Can you imagine what it feels like
To in one moment be so content with everything you have
And the next be ripped away into a moment of utter despair

I can imagine.

And can you imagine the wicked claws that grabbed you
That once were delicate long fingers, tools of pleasure,
Now squeezing the very life out of your soul day by day

Oh I can.

And you are afraid, of course
You can only go on so long while being consumed by the darkness
If only someone would light a match to clear the air

If only.

and Hallelujah
the sugar burns my teeth cavities
like I knew it would
and I laugh at the bottle label
because 270 calories
for one small drink
is a joke-
a trick I should've seen coming

the caffeine isn't even worth it

What is behind that is also below
my window?
That lingers and creeps and edges its way in and around
with no sound,
and you cannot hold
and you cannot smell
and you cannot fathom

it is darkness

And within that darkness,
what lurks beneath the surface?
That hides and finds such triumph
in being out of sight,
and you cannot bargain
and you cannot run from
and you cannot lose

is it fate?

I imagine you standing there, flicking your hair
and the red glow of some sign backlights you
so your silhouette is dark, moody
like the leather jacket you always wear-
but to be ironic
because you're like that
My eyes can just make out the flicker of your pupils
under spidery lashes
and you give me a smirk
because you know I'm watching
I seem to be always watching you
You're leaning in that funny way again
like up against a wall, only there's not one there
your head cocked to the side
as you wait for something to happen
I am the one to make the move,
because I always am,
and you don't hesitate before grabbing my elbow
and we race off into the night
the puddles soaking your scuffed boots
and the cuffs of your jeans
You smell of smoke and that cologne you always wear
and I am desperate to keep you with me
because you are the closest thing to perfect that I know
I imagine you grab my waist
and you tell me all the things I have always wanted to hear

and it isn't enough.

It's hard to say if the climb was worth it

I know they push and press convincingly that
the climb is always worth it, but is it really?
I am left scraped up and battered
from all the boulders
and the wolves
and all the **** thorns
and left wondering if I really made it out better on the other side

There's always another mountain

And is it worth it?
To what end do we climb?
To what purpose do we trudge tirelessly up the mountainside,
wondering when we will reach the top?
I have reached the top many times
And there is always another **** mountain to climb
on the other side

So it's hard to say if the climb was worth it

And that is not to say I am done climbing
Though I question, my body falls back into the rhythm of the climb
ignores the scrapes and bruises
ignores the way the wolves nip at my heels
because I too always feel there is victory at the top
believe the nicks come with the climb
believe that if I just reach the top, then I can be free

But there's always another mountain

And what did I gain more than experience?
More than scars, and disappointment
Does it even matter that I have beaten the mountain
if nothing ever changes but my own weariness?
It is insanity, the very climb we repeat
over and over
as if there will ever be a different outcome

It's hard to say if the climb was worth it

The poet examines her work
leafs through the crumpled papers
watching handwriting change
from entry to entry
sometimes within poems
as if emotion dictates scrawl-
lighthanded, looping, or harsh and flat

She stops on a few
drawn in by memory
or lines like dreams
where she imagined sleepless nights
or the end of a life
anything her mind could imagine
fleshed out with the fluidity of a stream

The words had always been in
her brain. It is impossible to know
if they would have disappeared
with nowhere to go
if she hadn’t guided her pen to paper
everyday, writing about whatever
or whomever. Like the sketch artist

she has gotten better everyday
the words appearing quicker and quicker.
This might be due to English class
it’s hard to say
regardless she has grown-
like a tree budding in Spring
learning everything has a purpose


The poet is not just a poet
she catches snippets from novels-
the dialogue or introduction or
internal stream of consciousness
clanking around her brain
She once wrote a fairytale
about a boy who spoke to trees

All of them are precious-
they are pieces of her soul
spread out on lined paper
calling out for a life that imagines,
wonders, feels free,
does not stand still-
floats on the breeze like the eagle

She has learned a thing or two
from Sylvia Plath:
the good stuff
the quality of dissonant language
the stanza-length-decision
Before she would write whatever
sounded nice- she might still

The poet, satisfied, closes the journal
imagining that one day
her poems would reach into the
minds of the world- gently
drawing out dreams-
inspiring words like she has been inspired
And she closes her eyes with an exhale