I feel like a lab rat, like I’m being watched
And observed and my every move monitored.
Maybe even more so I feel like a puppet,
With different people pulling me this way and that,
Trying to get me to side with them or with her or with him.
Why can’t I decide for myself?
Or even better, how about you work it out
On your own?
Do I need to constantly be that friend who you
Talk to each other about behind their backs?
Do you think I want to be that friend who
Constantly has to choose between pleasing
You or the other?
Some days I feel like taffy, and you two are little kids
Baking in the kitchen,
Bickering about something that won’t matter in ten minutes.
You don’t realize the damage you do to the taffy
As you stretch it beyond recognition.
If you break the taffy,
Do you get a prize?

Please practice the art of giving up on giving up.

~Whenever I see you before you see me, and you're just living your life, I think you are the most beautiful, because you're not trying to impress me, you're just simply yourself~

My past is too much of an influence on my present,
I know it's a problem.
But whenever I look in the bathroom mirror,
I see my 15 year old self,
A cigarette hanging out of her mouth
Just like the one that is currently in my mouth.  
Her hair is still dyed dark purple and out of control,
Spiking out of her head
Like she just stuck her finger in a light socket.  
She takes the cigarette out of her mouth
And smoke clouds up the mirror.  
I watch her hand reach up through the smoke
Into the real world and take my cigarette
Out of my mouth and toss it in the trash.  
I can't decide whether I've gone completely crazy
Or if that encounter was the
Best thing that ever happened to me.  
Why can't it be both?

On the court
History is made
Around the world.
On the court,
You can see how
People show their
Emotions.
On the court,
The impossible
Becomes possible.
On the court
Is our home
Away from
Home.

You were an amazing band mom.
You were stern:
“Come back here and pick up your uniform!”
You were kind:
“I packed you a lunch for your long day.”
You were an incredible principal.
You were stern:
“You really need to start turning in your homework.”
You were kind:
“If you come to my office after school, I will help you.”
You were a wonderful mother.
You were stern:
“Come here right now and put your clothes away!”
You were kind and loving:
“If you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here.”
Even though you were taken
So suddenly from us yesterday,
No one will forget you and
How you influenced everybody in your circle and
Beyond.
Today is one of those gloomy rainy days,
And I know why.
It’s because even the heavens are crying for you.

He was in love with her,
The kind of love that kept him up at night,
On the kind of nights that dragged on and on without respite.
He would fall asleep thinking of her,
Dream of her all night long,
And wake up with her name on his lips.
He turned a thousand shades of red whenever
He talked to her, and her gorgeous green eyes
Peeking out from behind her dark bangs made
Butterflies soar in his stomach.
But she was not in love with him,
And messed with his mind for fun.
She was with a different guy every night, and
He never knew that her true intentions
Were anything but true.
He reached for her, but his hand
Was only met by a shadow.

I know you’ve seen many Christmas poems today,
And will in the days to come,
But mine will be different, I pray.

Amidst all of the gifts and presents,
Among the crowds of relatives and good food,
We cannot forget who is always in our presence.

God the Father and God the Son,
And God the Spirit, are present;
The Trinity, three in one.

Although the presents are fun,
And you realize your crazy uncle is actually kind of cool,
We have to leave time to remember the birth of God’s Son.

If not for him, we wouldn’t be here;
Without his birth in lowly Bethlehem,
All of the gifts and happiness would disappear.

So praise God this day
That God arranged the ****** birth;
Praise God every day
That He sent His son to Earth.

She was a rose, pressed into the pages
Of a book, meant to hold a place.
Instead of a page in a book,
She held a place in his heart,
Which she thought she would always have.
But eventually, bookmarks are lost,
And stories are forgotten,
And all that is left is
The smell of the binding
As the book closes for the last time.

He didn’t grow up in a good home.
He didn’t have a supportive mother.
He didn’t have a father worth speaking of.
He didn’t know how to read or write.
He didn’t know that 2+2=4.
He didn’t have any friends.
He didn’t know that such wonderful things existed.
He didn’t play or run outside.
He didn’t have the permission to.
He didn’t graduate high school.
But he didn’t drop out.
That night, he didn’t stop drinking.
That night, he didn’t use his head.
That night, he didn’t care.
That night, he didn’t put on his seatbelt.
He didn’t see the car coming.
He didn’t hear the crunch of the metal.
He didn’t hear the screech of the tires.
He didn’t wake up.

The lavender lilacs line the path that my bare feet tread,
The grass tickling my toes.
Bees buzz among the sunflowers that hang over my head,
They flit around the primrose.
The sun’s rays warm my skin,
And I breathe in the glorious spring air,
Not thinking about where I’ve been.
Just where I am.
At the end of the path is the old wooden swing,
Where she and I would swing for hours,
Each other’s hands we would cling,
While she told me all the different kinds of flowers.
She showed me the hollyhocks and bluebells,
Daisies and buttercups,
And all of the lesser known flowers I have
Long since forgotten.
She laughed when I couldn’t remember
The name of the tulip,
And her soft lips brushed my cheek.
I sit down on the swing and listen to it
Creak as I push off from the ground,
And the memories come rushing back
That are associated with that sound.
Every afternoon spent here,
Every flower name,
I wish I could remember every one,
In my mind they be engraved.
I close my eyes and picture her,
Her circular glasses, golden brown hair falling,
A pencil tucked behind her ear.
The mole on her left cheek.
Even though she’s long gone,
And our kids are all grown up,
She will never be forgotten.
She lives on in her garden.

When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so ******* the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.

Every day after school I ran through it,
Skirting around the trunks,
Ducking under the leaves,
My laughter echoing through the trees.
My cherry orchard.
My friends used to walk through it,
And when they got to my house,
They would always have red stains
On the bottoms of their shoes from
My cherry orchard.
Every year when the blossoms came out
In early May, I would take pictures for
Hours, enjoying the peace,
Playing with the symmetry when you looked down a row in
My cherry orchard.
And even though the trees were
Stripped from the ground and burned
I still visit it,
My friends still walk through it,
And every year I will look back at
My pictures and remember
My cherry orchard.

I saw her first across the bowling alley,
Laughing at her own gutter ball.
She flipped her long black hair
Over her shoulder;
She wore a golden cross necklace
That bounced lazily against her
Beautiful olive colored skin.
Lady Gaga blaring from the speakers
Prompted her to dance back to her friends,
Who smile at her antics.
All of a sudden, she looks over at me, and
I try to pretend I wasn’t staring,
But it’s too late.
She smiles shyly, without her teeth,
Just a slight turn of her pink lips,
And her cheeks redden slightly.
Whatever manliness I still had in me
Melted when I saw her smile.
I smile back in what I think is a cute way.
My friends cries break thought my thoughts,
“It’s your turn!”  “Go already!”
Yet I can’t break my eyes off of her.
She goes to her friends and sits down,
Sips her Coke quietly.
“Go!”
I look at the clock.
I’ve wasted five minutes of the game.
I blame the girl in Lane 7.

Too many people,
Too many faces, and not
Enough time to breathe.