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Jun 2014 · 2.0k
your birdhouse
Ariella Jun 2014
I  used to be your birdhouse.
I could coax you out from your seat in the treetops
from behind the camouflaging greens
and watch you edge out shyly with the wind ruffling your blush feathers.
You'd cling to me when the spring showers started falling
and I could keep you safe and dry, I could always do that.
I'd be there to hear your youthful songs, and I'd whisper back in a language just we knew
and then I'd hug you goodbye and watch you step precariously from my perch,
flapping in the wind, unsure, unaccustomed.
and  I'd be there for you the next day and the next
because I thought you'd still need me.
I never thought I'd see you, the point of a flying V
soaring with your head held high,
not even glancing down at
my tired wooden walls
and faded empty perch.
May 2014 · 2.9k
make a wish
Ariella May 2014
deep below the wishing well,
in the tomb of wishful pennies,
live a team of diligent elves,
working day and night.
palms outstretched
they grab each cast away coin as it falls,
clutching them to their grimy chests in hunger.
they box them all up
and melt them down in flat sheets by the dozen
in factory fashion
in precision.
and they build from them tools and weapons;
whatever it is that they need.
their business is balanced on the backs of believers
who pour out their hearts to deaf coins
in scrunched eyes and in whispers
and a flick of their wrists to the darkness below.
perhaps if they knew the fate of their coins,
the industrial dungeon just storeys below
they might have spent their wishes on a shooting star instead,
destined to shatter through space.
Isn't it strange that we wish on things that are going to die?
Like coins thrown into fountains- they're just gonna sink.
And shooting stars- they're going to explode.
Birthday candles are going to be blown out.
So why should  wishes survive?
May 2014 · 2.9k
Ariella May 2014
she had a telescope in her pocket.
one of those cool tiny ones, like a pirate might have
if he were searching for buried treasure.
she told me it was magic, let her see
enchanted things
like fairies and mermaids
and little trolls with fuzzy hair.
they were scared of normal people.
they were really shy, she said
but they were real and alive,
breathing air and eating brunch
and taking baths
like us.

she’d look through her telescope when we walked to school
or through the park
lost in it, like she wasn't even there next to me
but somewhere else, on an island
that no one had a map of.
sometimes she’d point, say
“look! in that tree, right there!”
so I’d squint and try to see
what only she could see
but all I’d see was some leaves
or a nest
or nothing at all.

sometimes I’d lie next to her on the lawn
and close my eyes.
and she could breathe an image behind my closed eyelids
and I could feel the breeze as fairies flew by,
and hear the mermaids’ tails sweeping against toasted rocks
and it was like I’d rowed a ship
across that ocean to her island
I’d found the map, I was next to her,
and the world was just as she said it was--
but the difference between me and her was
she could open her eyes, and still see it all.
but I’d open my eyes, and all I’d see
was some leaves
or a nest
or nothing at all.
"Every closed eye is not sleeping, and every open eye is not seeing." -Bill Cosby
Apr 2014 · 7.9k
Ariella Apr 2014
i wait for when
the clocks will stop ticking
so time can take its place
above gold
Apr 2014 · 429
Ariella Apr 2014
you can't even bring real flowers
because they'd attract bugs
and make a mess.
wilting petals are a hassle to sweep up.
plastic sentiments
are as good as it gets
for the dead
Everything feels so artificial.
Apr 2014 · 1.4k
when things were simple
Ariella Apr 2014
see that house on the corner? the one with blue shutters.
I used to live there, you know.
I did.
and I had a room.
my very own room
with lilac walls and smooth wooden floors
perfect for twirling and sliding and slipping
and huge bay windows, my eyes to the world
that I’d draw on some misty mornings
and I loved how my fingers could wipe away the blur
and I’d look out at the stars and dream.
I had toys there, you know.
lots of dolls and bears and crayons.
sometimes I’d line them all up and sing for them.
and dance.
and they’d clap their hands and paws and cheer and throw flowers
with petals crafted from light-years of imagination
and we’d build tents together out of blankets and chairs
and tell spooky stories and cuddle when we got too scared.
I knew every nook and cranny in that room
every creaky floorboard, every crack in the plaster
was music to my ears, was a familiar face  
I knew it all by heart
like a song from my princess movies
which I loved very much, you know.

then one day we moved.
we packed up our memories
in boxes piled to the sky
and my teddies and dolls cried
from their bins in the van.
and I stood in the doorway of my empty room
just looked around for a while, you know.
and there were no tents or dance shows or anything.
not even one stray sock.
just bare lilac walls and smooth wooden floors
I tried twirling and sliding and slipping, but I couldn't.
everything I loved was no longer mine.
my friends were just absent furniture and toys
had they ever been anything more? I thought
as I climbed down the stairs
and I wondered if maybe a new girl would move in
and I wondered if she’d take my dolls and bears and crayons.
I wish more than anything to be a little kid again.
Apr 2014 · 1.4k
I guess
Ariella Apr 2014
I guess I write in third person
so I can pretend that my feelings
aren't mine
Apr 2014 · 458
seeing 20/20
Ariella Apr 2014
the mirror used to show her reflection
her hair that twirled at the ends
the way her lips  stre e e e ched when she smiled
her eyes clear like they'd never seen a storm
masked with childlike innocence,
an antique veil that wears away
letting light seep in
thinner each year
until she looks one day
at her reflection in the mirror,
eyes truly open for the first time
and there's a spotlight on her flaws
that she'd never seen before
like a blindfold lifted
she's squinting in the sun
and she rubs her eyes but can no longer see
the twirled hair and smiling lips
that had been before.
I want that blindfold back
Apr 2014 · 3.4k
Ariella Apr 2014
As fear lurks in the doorway
in the middle of the night
you quiver and you question
you reach to find the light
not once d'you pause to think
to find your inner hope
to gather up your courage
to find a way to cope.
for danger is a villain,
he'll make you want to hide.
but the quest to find your courage
begins with what's inside.
This is a poem I wrote when I was 12. And even though it's chock full of cliches and stuff.. I dunno, I guess it's kinda empowering c:
Apr 2014 · 891
Ariella Apr 2014
I wanna be one of those girls
in the movies
who has big doe eyes to drown in,
looking out at the city lights
living out her Romeo and Juliet.
she gets sad sometimes, sure,
strumming tragedy on her guitar
but that's ok.
because no matter how bad it gets for her
there'll always be a happy ending
in the movies.
Apr 2014 · 1.5k
Ariella Apr 2014
when an ambulance siren cries at night
she shuts her eyes and blocks her ears,
staying sheltered in her snow globe of youth.
'cause maybe if she doesn't hear it
it's not really there.
Apr 2014 · 628
Ariella Apr 2014
Have you heard of Gus?
Probably not.
He’s a street cleaner, you see.
On the other side of town, where no one actually lives  
Except crumbling houses and rusted mailboxes  
And ghosts, if you believe in that kind of thing.
They must’ve stopped paying him years ago
When his job was no longer needed
‘Cause people were moving away from those parts
To the city, where creativity is a corpse under pavement.
So Gus works alone on the streets,
Sometimes I see him if I pass through the park.
Just cleaning away without a care in the world,
His companions a broom, clippers, a bucket, a sponge,
Whistling old folk songs to himself
As he sweeps up the sidewalks and pulls all the weeds,
Tames the wild lawns that nobody owns,
And cleans the windows with every ounce of his being,
Looking in, and never looking out.
And sometimes he just stands there, staring
At his reflection in the sparkling glass
Just adjusts his rugged uniform, 20 years out of date, sometimes picks at his teeth
Or something.
Sometimes I wonder why he does what he does,
It makes me angry to see him waste away his days
It’s like a symphony played to deaf ears
Or a sonnet written to the blind
It’s like rain on a parking lot,
It’s not helping anything to grow.
It’s just there, just there, nothing more.
I want to yell to him, to tell him to get a real job
To just trash that uniform, the supplies, just move on.
But still he remains, his whistling breaking
The silence of a street left to rot.

— The End —