Persephone runs amok, her hair caught on tendrils of wind,
eyes lucid as emeralds; aware, alive.
Hope is sketched on her face as if drawn by whoever paints the sunset,
pulsating with the reflection of neon cities, rolling countryside,
the adrenaline-pumping moment before a rollercoaster’s descent.
She is high on happiness, running across her plane of existence
with only her converse sneakers and extraordinary ambitions.

Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to Demeter.
Demeter, who is stern but unconditionally loving,
selfless, for when she hears her daughter’s plea for food she stops
her spoon midway through a bite.
When Persephone struggles with the perpetual torture of arithmetics,
Demeter’s sheer intelligence is astonishing, the iridescent reflection of
Persephone’s aspirations, for a problem to Demeter is merely
a hidden solution, a failure only a victory in waiting.

If only Demeter knew how her words are of the highest value,
her pleased smile the only affirmation to a job well done.
Her love cradled in the nook of Persephone memories,
every moment she is infinitely grateful to co-exist,
grateful for the Universe to award her the simple pleasure
of loving her parent with purity and stripped of conditions.

As Persephone runs, she glances back for a mere second,
in her smile is the mirror of her naivety,
she still believes that her Gods will save her from being a slave to
the inevitable corruption on Earth and Olympus,
for she is sure her untarnishable love for Demeter is her protector.

Yet, you know how the story goes.
In an instant, Persephone is falling into the Underworld, on the back of a beautiful monster into inescapable darkness.
But even then, she holds on to Demeter in thought and in prayer.
After adulthood, marriage, queenship, a childhood gone in a flash,
after her hands become worn with calluses, her face a series of rivers,
her mind expansive, her goals reached, Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to the first person she ever loved.

I love you Dad, Happy Father’s Day.

all i want is to be heard;
not by you.
you do not care.
but instead i want the trees
to hear.
my quiet breathing
my song so dear.
i want my best friend to please
shut her mouth.
about sam's wretched life
that is going south.
i dont care about
stupid katie.
and the fact that she and tom
are dating.
i want the trees to listen please.
to the heartfelt story i tell with ease.
i want the river to tell me how,
the past, present, and future are now.
but if no one cares,
i guess i wont.
oh well.
i know that you dont.

obsessing.
over the fact that my dress was probably to short
my smile too wide
my eyes on the verge of tears
my nose too perky
my lips too thin
my braces like headlights
my glasses all *****
my armpits sweaty
my face filled with too much hope
and my head filled with too many thoughts.
i wonder what he saw.
probably another plain girl walking down the hallway,
clutching her book,
looking down at her feet.

Every night, six ten on the dot
came the weary woman, collecting fragments of thought.
She pulled her green dumpster,
always on time,
waiting for the dependable
same-old twelve chimes.
Only then would she leave,
take her uniform off,
then the next day again,
dancing with the clock.
But some days she'd pick up
litter from a genius's mind,
and astounded she'd be with
her new precious find.
She placed these in her lilac box,
saved for the best of the best,
then, preparing for the next shift.
she would take a much needed
rest.

i guess if you really never liked me
then it makes sense that you're leaving.
**** this is so cliche,
but my heart hurts so i guess we'll make do.

is it still a poem when its a paragraph,
broken up
strategically (except not really)
into little parts?

"a poem is what you make it"
no not really.
a poem is what others make of your scribbles.

i'm rambling, of course.
when i edit this i'll probably delete it all.

****** why did i get my heart broken again.
jesus christ why did i walk right into
a god-forsaken trap.

i should apologize to myself, shouldn't i?
sorry boo,
at least i love you.
(except not really)

loneliness overwhelms me.
every night i long for a kiss,
kisses down my neck
up my neck,
tracing my face.
dreaming of smoking cigarettes,
riding a skateboard,
walking to the drive-through,
watching Back to the Future with him,
making love and
living life like its
1985.

But i was born in the wrong generation.
Living the wrong life,
lonely.

they say that
eyes are  the
​windows to
the soul.

your soul
must be a
*******
trainwreck.

a hell- harboring
abyss of the
purest evil.

a vortex of
hidden emotions
and unnoticed
glances.

a splitting
chasm of
everything i
want and
everything i
need.
​
i must be insane,
for it makes me
like you all
over again.

its been a while..
i kind of forgot how to write
i forgot about the freedom i felt when
i vomited my words on paper
on a website were everyone speaks,
speaks their beautiful words.

its been a while..
i kind of forgot myself
caught up in the daily struggle of
today then tomorrow then the day after that.


its been a while..
but i wont forget again.

oh how to be a suburban teen
fake money big houses taco bell
nights out and lights out at 10

running through the streets in a flurry of
frostbite and cold hands

first kisses in the shopping mall,
which (by the way) i always said to be
the rotten palaces of capitalism

calling boys who wear the same thing everyday.
cute shirts and skirts with big boots

downloading vintage camera apps on our
iphone 11 pro max

how to be a suburban teen