***** girl problems.
Any text on a t-shirt?
Highlighter for ****.

Clear, simple blue skies.
Unnerving negative space.
A girl decorates.

She stitches and glues.
Flying machines of all kinds.
A girl must create.

Colors shade sunlight.
Wind gifts them the breath to dance.
A girl must hold on.

She pulls a heart string,
Knots this to her creations,
A girl unravels.

To the skies, she goes
Free in flight, she whips and spins.
A girl, so rootless.

This headache ***** and
I'm too tired to hate you
the way that I should.

It’s not a bad goal
to be the kind of girl who
Rumi writes about.

So unknowingly
this bright muse interpreted
to touch and inspire.

But me? Never meant
to be the subject of art—
an object of thirst.

See, I’m the poet,
existing somewhere alone—
a penchant for soul.

Watercolor thoughts,
manipulating the lines
between joy and pain.

It’s not a bad goal
to be the kind of girl
who becomes Rumi

either.

Push off of the cool cement.
Gravity eases his grip on me.
Suspended in air,
I swallow mouthfuls of the night sky.
With stars in my lungs,
I course their light through my veins.
Between me and the moon,
my small world is drenched
in a hushed, wavering silvery glow.
The still, black surface
breaks into a thousand glittering pieces.
I’m told those little diamonds make
the most melodic tinks and pings,
but I don’t ever hear them.
By then, I’m fathoms below—
where I’m enveloped in quietude,
where time is an extinct notion,
where even the heaviest heart
can beat
                    for whatever she chooses
without
burden.

One phrase, thought-- but not spoken.
Offered unsafe passage past the lips.
Then I blink.
Suddenly, I'm standing, stripped,
naked, exposed and confused.
Screaming in a language
that isn't native to my audience.
Balled fists writhe in the air,
cool sweat drips
down the length of my spine.
Blank expressions paint
the faces of this grey panorama.
I find that one pair of eyes
and beg with my own, with their tears,
with ache, with a raw, beating heart.
They do not understand.
They will not understand.
I'll be up in flames before
my words are all translated.
My ashes kicked up in the wind.
The epitome of too late.

Hungry fingers prowl.
My skin hums—so electric.
The poetry flows.