suddenly find
You can’t see through the salt in your eyes.

Her tongue tangles with your lashes as she
Licks the salt away, saying,
“Shh, babe, they can’t know I’m here.”
She peppers your face with pecks,
Less like loving caress and more like bites but
To tell her “No,” has proved futile time and time again.

She stands behind you in the mirror, runs her hands
Over your body, leaving ice in the wake of her fingers,
Pinching your hips and thighs while she sighs,
“Oh, my light,
Why don’t you listen to me more?”

She catches your lips with every bite of breakfast,
Saying, “No, dearest, don’t give in,”
Kisses you senseless, but you just can’t tell if you’re euphoric
Or insane.

The taste of chocolate,
A knife in the gut,
It’s all the same to her.
So now you’re bleeding out on the floor,
And you wish that metallic taste really was a blade,
At least to swallow that would bring darkness instead of shame.
“The blood in your mouth has a calorie count,”
So you know it won’t be long until she takes that too.

I wanna hear my stomach collapse
Rumbling like screams echoing in an empty tavern
I want stalactite ribs
And stick-man fingers,
Thighs the size of a child’s wrist and
I don’t care what I have to do
To get it

I am obsessed.
Addicted to falling,
Falling numbers,
Falling deeper into disorder, disrepair,
Falling for a girl named Ana
Who tells me I can have everything that I want
For easy daily payments of pain and despair.

But, it feels oh so good to be hungry.
Aches and pains make me high,
And sure, it’s scary knowing I could die but
At this point…
Maybe I’d be okay with that if I get to live one day
At 100 pounds.

What is wrong with me?

Today I wrote a poem
It took me five minutes
It was short,
A little choppy,
And pretty irrational,
But people really seemed to like it.
It got so many comments
And an encouraging amount of favorites.

So I decided to write another one.

This one took me two days
I poured my heart and soul into it,
And then set it free to start it’s life of internet fame
Only this time,
The poem got two likes
And no comments.

I guess people don’t like looking at my soul
That’s okay.
I’ll keep putting it on display anyway
Because maybe someone will like it
And then maybe they’ll comment on it

I don’t like waiting, but I will
Because I know that souls are hard to look at
When I take five minutes
To jot down a thought,
It’s so simple
But my heart and soul are much more complicated.

So take your time
Like it or don’t
But I’ll be happy, because
The most genuine form of writing is when you write to yourself.

you cover up your fragile skin,
butterfly rashes that snake
their way down your ribs,
paper-thin and streaked with
veins, you call your blood ‘parasite.’

if you were to be believed, you thought that meant
that your pain was to be performed.
to not touch you was a punishment,
but still, you question her insistence
to gnaw at your skin.

bruises that are pretty,
insisted upon you like the ******* leeches
she promises will purge your blood,
your parasite.
“Oh, how lovely it is to be owned.”

there was nothing to be said for teeth,
except “please,” silent stop strangled under your tongue,
but there is something to be said
for this warmth, now,
the first ‘now’ that was never ‘then.’

you do not taste blood when they kiss you.
parasitic blooms on the fragile,
flaking skin of your throat heal, slowly,
when let to rest
under the quiet askance of trust.

maybe that’s what this is.
lately, you’ve learned that you do not enjoy being bitten,
what you loved was giving blood.
lately, you’ve learned that there really are people
who will not ask you to bleed.

Poets.
Ha!
We’re crazy!
Crazy, convoluted, and confused.

I’m a poet.
Yep!
I’m crazy!
My head is so full of random ideas,
So full of thinks that have never been heard,
Thoughts that have never been put into words.

You’re a poet?
Of course you’re crazy!
You write with a depth that cannot be measured
So deep you can’t see the bottom.

Oh, poets.
Yes, we’re crazy!
We’re crazy, convoluted, and confused.

As poets,
Yes, we know we’re crazy
And random and misunderstood

Hey, poets.
Embrace the crazy!
We’re crazy and crazy is good.

I think too much.
I care too deeply.
I text too often.
I laugh too hard,
For fear of them having to fret
As much I do.
Such is the nature of a worrier.

Hello.
I am smiling.
I am smiling because I am writing.

Hello.
I am frowning.
I am frowning because my wifi won't connect.

Hello.
I am laughing.
I am laughing because of a bad joke my sister made.

Hello.
I am crying.
I am crying because I was betrayed by someone I thought was my friend.

Hello.
I am shouting.
I am shouting because someone insulted me, and I will not stand for it.

Hello.
I am wondering.
I am wondering who I am, and if maybe my poems are a part of that.

Hello.
What is your name?
I don't know mine, yet.
I can see snippets of it. Letters. Pieces.

Hello.
I am somebody who smiles, frowns, laughs, cries, shouts, and wonders.
That's all I know right now.
But you know what they say-
You learn something new every day.

Hello, little one
Do you remember me?
I'm sure you wouldn't,
To you, I'm not even a memory.

While you run around
reckless and carefree,
I'm sure you never once
Let your mind stray to what would be.

You never thought it would turn out like this.
I know you didn't.
But they're not lying to you when they tell you
you'll change.

Please don't cry, little one.
Don't be afraid of me.
This change can be as blissful
As it is terrifying.

The world is scary.
You'll learn that soon.
But it's so easy for you to forget
How wonderful it can be, too.

Though you think you're Peter Pan,
You can't just fly away to Neverland.
This life is going to push you,
Until you've had enough.

But you'll keep pushing back, little one.
Don't be afraid to grow up.

Tantalizing taste,
Sweet, salivating scent.
Delicately delectable
Apple pie.

Rivers, eyes, pools of blood, dense and hollow all at once,
Colors shifting like embers, burning like flame, the blue kind,
Deceptively cool in appearance but in truth,
Truth,
The most deadly of anything.

Can’t cry, can’t smile, can’t feel,
Can’t be real,
But can’t be dead because if I were
Maybe it wouldn’t be so ******* cold,
But to hell with the idea that I’m alive,
That’s *******
Just like everything else they said and don’t you *******
DARE
Ask me who “they” are

Because

They are the directors of the last movie that caused me to panic
They are the boy cracking his ******* knuckles in class and overloading my senses
They are the dark and the shadows that I’m scared of
They are the light that I want more than anything and then
They become the tall ******* in second grade who held your books over your head, just out of reach of your chubby little hands

Except the “books” just out of my reach aren’t stories now, they’re lightbulbs
Which is the most boring thing ever to a kid
But when you grow up and the lightbulbs go out and you reach for a replacement and it’s not there
You’re even more scared of the dark than you were when you were 5.
So you do the thing where you lay really still and wait for the sun to come up but hey, surprise surprise,
It never ******* does, and you forget there was ever a time when you weren’t laying still in the dark.
Hell, you forget there was even a sun in the first place.

And yeah, maybe it sounds like I’m making the whole world out to be against me but sometimes
It just feels like it is,
Maybe they didn’t mean to do it but the road to hell is paved with good intentions and
At this point my backpack is full of ******* cement so
I guess I’m to blame too,
Paving my own path to hell which would be poetic if the heat would stop burning
all
my
*******
nerves

away

When you tell me that you love me,
I can see right through your lies
And while you comfort and assure me,
There are still tears in my eyes

I can tell when I’m not wanted
I don’t believe you mean it
When you tell me that you need me,
I don’t have the will to comprehend it

I don’t want to believe you hate me,
But it’s all that I can glean
And so I smile and let you hate me,
Hiding my eyes, their salty sheen.

And I’m trying to believe you,
Please believe that much is true,
And I need you, I need you to need me,
But hey, what can you do?

My face is caked
With pigment, baked
In glaring lights, and I,
Can't wait.

My stomach churns,
Adrenaline
Is coursing through my veins,
but then

"5 minutes!"
Someone shouts, my head
perks up immeditely
And when

They beckon fervently
For me
And I cannot contain
My glee

Step out onto polished wood
Look out into the aisles
See faces staring up at you,
You're here to make them smile

I have the power to make them laugh,
To make them shout or cry,
And my nervousness is gone now that
I know their hearts are mine.

darling girl,

I wish you’d kiss me with your
honeysuckle lips, sun-sweetened and
chapped,

I’d let you **** me softly
in the quiet glow of the street lamps
that halo-frame your hair.

Heartbeats in the wind
on days like this, with you,
echo in the gap between us,

I watch you when I lose my words,
and your smile brings them back,
honeyed and harmonic.

If ever in this life I’m granted
wishes one, two, three,
they’d all belong to you,

darling girl.

I am from black cats and silly smiles,
From senseless sisters and lazy Sundays
I am from coarse yellow grass
That brushes my legs and tickles my feet

I am from chlorine pools and fast flowing rivers
Sunny days and stinging nettles.
I am from tall trees and ripped jeans
Barbie band-aids and tireless energy.

I am from warm afternoons,
Bike rides and best friends,
Whole orchestras and squeaky recorders
I am from a place that is never silent
Pattering feet and clicking paws.
I am from snow days and sled rides,
Pillow forts and fragrant pines

I am from puppy dogs and Christmas gifts.
Spilled drinks and soaked towels.
Cool winter nights, curled up with a book,
Overstuffed sofas and Friday movie nights.

I am from daddy-longlegs
And chasing butterflies
Cicadas
Clinging to my shirt,
And caterpillars
Crawling up my arm.

I am from lemonade stands
And (I must admit) overpriced craft sales
Cozy blankets,
And widescreen TV’s.

I am from stories and pictures,
Scissors and glue,
Colossal messes and unstoppable laughter
Setting suns and shining stars
New days and new beginnings.

Memories I will forever cherish,
And new ones made every day.
Arguments,
Agreements,
Opposites,
And perfect matches.

Photographs that make me giggle,
Smile,
Cringe,
And remember.

My home is not a place.
I have made a home in my memories.
A place I can go whenever I want to smile.
I am from everywhere,
I am from anywhere,
And this is the place I call home.

This sentence is false.
Now, if this sentence were to be false,
Then it would be true.
If it were to be true,
Then it would be false
Truly, this sentence is false.
False, this sentence is true.
You can ponder it
And ponder it
For the rest of your life,
But at the end of your life,
It will ring no more true,
And it will read no more false.

I would tell you that your smile shines
like sunrise in the east.
But alas, they just cannot compare
When you shine twice as bright, at least.

She teeters on the cliffside,
She scans the ground below.
She searches the wind like a chapter book,
For what, she doesn’t know.

With one foot off the edge, she stands,
She looks around and sighs.
She thumbs through pages, slits her fingers,
Bleeds through ink and lies.

Tipping off the edge, she knows
She doesn’t have the guts
To live a life where she’s never free
From the sting of papercuts.

Oh boy, time for another poem.
What should I write about?
The meaning of life?
Some deep metaphor?

Eh.
Scratch that.
I'm not deep.
Oh sure, I totally pretend to be,
But I'm not deep.

I like reading other people's deep thoughts
It's fun to think about stuff like that.
But I'm not deep.

I'm silly and bubbly and a little shallow.
Sometimes I'm sad, so I write about that,
Or sometimes I'm anxious, so I write about that,
But it's all skin-deep.
And I don't go deeper.

It almost feels like I've been leading everyone on.
Because a lot of the time,
I sound deep.
But I'm not deep.

I'm just a kid,
Barely starting high school,
Whose biggest concern in life is currently an overdue Chinese project.
Yeah... I'm not deep.

Sorry about that, everybody!
I know I try to sound deep,
But really.
I'm not deep.

:)

You tell me that I am strange.
I laugh too loudly,
I talk too much.
You tell me I’m not normal.
I wear different clothes,
I speak a different way.
You tell me I am different.
Perhaps I am.
But different than what?
Than you?
Because you
Are different than me.
You tell me I am different,
Strange, abnormal.
Have you ever stopped to think?
Maybe you are the strange one.
Maybe you are abnormal.
Maybe…
Maybe you are different.

When I have a daughter,
I feel I'll have to make some decisions.
For the sake of simplicity,
Let's equate them to poetry.

Limericks are one way to live,
With structure, but fun left to give
Though we'll love each other,
I'll still be her mother,
And that part, I hope she'll forgive

Or we could live like haikus,
Simple and structured,
With emphasis on order.

Why don't we live freeverse?
No rules, no rhymes, no reason.
We don't need those things to be happy.
We'll have each other, after all.

This is simply speculation,
I'm not especially certain
What I'll do when I have a daughter.

I was walking through blades of grass
who giggled as wind brushed them through
the sun was beaming
as though I had praised it
and the flowers were smiling too
Bees buzzed by busily
as if they knew something I don’t
and dragonflies flew nonchalantly
as sparrows showed off their white throats
The water in the lake
lapped at the shores eagerly
and the weeping willows
waved slowly to me
Owls stare from their perch
Crooning mournfully
Night falls, and the light
cries a final farewell
“Tomorrow” I pray,
will come another day

Rivers aren’t meant to be confined
They’re meant to flow, undefied

Rivers aren’t meant to be roped and chained
To one path, one divot, only meant to catch rain

Rivers aren’t meant to be encased in stone
Until their city is gone and they’re left alone

Rivers shouldn't be defiled by people’s ugly vices
They’re meant to be innocent, not unimportant sacrifices

Rivers are meant to flow freely, uninterrupted,
But we seem to be determined to make all of them corrupted

I wonder.
I wonder strange things.
I wonder things
That most people
Don’t bother wondering.

I wonder what.
What the lady on the corner,
Who I pass on the street,
Is thinking.
Is she dreaming?
Is she pondering?
Is she wondering, too?

I wonder how.
How did that child,
Who I see at the shop,
Get scrapes on her knee?
Did she fall?
Off a bike?
Out of a tree?

I wonder when.
When did the jet-lagged family,
Who I notice in the airport,
Get here?
Was it a long flight?

I wonder why.
Why do I wonder these things?
I know why.
Because I am wonderer.
Why?
I’ll let you wonder.

This morning I looked out my window
And saw a biker biking by
I thought to myself, “Where’s she going?
When is she getting there? And why?”

Maybe she’s riding her bike to school,
She did look very young.
17, 18, 19 even,
But not quite 21.

Maybe she’s riding her bike to work,
Because she doesn’t have a car.
It would be easier to bike
If her work is very far.

Maybe the ******* the bike is riding
All the way back home
It’s funny to think that the ******* the bike
Won’t know about her poem.

In the room across the hall,
You see me, I’m all alone
Behind deadbolts and locked doors,
I built them on my own

You knock and knock, my ears are closed
To everything outside,
I’m smothered under voices,
And all they let me do is hide

“No one’s knocking,” I’m convinced
The door is closed and locked.
And to all the affirmations
My head is being blocked

The walls keep getting smaller,
I’ve barred myself inside
Chained down by doubt, by every word,
“I love you” is a lie.

I can’t hear you over all the buzz,
Just tell it all to stop.
I want the truth, never said I could take it
I’m bracing for the drop

I’m locked inside this room,
And I’m just about ready to snap,
And you don’t know to let me out
Because you don’t know that I’m trapped!

I’m trying to believe it.
Someday I’ll ask you for the key.
Just know that I, I’m sorry.
For the nightmare that is me.

When I look into your eyes,
What do I see?
Dark and light,
Black and white.
Shadows that spiral into the depths
Of darkness
Fear?
Solitude?
Sadness?
Your expression is unreadable,
But it stirs something inside me.
The battle between dark and light
Is mesmerizing.
I cannot look away.

Will it do withers or wonders?
Life, or the end?
Find a great opportunity,
a foe, or a friend.
it can knock down mountains,
It can close any door
It can topple our strongest,
and many, many more.
Time will continue,
till nothing remains,
The smartest, the brightest,
The small or insane
Take it to mind,
Just where it began,
On the beach of the world,
you are one grain of san

I never thought I’d know the grief of
leaving
before I knew the grief of
gone

On nights like these, I feel
your head still in my lap,
or at least it where it
should be.

Your weight always warmed me,
and now I sleep
3 blankets heavy,
trying to replicate it.

Replace it, maybe,
against my better judgement.

My heart is part yours,
but so are my hands.
This new life I’m meant for
slips from my newly-atrophied fingers

I’ve started to grind my teeth
at night.

I wonder how long it’ll be
until I wear through the bone.

Twin flames burn bright,
then burn out.
If we were both one end of a candle,
now we’re clinging to the scraps of wax

I’m asking - Is it enough to say I miss you?
If there’s another word,
a stronger word,
I’d love to know it.

At 2am I text
“love u”

and hope you understand.

"What is your name?"

"What do you mean?

Once, I was given a name,
By someone very dear to me,
But is that the name
That belongs to me?

I have names that I've chosen
Many names, made for strangers to see
But are any of those the name
That belongs to me?

I have shorthand names too,
Gifted affectionately,
But are those the names
That belong to me?

I have names that I share
'Poet,' 'Daughter,' 'Artist,' 'She.'
Could these be the names
That belong to me?"

"...
I just asked for your name."

Sigh.
Smile.
"You tell me."

Empty, empty, empty
Not good enough
I was proud for a second,
But I don't feel that way anymore

I was good until someone was better
And now nothing I do can match what they did
I know I'm not supposed to compare,
But at this point, I don't care

Telling myself that would only make me feel guilty now.
I want to tell you to stop being so good
So that I can stop being so bad.
Your words are lovely. Now mine seem empty.

I want to know what gave you this power,
And in a moment of weakness, I wish I could make you feel like this.
I want to be better than you.
I want to relish in your jealousy, and I don't even know your name.

And then that moment passes, and I'm left with nothing,
But poems without points and verses with awkward choruses in between,
And I only threw those in because it sounded like something you would do.
***** me. ***** my "creativity." It all just feels empty.

Love is an acquired taste.
First, it is sprinkled with sugar.
A sweet, tender love
With no complications

Then, it is taken only with cream.
You begin to realize
That love isn’t always sweet.
It’s more bitter than you thought
The constant fear of loss
Is an acquired taste

Eventually, it is taken plain.
You know now
That love is an acquired taste.
It is something you have learned
As you've grown and matured.
It is something that can be terrifying.
It is something that can be painful.

Love is an acquired taste,
But it is still a beautiful thing.
The fear feels right.
It means you care.

The pain feels necessary,
Because only through conflict
Can you find peace.

In the end,
Love is love.
Everyone acquires the taste.

When it started, I felt butterflies flapping frantically in my chest
Whenever you spoke, whatever you said
And those sweet words that rolled off of your tongue,
Your voice light and loving and lilting with charm and candy-coated promises
And so on it went, weeks and words,
months and words,
Always the same words.
The butterflies grew tired of all the same words.
The air they flew in has grown stale
They’re off to find fresher skies now
And they’ll stop in to say hello, but only on days
When clouds, memories, bittersweet longing rolls through the sky.
But they don’t stay anymore. This isn’t their home, anymore.
They want a place where they can land on your fingertips, leaving their feathers on your palm,
Watching your face light up like the sun that always seems to be overcast, nowadays.
It’s not a lie to imagine if you never believed it could happen.
And so the air stays still,
And the clouds linger,
And all we have now is
Words.

I’m scared
My fears swim around me like sharks
I’m bleeding
They can smell it.

I worry so much
That I start to worry about worrying
Why am I so afraid?

It comes and it goes,
But when it’s here,
I can’t seem to figure out,
Am I okay?

Do I need to tell someone?
Is there something wrong with me?
Will I be okay?

When I want it to go away,
Those times when I’m smiling
And pretending like everything is okay,
Is it?

Am I okay?

A Jolt
Telling me to bolt
I shiver with cold
And it enfolds
My every sense
Fright

Deep in the garden,
Among the violets,
Butterflies stand on a stem.
Their wings are made of lace,
Soft feathers
Surround their face,
It’s as if the garden
Was made just for them.

They flit lazily from flower to flower,
Hungrily drinking their fill,
And when they are done,
They fall asleep
With the sun,
To the music
Of the mourning dove’s trill.

In first grade,
Gay was just a word.
We didn’t know what it meant.
We just knew that boys and girls liked each other.
And that was fine with me,
Because as far as I knew, that was all I was.

In second grade,
There was a boy,
Who said he had two mothers.
I didn’t understand why,
But through all the scenarios I pondered
It never crossed my mind that maybe
They loved each other.

In third grade,
Gay was weird, unheard of.
My classmates said it was wrong.
I would get upset, and when I asked them why,
Why it was wrong to love the way you were born to,
They answered with cop-outs and stammers.
It made me feel satisfied.

In fifth grade,
Gay was… fine…  
but still, nobody really understood.
Boys still liked girls,
And girls still liked boys,
Just like it had been since grade one.

The questions started
In sixth grade,
When I met a girl, who quickly became my best friend.
She was beautiful.
I would imagine her kissing me,
Smiling at me, holding my hand,
And I liked it.
‘But,’ I would ask myself, ‘I am still straight, aren’t I?”

Because that’s what I’d been my whole life.
I'd liked boys.


At the time,
These feelings didn’t bring me shame or fear,
But instead, questions and opportunity,
It was new thing about myself to explore,
And I was excited!

But.

Instead of a new era of excitement,
And exploration,
I got a kick in the stomach from an antagonizer named Reality.

I told two people that I’d liked a girl.
One friend I trusted, and one classmate I hardly knew.
That classmate told two more people,
and one of them stopped me in the classroom on our way back from lunch, saying,
“Is it true? That you’re…”
She didn't finish, but I knew what she had meant to say.
I told her yes.
She made a disgusted face and walked away.

That day I went home crying.
For the rest of the year,
That girl’s younger brother would stop me on my way to the buses every day and tell me,
“People are saying that you’re a lesbian.”
And at the time, it hurt.
Because in sixth grade, gay was an insult.

In seventh grade, I didn't talk about my sexuality.
The feelings for my friend had faded,
And I could be straight again.
I swooned over boys with all the other girls,
Thinking that I'd just gone through a phase.

That summer,
I moved away.
Away from everything and everyone I'd ever known.
Waves of anxiety beat away whatever flimsy dam I'd built between me and my sexuality
And I was terrified.
The concept of being anything other than straight was crazy,
But at the same time,
I couldn't dismiss the feelings as a phase anymore.

I was confused.
I wanted an answer, so I gave myself false labels and told myself to live with it.
‘This is what you are. Just don't think about it.
Don't think about it, and maybe you'll be able to forget.’
I was never able to forget.

At that point, it wasn’t even the feelings that were the problem anymore.
It was the not knowing.
I wanted something to call myself
I needed a label.
But none of them fit me quite right.

In eighth grade,
The anxious waves calmed to simple tides.
I still had no label,
I still hadn't fallen for a girl since my best friend,
And I never, ever talked about it to anyone else,
But I had learned to control my thoughts a bit more.

One day, I'm talking online.
A girl posts on the chat,
Saying something about being gay.
I join the conversation eagerly.

Tentative to give a label to myself,
I don’t say outright who I am
Because I felt I would be lying no matter
What I said.

And in our DMs I threw out identities
That almost applied to me
But the great thing about digital faces
Is that their eyes don’t scathe.

And through our conversations
She taught me things that I’d never learned
Living in a monochromatic world,
Because she was the only one who was able to understand.

Now, I’d lived my whole life being told,
‘You are never alone,’
But I was never able to believe it.
Until this girl brought consolation to my isolation
And showed me that I wasn’t alone.
That there are so many others who understand.

Who understand what it feels like to question yourself,
To look at everything you’ve ever been told and think, “but that isn't me.”
People who understand what it's like to be confused
And scared,
Because the mold that forms the world
Wasn’t made for us.
They understand what it’s like
To live your life thinking that your shape is wrong.
“I should fit somewhere. Why can’t I fit?”

But she also taught me to be unapologetically myself
How to need no label but the one saying “me.”
How to take a knife,
And instead of using it to carve yourself into a different shape,
Use it to make a mold
That you can lay in comfortably.

And now I know.

I know that straight was never what I was supposed to be,
It’s just what I had seen my whole life

I’m not a cow that needs a tag punched through my ear, just because others want an explanation of who I am

There's no right way to be queer,
And right now, I'm doing great!

Gay is not an insult - now, if anything, I'll take it as a compliment!

I am not strange.
I am not abnormal.
I am not broken.

And I can finally love the way I was born to.

in extremis
adverb
1. at the point of death

        Seashells sing of a battling beach.

Bloated bodies bobbing to the top
Floating in the foam,
Shriveled by the salt, seashells have seen it.

        They’ve seen it all.

Stranded in the sand are corpses washed ashore,
Some have faces, still have shell-shock in their eyes
But others, just too disfigured to recognize.

        They’ve seen it all.

A single living soul stands in the shards
Of a broken home,
The seashells sing for them because they know

        They saw it all.

A single soul screams on a battling beach
Breached by bloated bodies, shell shocked eyes and
Lifeless lies.

        They saw it all.

A single soul stalked a corpse across
A crag of fear and ended up here,
Watching while they washed away.

        They saw it all.

I’ve been told
My dreams are unachievable.
Why stretch
For a place
You don’t know you can reach?
Why try
For something you know is impossible?
Well,
Why not stretch
For a place
You might be able to reach
Why not try
Something no one’s ever tried before
Why not dream
If you believe
Your dream can come true.

What makes a poet?
A poet is not a writer.
No, a poet is a composer
A poet is an artist
A poet creates masterpieces without paint
A poet creates songs without music

Poets can find meaning in anything
Poets can make the most overused things original
Poets can pull emotions from the depths of their minds
And put them on a page

A poem is made of a complicated simplicity
A poem is a silent melody
A poem is a persona
Immortalized in words