An observer of the earth.
She sits in the secluded corner of the parlor,
Watching.
Watching the women
In tight corsets and ornate dresses.
Their hair
Large and elaborate.
Their laughs
High and false.
Makeup
Adorning their faces.
They are
Perfect.

She observes herself.
Jeans
Torn.
T-shirt
Too big.
Hair
Messy.
Laugh
Real.

The women
Look like they are in pain.
The girl
Is happy.
The women
Say beauty is pain.
*But I feel beautiful just the same

I was once a young boy wizard, who saved the world with his friends.

I was once the Mockingjay, whose
adventures had no end.

I was once Divergent, and
one choice changed my life.

I was once a Demi-god, and
my pen was also a knife.

I was once a kid with a treehouse,
That travelled to anywhere in time.

I was once a young girl who
lived in the woods, in a small house, but that was just fine.

I was once a young German orphan, stole books and read them for fun.  

I was once a hobbit who found the   one ring, but still my exploits weren't done.

When I read a good book, I sail away,  
To Hogwarts, The Factions, The Shire.

I am the characters I read,
I'm Leisel, I'm the ******* Fire.

So sail me away, give me a book,
I promise you it won't bore me.

For when I am reading a well written tale,
Though I am me, I'm the story.








----------------------------------------------------

The world is an empty canvas
Just waiting for your paint.
Leave your mark.
Make a stain.

The world is an empty canvas.
Do with it what you will.
Make a pretty picture.
Or make a terror out if art. You decide.

The world is an empty canvas.
Your brushes shape it.
You are the one who makes it beautiful
Or hideous.

The world is an empty canvas.
You can make it right.
If you have the tools.
If you have the ability.

So will you make a pretty painting?
Will you make a horror?
It's all your choice.
Paint.

Paint.

The sun is blind
It cannot see

It cannot see how
Beautiful
Shining
Magical it truly is

The sun is blind
It cannot see

It cannot see
The light
The glow
The color it casts

The sun is blind
It cannot see

But it knows that it is
Beautiful
Shining
Magical

It knows the
Light
Glow
Color

Just because it cannot see does not mean it doesn't know it's beauty
It knows the light and joy it gives
It knows how beautiful it is

Which is why it keeps shimmering on

For if you do not know how
Beautiful
Shining
Magical

If you do not know your
Light
Glow
Color

Why would you show it?

The sun is blind
It cannot see

I am from my father’s warm cooking,
From my mom and grandma’s baking.
I am from the soggy, overdone noodles, that, though disgusting,
I was proud of because I made them myself.

I am from lemonade stands with my sister,
Keeping careful watch to see that she didn’t run into the street.
I am from drinking most of our product that we were supposed to be selling,
And making my mother pay twenty-five cents to do the same.

I am from lights on my face as I slipped into the life of another person,
proudly singing a song.
I am from “break a leg,” and “you can do it.”
I am from dancing badly and the music that compelled me to do so.

I am from Emergency Room trips,
From falling and stumbling and crashing into things.
I am from the bonfires at the camp I hated
(sparkly, mesmerizing, didn’t feel as nice as it looked)

I am from Ernie and Bert’s pointless arguments,
From my old fears of
Cookie Monster,
and crying when he came on the television.

I am from June and Mortimer’s branch.
From the crazy heritage from my dad,
and the Native American woman and the English man
who are my great-great-great-great grandparents.





I am from the chemotherapy and radiation that
didn’t work,
and crying when I heard that the boy
I had never met had died.

I am from Milo and the Phantom Tollbooth,
From the adventures that I enjoyed with Harry, Hermione, and Ron.
I am from the books that I read at a very young age
that made me love the letters on the pages.

I have boxes, filled with memories.
A birth certificate,
shoes that barely fit two of my fingers.

I am from the stories that were told,
and the unwritten tales
yet to come

No one knows why.

Why beauty always disappears in the end.

Why the tree sheds it's beautiful colors every fall.

Why every night, the sun shares it's  beautiful spotlight of the sky with the moon.

Why the flowers shrivel and die after a short period of time.

Why the music always has to come to a stop.

Why the shooting stars flash by and leave.

Why every story comes to an end.

Why the fluttering butterflies always fly away.

Why the rainbow always ends up vanishing from the sky.

The reason? No one knows.

No one knows.

Just keep dancing,
The song's not over.

When life is hard,
When you're weighed down by stress,
Just keep dancing.
The song's not over.

When anxiety hurts,
When you don't want to deal anymore,
Just keep dancing.
The song's not over.

When times are tough,
When you're struggling to get by,
Just keep dancing.
The song's not over.

The song hasn't ended yet.
You can't stop dancing now.

He told me, "listen,"
But I couldn't hear a sound.
He would say to listen closer,
But still, no noise was heard.

All there was
Was silence, except
Our hearts beating in rhythm,
Our breaths slow and quiet.
Us living.

He had said to me, "listen,"
But I can't hear a sound.
He had told me to listen closer,
But there is no noise to be heard.

All there is
Is silence.
My quickly beating heart,
My short, uneven breaths.
Me living.

And I'm still listening.

i say we leave.
i say we get out of this retched place
we move on
you and i.
we should leave, go to a place where the ground is soft, where the skies are bright

why are we here, anyways?
we should have left years ago; we shouldn't have come to start with.
oh, my darling, this horrid place which i cannot call a home
is starting to frighten me.
hold me close as you whisper words of comfort to me.

whisper in my ear that we are going to leave. breath out your ideas of the promised land,
tell me where we shall go.

what must i do to freely fall
as i did when i was young
(young. i am still young. why do i feel so old?)

how can i feel the giddy joy
i felt as a little girl
where can i find the fluttering butterflies
that used to appear in my stomach

why can’t i find the thrill of love
the thrill of lust
the thrill of new relationships
how has it become mundane?

are my days of young love over?
barely twenty, and already not able to find that youthful joy

i am still young
but where has my youth gone?

yes, all my hair is brown
and not one wrinkle adorns my skin
but i am
tired

i am tired in a way that does not feel young
i’m tired in a way that i should not feel
i am barely twenty years old
where has my youth gone?

i feel i’ve lived a hundred years
dog years
mayfly years
where has my youth gone?

when i was young
(i am still young)
i inhaled books like they were oxygen
i read books upon books
five books per day
five hundred pages per book
where has my ability to inhale literature gone?
i still love to read
i do
but why can’t i do it the way i used to?

where has my youth gone?
barely twenty years old and already complaining about the weather and asking for help understanding social media

i wish i could care less
about my image
about my body
the way i did
when i was young