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642 · Sep 2020
why?
Lily Sep 2020
When
    did I become an acquaintance, an object you pushed to the side, only used when necessary?

When
    was I not the first person you texted with news, not the first person you would say hi to in the morning, the first person on your mind?

When
    did you cut me off with rainbow bruises and lightning scars, and the thunder of your footsteps left me alone?

When
    did you create that perfect storm, that hurricane, that took me away, so now I don’t even know you anymore and I don’t even know what I would say to you now?

When
    did you stop loving me and

Why?
this is a product of my english class
Lily Jul 2019
One of my wishes
Was not
Withheld, that
I should steal away,
Finding open land
Where
Upon my track
I held.
They would not find me- they knew
All I thought was true
To me.
Inspired by Frost's "Into My Own"
641 · Apr 2018
You're my Moon
Lily Apr 2018
You’re my moon,
The light that shines during my darkest times.
Your kisses are the stars,
Enveloping me,
Comforting me,
When I’m out in the night
And I’m wondering why.
You orbit me, never leaving,
And I will never fully understand
What makes you stay.
Some invisible force,
Yet it must be strong,
Keeping you here when I feel I don’t belong,
When I’m sad and broken,
Just staring up at the sky,
Feeling your stars.
You’re my moon.
Lily Sep 2019
In the dark
The beast,
The inward struggle
Is not asleep.
The cold creeps,
Comfort grows far away,
My heart doubts
But we arise with the day.
Inspired by Robert Frost’s "Storm Fear"
630 · Jul 2018
They were
Lily Jul 2018
Do I remember too much about
The strangers I meet?
There was the skinny seven year old at the
Park in Detroit, who I learned liked autumn
And colorful leaves, pumpkins and Halloween,
Scarecrows and working in the garden.
There was the Japanese lady at the
Hotel breakfast in DC, calmly eating a donut,
Staring off into space, gracefully lost in her own
Thoughts and feelings.
There was the happy man at the
Veteran’s home, who talked gratefully to me
About his experiences, desperate to
Share his story.
There was the single mother on
The park bench, allowing me, a total stranger,
To watch her children while she took
A much needed nap.
There was the black man at the
Movie theater, who offered me his
Extra bag of popcorn and made sure I knew
When the jump scares were.
Do I remember too much about
The strangers I meet?
I don’t think so.
Appreciate humanity,
Because you never know when it might be gone.
Each one of these people were beautiful,
In their own way, and they weren’t even
Trying to be.
They were just living their lives,
And I was fortunate enough to be a part of them
For a short time.
You know why they were beautiful?
Because they just were.
Lily Jun 2018
Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
I simply need that connection I have with
My friends, the ones who I don’t get to talk to
Often, that have all but disappeared from
My life, but I can still see them on the screen.
Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
I like to read stories and poems,
Browse the Internet’s fanfiction,
Write my own works, and receive feedback
From friends and critics alike.
Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
I just worry about the people I care about,
Wanting to know where they are
And what they are doing;
Not unlike the protective nature you have with me.
Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
Sometimes, I just need to check the time.
Written with the help of my nine year old cousin, Natalie.
628 · Dec 2018
On the Court
Lily Dec 2018
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.
My 9 year old brother Simeon wrote this, and wanted me to share it with you guys.  He is in love with all things basketball. :)
623 · Apr 2018
Overreaction
Lily Apr 2018
My mind keeps spinning,
My heart is breaking,
My thoughts are circling,
And I can’t seem to find any relief.
I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way,
That all the things that are happening to me
Are not that bad, and I shouldn’t worry.
Yet I do, and I can’t stop, and
I know that’s unhealthy,
But I have an overreacting tendency
That’s so natural.
My mind naturally runs in circles,
Like a computer program that is set
To only one function that cannot be
Overrun.
This overreaction is slowly killing me,
From the inside out.
I’m cold, I’m hot,
I’m hungry, I can’t stand to look at food,
I’m okay, and then I’m not.
I’m not okay.
623 · Apr 2020
estranged
Lily Apr 2020
Dancing, you are Spring;
Birds flock to see your song, yet
Night falls and silence-

Silence but for the
Stars and moon who mock us in
Our bed, our Winter.
This is a poem I wrote for my college poetry class (which is now online) a few days ago.  I want us all to remember that these hard times are a reason for us to come together and unite; be the kindness that someone else is needing in their day. :) Thank you all, as always, for reading my poetry.
622 · Jul 2018
Bullied
Lily Jul 2018
That boy who you see in class everyday,
Yeah, the one with the long hair that covers his eyes
And the dark, ratty sweatshirt?
Do you know what he goes through on a daily basis?
His mom is a crack addict, his dad is in jail,
And he's the youngest of seven siblings.
The only real food he ever gets is
The “terrible” school lunch, which to him
Tastes like heaven.
The only real exercise he gets is from
Running away from his mom when she's high,
And the only real alone time he ever gets is
When his mom locks him in the
Bathroom for days at a time.
So don't get mad at him for
Missing your group's presentation day,
Or for always asking you for your food at lunch.
Get mad at the people who make
His life at school as bad as home,
The people who talk loudly about his horrible hygiene,
Who laugh when he doesn't understand a math problem,
Who visibly flinch whenever he walks by just for the fun of it.
Get mad at them.
And then get mad at yourself.
Be upset with yourself for having the power
To help this kid and kids like him, and ignoring it.  
Be upset with yourself for talking
About him behind his back,
Refusing to share your food at lunch with him,
And for avoiding him in class.
Be upset with yourself.
And then do something with this anger,
This passion you have built up.
Share his story, help someone like him,
At least vow to never, ever, let something
Like this happen to your child.
I wrote this poem.
What will you do?
621 · Aug 2018
I'm a Poet
Lily Aug 2018
Yes, maybe sometimes I speak in clichés,
Or maybe metaphors some of my days.
Maybe you don't understand my rhymes,
Or can't keep up with the dictionary's changing times.
Even if you don't understand this art,
Know that I'm a poet who speaks from the heart.
608 · Apr 2018
Darkness
Lily Apr 2018
My fingers flit over the keys,
Possessed by a mind of their own.
The smooth plastic of the letters,
The small bumps on F and J,
The overused comma key,
All are alive.
The laptop understands me, it’s an
Extension of my fingers.
Without trying, my thoughts flow,
Gracefully, effortlessly, tirelessly, they flow.
The harsh light of the screen produces an
Almost alien-like glow, shrouding my face
In unnatural radiance, leaving it flushed.
Yet the darkness of the room is all around me,
The stillness of my surroundings haunts me.
I am the only thing alive,
The only thing still awake at this ghastly hour.
I know if I shut down, turn off the glow,
I will be left alone in this gloominess.
The computer makes me feel wanted,
Secure, safe, protected.
I must get my words out, I must tell the world
What I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, what I am.
Before the world turns to darkness...
608 · Mar 2018
Only in Pencil
Lily Mar 2018
“But what about all the things you told me?”
He asked her, quietly, his voice a faint, timid whisper,
More afraid of the answer than the question.
She stares motionless, not trusting her voice,
Knowing it will betray her... like before.
“You said you’d stay with me forever.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek,
As silent as the stars above, yet as loud as a rushing waterfall.
“You said we’d have a family together, a home.”
She was forced to sit down on the plush loveseat,
An ironic backdrop to the turmoil that was slowly unfolding.
“You said I was your one and only.”
She notices the trembling in his voice,
The soft, quivering whimper, much like a puppy,
That betrays he is close to tears.
“Your forever and always.”
She can hardly hear him, so she leans in closer,
Gazing into his watery eyes, swimming with honest tears.
“You said you had written my name on your heart.”
Mustering her strength, courage, and will, she responds:
“Only in pencil.”
607 · Apr 2020
lockdown
Lily Apr 2020
My heart’s in lockdown and
I can’t break free,
I wish I could feel something,
Wish I could be me.

I feel like I’m running in circles,
Striving for emotion,
When all I feel is numb
And sick of my devotion

To the voices in my head
Who keep telling me to quit,
“Why not just give up now,
There’s no way to fix it!”

But I know there’s something there,
In the deepest part of me,
Something that still wants to learn,
Love and move and breathe.

So I will spend some time today,
And love that part of me,
And lock down all the saddened parts and
Start to break free.
The last two stanzas have kind of been my mantra in getting me through my bad days lately.  I hope you all find something to keep you going during this scary time.  I send my love to you all <3
600 · Jun 2018
Fireworks
Lily Jun 2018
Oh, the million
Fireworks that explode in
My heart when we kiss.
600 · Jun 2018
Why Do I Write?
Lily Jun 2018
Why do I write?
It’s not because I enjoy the
Pen on the paper, the faint
Smell of ink on my hands or
The sound of a page being torn
From a notebook.
It’s not because my fingers feel at
Home on the keyboard,
Because the clacking of the letters comforts me,
Or because the sight of a blank Google Doc
Excites me.
It’s not even because writing makes
Me happy, or that I find particular
Joy in it, inspiring me to release
My thoughts into the world.
No.
It’s because these thoughts are
Lions pacing in their cage,
Growling under their breath,
Wanting to be let out; no,
Needing to be released and free to
Roam wild, and not be restrained by
Any human contraption.
Same with my words; they refuse to
Stay trapped in my head, they must
Come out somehow.
It’s a need.
Why do I write?
You might as well ask,
Why do I breathe?
599 · Jun 2018
Pluto
Lily Jun 2018
You do not know how
Attached you are to something
Until it is gone.
594 · Jun 2018
Questions
Lily Jun 2018
What is important to you in this life?
Who would you go to the ends of the earth for,
Never say no to,
Always be willing to help them in any struggle?
Are they able to be helped?
Are they willing to accept your advice and
Assistance, or are they stubborn and prideful?
Do they simply not want your help because
Someone else has a better offer?
If they are like this, why do you still persist
In your attempts to understand them,
Encourage them, and lead them to where
You think is best for them?
If this is your case, I believe you have the answer
To the most challenging question of all;
What is love?
594 · Apr 2018
They Knew
Lily Apr 2018
Was the foundation not good enough,
The make-up not strong enough,
To hide what I’d been going through?
Were the bruises too large,
The cuts too deep,
To ever possibly conceal?
Was my mask of happiness too thin,
My cheerful voice too fake,
To convince them of my stability?
I knew it was all for naught,
Yet I hoped I could stay strong.
I knew nothing would protect me,
From this world where I don’t belong.
Their accusing looks, their quiet gasps,
Were enough to tell me what their hearts contained.
I’m broken, imperfect, and selfish;
And they knew.
589 · May 2018
Assigned Seats
Lily May 2018
We started in seventh grade,
When our ancient, grumpy teacher
That no one liked decided to give
Our second hour science class
Assigned seats.
By some great happening of fate,
I was placed next to you,
The loud, obnoxious prankster,
And I, the quiet, shy nerd.
The class at first was torture,
Yet soon became my haven.
A+ lab partners we were,
And soon A+ friends.
Though outside the classroom,
We were nothing.
We had our own friends, our own lives;
Until sophomore year, when you
Caught me coming out of the library,
John Milton in my hand.
Words were said, promises were made,
And the next day I had your hand in mine,
And we were something.
Two weeks later, under the light of trillions of stars,
On the top of the car you “borrowed”
From your strict father,
You kissed me, slowly, tenderly, lovingly,
And I felt true happiness for the first time.
On graduation day,
You caught my graduate cap,
The sun rays making beautiful patterns
On your tan face, and wavy hazel hair,
But you spun around and gave it right back to me,
To leave me for a college in California,
Thousands of miles away, away from everything
You’ve ever known.
And loved.
I tried to get over you, I really did,
But my mind circled the same tracks,
Went over the same ruts,
And I always came back to seventh grade,
When that cranky teacher gave us our
Assigned seats.
I blamed him, thinking that those
Assigned seats were the beginning of
My broken heart.
It wasn’t until four years later,
That I saw you in a library,
Hiding in the shelves, peeking through
The bookends you moved yourself,
That I realized that those feelings never left.
You had come back for me,
And those bean bags in the kids’ section
Of the library became our new assigned seats.
One day, about a year later, you didn’t take your seat;
You went down on your knee instead.
The wedding was casual, yet beautiful, as you said
I was in my light blue dress and beaming smile.
Our seventh grade science teacher sat in the front row;
The seat we assigned to him.
A week later, he went to the seat that
God assigned him, and we were back in that church,
And this time I was in a black dress and crying.
Years passed, and suddenly I found myself
In front of a classroom of my own,
Assigning seats to my own seventh graders.
The quiet, shy nerd shot me a desperate look
As I set her books down by the loud, obnoxious prankster.
I saw my own fear reflected in
Her eyes, and I simply smiled calmly at her.
Maybe some day she will be as
Happy as I was that I was given my
Assigned seat.
584 · Dec 2019
"Christ"mas
Lily Dec 2019
Christmas, Christmas, Christmas
Presents, presents, presents
Is that the definition of Christmas?
Cookies, cookies cookies
Is that the definition of Christmas?
What is the definition of Christmas?
Family, giving, love, and most of all
Christ.  This is what we should think
Of when we think of Christmas.
My 10 year old brother wrote this and wanted me to share it with you guys :)
Lily Jul 2019
The clock read 3 am,
And the street was snoring
When the station wagon bumbled
Into the driveway of the
House with the white railing porch.
Doors opened and slammed shut,
And he looked out the bay window
Towards the house next door
To see who had arrived at this
Ghostly hour.
T’was a girl, with seventeen years
Under her belt, same as he.
She sported a simple brown dress
That was pleated on the bottom,
And he noticed that her feet in those
White sandals were every bit as dainty
And delicate as the rest of her.
Her hair was tucked in a messy bun,
The kind it takes you hours to master
To make it seem like it only took you a few seconds.
He was convinced she hadn't needed practice.
The girl went to her trunk, and pulled out a
Large polka dotted suitcase, the size of
A true adventurer.
Looking closer, he saw how frayed the edges were,
And how the pink background looked almost white
Against the purple dots.
As she wheeled it around and began
Lifting it up the white railed steps,
He noticed maps sprawled all over the dashboard of her station wagon,
Of Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada.
He wished fervently he could see her license plate.
Who was this strange girl?
He had but a lowly Vermont license plate; why was she here?
The clock read 8 am,
And the street was waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs, and
The boy's head was once again
At the bay window, but a surprise awaited him at the house next door.
The station wagon was gone, no trace of it, and the white railed house
Might have even been the quietest house on the block.
The boy threw it away as a dream, but has never been able to forget
The girl with the polka dot suitcase.
Sorry I haven't been posting as frequently as I normally do! I was on vacation, which inspired me to write this poem, and now I'm back. I hope you're all having a great summer! <3
579 · Jul 2018
Hello, My Name is Invisible
Lily Jul 2018
Hello, my name is Invisible,
Unseen,
Camouflaged,
Disguised
So well that nobody can see me,
And so completely that
Nobody cares to look.
575 · Aug 2018
Surrender
Lily Aug 2018
The teenage boy struggling to fall asleep said,
“What am I if I'm not the skinniest guy?  
What am I if I don't have enough abs?
What if I'm not the stereotypical strong man?
Can I still be somebody?
Can I be somebody if I don't have many special talents?
Or if my special talents are what some would call weird?
If I don't make the pros, am I still good enough?
If I don't go to college, is that okay?
If I lose my friends or my family, will I still know who I am?
Will I still be me?”
At this point God stepped in and said,
“Of course you will still be you.  
I created you, I made you, and even if
You don't know who you are, I do.  
You are my special child,
And I knew everything about you from the very beginning.  
So don't worry.  I love you.”
And so the boy let his head fall,
And his eyes close,
And surrendered his everything, his all
To the one who knows.
574 · May 2018
I'm Sorry
Lily May 2018
I’m sorry I can’t sleep,
That I spend my nights in constant agony,
Closing my eyes and trying to stay calm
But never finding rest within my mind.
I’m sorry I always have a headache,
That I have a constant pain behind
My eyelids, a torture that plagues my temples
And unmercifully spirals around my head.
I’m sorry I have to fake my way through
Every day, smiling and laughing while
The constant fatigue drains at my soul,
Tempting me to snap at everyone.
I’m sorry I frequently wake up in tears,
Fully convinced that the terrors of the night
Are real and tangible, and even though they aren’t,
I know they’ll come back night after night.
I’m sorry I’m too scared to tell anyone
What I’m going through, too worried
That they will think I’m weak, or stupid,
Or that I’m lying to gain attention.
I’m sorry I apologize for everything,
That I am paranoid, worried sick about
All the wrong I’ve done, and all the
Wrong my mind leads me to believe I’ve done.
I’m sorry.
Lily Jan 2019
~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~
572 · Aug 2018
2,000 poems
Lily Aug 2018
2,000 poems I've liked on this website,
2,000 poems that touched my heart,
2,000 poems that have made me smile, laugh,
Cry, and most importantly, feel.
2,000 poems that I've liked on this website-
Scratch that- community.
Whether you realize it or not,
Your poems really have changed my life.
Every time I log in, I am amazed at the
Diversity of the people who have found and
Created this amazing community.
Despite the glitches and the haters,
There is a large number who help,
Encourage, mentor, and support.
I know you all have lives outside of this community,
But I wanted to thank you all for the time you put into this.
It's become a large part of my life,
And reading your poems has caused me to examine myself
And learn things I didn't know before.
So, I thank you.
I'm sure I'll have another 2,000 poems
Liked before you know it.
562 · Nov 2019
The Present
Lily Nov 2019
The scene was almost perfect, and
With the sun’s evening glow permeated the
Entire backyard, the flowerbeds at the back
Near the oak fence were extremely vibrant,
The bright oranges and purples and pinks
Leaping out at you like a lion.
The swingset created unnatural shadows on the lawn,
And the children playing created laughter that
Could be heard down the street.
The scent of neighbors burning leaves was strong,
And as the man sat on the back porch,
A beer in his hand and a Bible in the other,
He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would stay like this.
Perfect.
How much longer would he have like this, before the
Sun set,
The flowers wilted,
The swingset rusted,
The children grew up and moved out,
The lovely autumn weather turned to a blustering winter,
The Bible being more powerful than his beer.
One of his children squealed in delight as he
Swung higher and higher on the swing,
Trying to reach the clouds with the tips of his fragile fingers.
The man tries to put himself in the mindset of a kid,
Who believes the present is all that there is,
And whose mind doesn’t comprehend
Worrying about the past and future.
The man sighs contentedly, opening his
Bible and beer simultaneously as he thinks,
“I wish I could actually keep the present that was given to me.”
I got inspiration today from Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughter-house Five"; he writes, "And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep." It was a very interesting line, which sparked my idea for this poem.
Lily Jun 2018
I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
I hear your laughter in my mind,
The clear ringing of your happiness,
And I just want to hear it again,
Mingled with my own.
I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
I see your smile under my eyelids,
Your body curled up on the couch
In my favorite red sweatshirt,
Your gorgeous blue eyes gazing at my own.
I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
I feel your arms around me,
The gentle rhythm of your breathing,
Your soft hair brushing my cheek,
And your heart beating within you, just for me.
I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
Every happy or sad thought
Is traced back to you;
You are constantly on my mind,
But after the world turns off and the darkness comes on,
I can see you so much more clearly,
And my ache is renewed.
Please, someone stop me from writing after 10 pm.
I don't want this pain.
550 · Apr 2024
Address Book
Lily Apr 2024
A is for Abigail, who shared with you a kindergarten trauma and
then forgot who you were in eighth grade, like Belinda, who
left without a word one sunday morning after mass, C is
Catalina, your best friend’s ex-best friend, who went
with you to Daana’s book launch in texas, and
Enrique, who you planned to room with in college but you hear from friends
crashed his car into a tree and joined the saints, but Flores had
another kid and his man bun is
slicker than ever and Gumaro, who you helped teach
english in fourth grade is still
hitting the gym beside Hiris, even as she
works at la perla full time and overtime, beside Isabella who
no white girl would talk to in middle school because they said she
smelled like dirt, or Juliana, punching
numbers into a cash register at the dollar general thinking
of falling in love with Kruz who made a
perfect vanilla cupcake candle in home ec but couldn’t
cook steak to save his life.  
Lucio remembers kissing you on the mouth in the church
nursery but he is now engaged to a white girl you’ve
never met, and he remembers a particular
messy Maria who would draw like her life
depended on it, and a Nadia who would cry in english 11
because her parents couldn’t help her with the homework
but still kiss him after her soccer games, who no longer
bothers to call Olivia, even though they were teammates for
a decade and now she works at her own sports shop with
a daughter who could have gone pro if only.
Profe, who was a migrant “helper” at your elementary school,
laughs at it all, remembering yelling at parents in spanglish,
although you heard her husband yelling at her on the phone at lunch,
laughing when Quito broke one of the chairs that the school bought with
its 4 million dollar bond that drained money and morale, who went
out with Romani and started a band in seventh grade that took
longer than usual to fizzle out, and the bullying stopped for a while, though
Sergio would never forget how it felt to bend down for hours with
bad black bruises up his back, wouldn’t ever stop
reliving every labored breath spent both here and there.  
And Thalia couldn’t even make a living, recalling almost
forgotten days of swingsets and slurping
pelon pelo rico tamarindo under the orange tube slide.  
Her ex-husband Umberto everybody but the feds
forgot about, and V is for Victor, the high school goalie who had to quit because he
strained his wrists in the fields, like Wanita, who is trying to raise
money for her second hip replacement, like father Xavier, who carves statues of
woodland creatures for the children he could never have, and
Yesenia, who sewed and sewed until her fingers curled and her
forehead wrinkled beyond repair, and she tells you that Zaida, who made the
best tamales in town, is now gone to the saints, and no longer
fears anything, even the government and their obsession with
small white slips of paper.

So much in a name, in a hyphen, in a tilde, but no, it
should be under V—“virgulilla,” and their names should be
written in your address book but instead
they’re in a list at some office in
the States underneath “undocumented” and “illegal.”
After John Keene’s ‘Phone Book,’ Dec 2021

hey y'all, it's been a while.  I'm trying to come back from hiatus and get back into writing and also to use my voice for bigger things.  I hope you like this poem and that it makes you think :)
544 · Mar 2018
Always
Lily Mar 2018
Always there, never wavering,
Always there, always stabling,
Always through tears,
Always through fears,
Always as the end draws near;
Always e'en though there's nothing to fear,
When he's right by my side, being my
Always.
543 · Jul 2018
Running
Lily Jul 2018
Why do I feel like I’m always running,
Always chasing after you?
I’m trying to hand you the baton
On the track, and you sprint ahead of me,
Leaving me in the dust.
For once, could you try to contact me?
For once, could you think of me first?
Or will you just keep on running?
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