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August Sep 9
He gave me dead flowers
So I can smell them every day
The rotten petals falling
The color of decay

The washed out sunflower
The dehydrated leaves
The mold on the water
The color of debris

The richly red rose
Now drooping to the floor
The color of love
Existed no more

But still I saved the flowers
And smelled them every day
And watered them with tears
To let them grow again.
August Jul 31
The vivid embrace danced across my mind.
These reveries were a hint of unreality of the world.
An instinct of indifference.
A product of soft-mindedness.
An infinite number of ramifications.
Yet, he had represented all the beauty.
August Oct 2018
dead lips notice corroding wishes
french hours singing infinite winters
romanticizing the energy of blaring reasons
sympathetic pieces worn saturated in emptiness
barely feeling broken snowflakes
pinhole breathing, busy restless hours
remembering sleeves of days
ironic twisting into the red of skin,
goodbye thursdays, goodbye nighttime and mondays, goodbye.
August Oct 2018
I awoke one morning, in the same spot as before. My bones creaked with the pain of staying in the same position, on your shelf with a broken doll and snow globe from last year’s ski trip, waiting, to be remembered.

When you were just a small child I would be on your mind, a game we would play with bare feet and fairy wings, you would close your eyes and say, “When I grow up I want to be… a Unicorn!”

What about our games of hide and seek? I would hide and you could seek, but I’m starting to think we’ve been playing the same round for years, but you quit and never told me.

You started grade school, worked hard and had friends. You were brilliant, a genius inside a tiny girl, you took the hardest math and didn’t care about being a nerd. You’d run with the boys and make them look slow, saying “When I grow up I want to be… a

As the years passed by we talked less and less, the heaviness of life starting to weigh down, I watched life knock the innocence out of your eyes, and push you to the ground, I screamed for you, please, just think about me, just remember, but you never seemed to stop. As the pain melted away and left you alone, bare, exposed, you walked away, still, saying “When I grow up I want to be… Happy.”
August Oct 2017
Growing up, I found a melancholy spring.
I often lingered in its belly
slept in its warmth
hid in its shadows
cried in its pools

I chose the life of guarded existence
Slipped over the surface of things
hid away in the shadows

Spring turned to summer and fall
melancholy froze in its place
and waited 'til next year
to crawl inside again

As I left the comfort of melancholy
I expected to find love
start from the bottom
look through endless rows
and found no sound but whispers.

Then there was a little stir.
August Sep 2017
Z
I am generation Z. The post-9/11, children of technology. and
We are the kids that have become used to the idea of terrorism,
We're always told to be in groups of 4 or more and for girls to never go to the bathroom alone.
We may be free but we are held tightly by our fear, our freedom taken so quickly because we are afraid to make a change. We are the group of kids that have something to say but are drowned out by the sirens and the shouts and the prejudice and the too many opinions at once.
we are the kids who lie awake at night wondering why that plane is flying so low overhead. --

Our  hands shake for Boston, Our hearts break for colorado, Our tears fall for Orlando, and texas, and new york, and paris, and syria, and California and America, What are we doing? We have mouths that can speak words but our words do not speak volumes. The united states of America has become the divided states of America as we turn our backs on one another facing the same struggle.
We are Generation Z, the post 9-11, group that has something to say.... and We will not be silenced.


And I live in a world where schools have to have metal detectors.
I live in a world where there is violence on the streets.
I live in a world where bombings are a natural news occurrence and we wake up thinking that a mass shooting is a normal happening in society.
I live in a world where it's not okay to be afraid.
I live in a world where our people are divided based on political affiliations. We live in a world where we are followed by everything even offline with our hands over our ears the sirens can still be heard, and every 911 call echoes in our heads, and every cry for help is never silenced, and we hold our breath when airplanes fly over our heads.
I live in a world where the leader of the free world is no longer free himself.
and
I can sit and wait for the world to change but the world will not sit and wait for me.
United in our states of anxiety yet we stand alone. So far away in the corners of these walls but connected online through far away communications -- We can never get away. Everything follows us. Magnified as the magnitude rises, as every terror threat is followed through, as every muslim hides afraid of discrimination, united we are but alone we stand the united states of america is the divided states of america, and we are the future.
we are generation Z, and we are the future.
August Aug 2016
You walk into that new shop on the corner. You've never seen it before. It's inviting store windows and beautiful exterior pull you inside. What are they selling?

words.

"How much for this word?" you ask.
"well" says the cashier. "All the words are free, but the value comes in how you use them."
"I don't understand," you say. "How do I use this one?" You hold up the word 'love'.
"Be careful with that one. It's special." says the cashier.
"How many do you have in stock?" you ask.
"Infinite." says the cashier.
You look at him quite confused now, wondering why it's so special if they're all free and there are infinite amounts of them.
"The more you use the words the less valuable they become."
You give him a very puzzled look and begin backing away to the door.
"Where are you going?" he asks. "This is all yours. This whole store is full of your words."
"Just mine?" you ask.
He nods.
"What about your words?" you ask. "Where are they?"
"Oh," he says. "You don't want any of those."
He looks down as if he is studying the back of his hand, his eyes seem to glaze in thought.
"Maybe I do. May I see them?" you ask.
then he tells you,

    "My words are like an old worn out pair of shoes, my words have walked many miles but have been barely noticed, only to wash up onto a beach somewhere and be found a child and a mother telling them not to play with the garbage. I could be screaming the words and it would sound like a whisper, but even a whisper is noticed and told to hush by adults. Whispers float through hallways but are always paid attention to, regardless of their value, but my words are the cold, dead, silence of an empty house and the bottom of a swimming pool."

Unsure of what to say, you give him a sympathetic glance, "I'm sorry."
but right as you say it the words skid off the shelf and shatter onto the floor, and every lie you've ever told piles on top of it, and you realize you are no better than you neighbor, yet--

You try to help him pick up the pieces.
"Leave it," he says. "I thought you were different."
You wonder what it is you did wrong, so you decide to leave.  Just as you're about go, he turns ask you something this time.

"Can you hear me?
I'm talking.

Are you listening?"
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