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Amelia Crake Feb 2018
You are my sunshine,
the sweetest sunshine.
You make me happy
in every way.
You'll always know kid,
how much I love you.
Because I'll tell you every day.
For my sweetest little Sol.

To the tune of "You Are my Sunshine."
  Dec 2017 Amelia Crake
bones
Am I really a poet,
If all I ever write about,
Is you?
Feeling insecure today.
Amelia Crake Nov 2017
i don't remember,
could you tell me,
what is sobriety?

intrepid, reckless,
no inhibitions,
temporary release
from monotony
suddenly became
the norm.

explain to me,
what is it like
to think clearly?
i don't want to feel this overwhelming hostility
Amelia Crake Nov 2017
buildings crumbling faster than day-
light savings time can come back around.
obsolete television screens screaming, blasting
concrete images of war-torn nations and dead
kids. desensitized, we have become
accustomed to the inevitable
destruction of our peace of mind.
effervescent teens sign up to fight back.
An acrostic poem with no caps
Amelia Crake Oct 2017
My grandma Linda had just died,

so naturally 5-year-old me asks

“Hey mom?

What happens when you die?”

Emphasizing my words

so she knew I was talking about her,

not just in general.

She faded some more,

shocked like I punched her, but

I felt like it was important,

and relatively urgent to ask

‘cos she looked like

she could go at any second

to wherever she was trying

to tell me my grandma went.



As I am writing this

it is my oldest brother’s,

our oldest sibling’s

37th birthday.

6 days ago, all of the

love and energy he had,

left his body

to spread back out into the universe,

making the stars shine a little brighter and

the sun burn a little hotter.



I cannot say

that my chest does not feel empty,

A cold cavern, deeper than the Grand Canyon.

Falling asleep feels like

diving in to the

depths of Mariana’s Trench.

So much pressure and

I wish too hard

for the sweet release of nightmares.

something cruel and punishing but,

I just keep dreaming that

he’s alive.

Joyful dreams, memories,

and they are so realistic,

‘cos once they were real.



Now everyone keeps asking me

how I’m doing,

asking if I’m alright,

‘cos it looks like I haven’t slept in years

they have to remind me,

like I don’t already know.



Today my mom told me I look like death.

I guess I know how she felt,

a reality check like a punch in the gut
RIP C.P.O 10/23/80 - 10/17/17
Amelia Crake Oct 2017
Family,
How doth thee compare to a Summer's Day?

You are like an Old fairy-tale, dusty and cold,
you creep and mistreat your way through murky forests,
tormenting innocent woodland creatures until you get your way.

Hidden away, I am a small house made of once hollowed out bricks,
now filled with lead. A steady fire burns within.
Finding a needle in the haystack
isn't so hard
if you turn the hay into ashes.
I am the scorching Sun,
my glare refracting into your eyes, a spotlight
meant to keep you at bay.

Your attitude is despicable.
Hungry for happiness yet unwilling to make your own,
you steal my brilliant rays.
I am the Sun,
sitting ominously in the corner of our garden,
turrets looming over-head,
casting shadows while I cover my toes in cool mud
and peach hued rose petals,
and I am watching
poison bugs buzzing by your drink,
landing with a sudden silent zip.
I say nothing.

As they sink to the bottom
I am so intrigued
that I almost do not notice the click of your teeth,
a subtle warning of what's to come.

Hyper-focused on every task,
I can only take one path at a time.
You are constantly upset,
I am always in motion,
you can not turn me down.
I am the Sun,
a giant ball of radiating energy.

Scatterbrained, I am an enigmatic magpie,
alone, an omen if you believe.
Picking silver needles off the warm mossy ground,
slipping silver threads from your once auburn hair,
I am filling my home with things that can not burn.

I am the Sun,
too bright, I am bleaching your skin.
It is like watching a photograph
fading in slow motion.

I am waiting for your deep eyes to darken,
something from under your skin, beginning to surface,
assuring torrential rains and gale force hail.
You are faltering,
a passing storm, a bubbling brook.
Nothing compared to the bursting giant star that I Am.
After 7 drafts of this poem, I am certain of only one thing; I will absolutely come back to it some day and rewrite it into ashes.
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