I be me
Me I be

That Me-I-Be!
That Me-I-Be!
I do not like
That Me-I-Be!

Do you like?
setting yourself free

I do not like it
That Me-I-Be
I do not like
setting myself free

Would you like it
Here or there?

I would not like it
Here or There
I would not like myself
Anywhere
I do not like
being free
I do not like it
Me-I-Be

Would you like me if I was quiet?
Would you like me if I caused a riot?
I do not like me
Me-I-Be
I do not like
The being free
My choices when free don't seem up to me
I do not like it
That Me-I-Be

Every night I **** myself
Every night I die
Every night I look in the mirror and ask myself why

“Tell me, why are you doing this.”
“Tell me, why are you here.”
“Tell me if others love you, why can’t you love yourself as well”

Every single night I scream
Every night I fight
Every night I am attacked, caused by my own great fright

“Hey you, why do you work so slow and procrastinate”
“Hey you, why do you set goals you’re never gonna follow”
“Hey you, are you ever and I mean ever gonna be good at anything”

Every night a dark dark room
Every night it fills with suicide
Every night my bladed heart beats with ****** pride

“Stab yourself to control your weakness”
“Stab yourself to get rid of the pain”
“Stab yourself, it’s a punishment and a favor”

Every night I am up late
Every night my skin drips red
Every night my soul bleeds out and I feel the blood in my bed

“Let them, let the bad memories flood your brain”
“Let them, let them all be better than you”
“Let them, let them never know you’re effort”

Every morning I am awaken
Every morning I think about my life not taken
Every morning my body covered in scars
Every morning my pain trapped behind bars

Every morning I put on a smile
Every morning I am not fake
Every morning I find my new day worthwhile
Every morning I give and I take

Every morning my blood is dry
Every morning my skin sewn anew
Every morning I don’t have to lie
Every morning when the world is blue

I will be back again tonight
I’ll scream and twist and shout and fight
I’ll stab and cut until I die
And I’ll **** myself, at least I’ll try

The reaper I know, he’s come before
And tonight he’ll be back right at my door
We will rejoice together and soak up our sorrow
But then he’ll leave again tomorrow

Every night I know I die
So every morning I ask myself why
If every night I lie their dead
How am I now alive instead

Every morning given a second chance
And not even until night do I give it a thought or a glance
I am my own enemy and my own greatest strife
Every day I’m given a gift from my old friend life

Life, this is a love letter to you
For all the great things you’ve done and will do
Because I know I’ll **** myself tonight
But tomorrow morning I’ll be alright

Through all my living, you’ve given me a skill
I’ve cheated death once, and again I will

I have a two-week breaking point.
For 14 days I go through the motions: emotionless.
For a fortnight of time, I am indifferent to all things.

Yet on that 15th day I snap, bringing my composure down as well.

On the 15th day, I resort back to a shell of dependency,
hunkering away in isolation with nobody to depend on.
I become a nail made for a wall, but with no wall to go into.
My sole purpose is hopeless and my ambitions crushed.

Some may say I have a two-week expiration date.

"Chicken" he called out, "don't you remember?"
"You like beef" she shook her head "It's always been beef"
"College" he smiled "In college, I always ate chicken"

She nodded
She thought

"Well, you at least crunched it up" she reassured herself
"You crunched it up and ate it like soup"

"No. Never" his smile began to fade "That was you"
"Do you not remember?" he asked
My favorite food
Our wedding date, our romance, our love

I watched from the hall
This fight isn't real
These problems aren’t real enough
At least now I know why I like chicken ramen
And why I like it crunched

I hate Sundays,
with all of my heart.

Especially nights,
for they tear me apart.

My reflection is empty,
it escapes from my soul.

It warns me that on Sundays,
I have no control.

The toll it takes,
lying in bed.

Knowing tomorrow,
my dreams will be dead.

I really hate Sundays,
but didn’t use to.

Maybe I wouldn’t,
If I could have you.

Her bones are frail
Her face is porcelain
Yet her memories are the youngest thing about her

The day she fell, she shattered
Broken into a million pieces,
Her own glass stabbed her in the heart

So long ago, but something she will always remember
The scars help, but the lingering pain helps more
Put back together now, she's still the same person from another time                    

The little girl inside her remembers every word
Good and Bad
She may not remember how the memories occurred
Yet she knows exactly how they felt

She will never remember her first smile, first tear or first laugh
Although, she does know that one day when you go out to play.
You're going out to play for the last time

Even if, she'll never be able to know what that day was.

When writing letters I'd use fountain pens because-
ink runs smoothly alongside my words.

When drawing a picture I'd use fountain pens because-
I feel transported into times of great art.

When telling my secrets I'd use fountain pens because-
I wear confidence best when I'm alone.

When crafting poems I'd use fountain pens because-
I feel proud as poets should.

When writing letters I'd use fountain pens because with them,
I write poorly.

And I want my loved ones to know I tried.

I was born in California,
but haven't been there since
So...have I ever really been?

When I was little, I took a trip to Mexico
But I don't remember one bit
So...does that even count?

Three years ago, I wrote down on my bucket list:
One day I want to see a firefly
I want to see it shine
And not just one, but hundreds
I want to see a whole swarm, delicate as fairies
Off on their mission to warn the world,
Nighttime has arrived

Two years ago, my mother found it and said to me:
What are you talking about,
Fireflies?
Why you and your brothers used to fly with them all the time
You would get a jar, probably one we called Mason even if it wasn't
And you would lock them up inside, prisoners
A type of Stockholm syndrome, where the captors are captivated by the captees

At that moment, I could have erased seeing fireflies from my bucket list and my dreams,
But I didn't
Because that little girl with the jar has lost herself,
and to find herself again... she MUST see a firefly

I could jump in that puddle
If I wanted to

I could scream and disturb everyone
If I wanted to

I could spill this coffee everywhere
If I wanted to

I could grab that chair and flip it over
If I wanted to

I could grab these scissors and cut my hair off
If I wanted to

I could take my shirt off this very second
If I wanted to

But I don’t
Nobody’s stopping me
They could if they wanted to
But they don’t
I’m stopping me
Because I want to

I swear I'm not from this planet,
I swear I'm not from earth

I promise you with all my heart,
I must be an alien

because I am different,

because I am the same.

If you find my poems,
Then good for you.

I sure hope you like them.

If you don’t find my poems,
Then good for you too.

Dark black
Long time no sees
Or blue and soft

Sandy blonde
Very natural
And a blue-green point of view

Tan skin
Second hand sweaters
Wirsts adorned and decorated

She only makes sense to herself
But she makes everything for everyone else

She’s Lucy

It’s crisp and it’s shallow and it’s deep
It moves softly and swiftly
It disappears, it wasn’t made for you

The clouds disperse as planes and birds move transparently
Little kids spinning in circles
First elephants, then flowers then people

You grab onto your hair as you walk in the direction of the wind
The world disguised in fog, then a quick puff and everything changes
Even with just the windows open, you can see your breath

Somewhere three bears set their food out to cool
A scent fills the air
People are drawn to it, a girl with golden hair

You grow up and you learn
Stratus, cirrus, cumulus
Soft long fortune tellers

Your not a child anymore,
These clouds aren’t served with meatballs
You're on your rocking chair now

There’s lemonade and ice and a straw
You think money, you think friends, you think summer
The nice ones would pull over in their car and stop

It’s hot outside, yet when they roll down their window
They are hit and they feel it
Life changes when the sky breathes

Mary’s Mother is from Georgia, her Father from Pennsylvania.
A steelers flag hangs on Mary’s front porch, and every Sunday night in the fall means eating chicken wings while adorned in black and gold.

Mary’s Father has an office.
Inside of it lay a few rusting guitars, but the walls of the room are what truly catch your eye.
The paint itself, a dull muted gray is immaterial when compared to the dozens of plaques that enhance it.
Each frame carries a different piece of Groundhog’s Day memorabilia, many house pictures of Punxsutawney Phil, one is a certificate declaring Mary’s Father an “official Groundhog ambassador”, another an autographed photo from a Groundhog handler.

Mary’s Father claims that Groundhog’s day is America’s second greatest holiday.

Mary’s parents were married at Gobbler's ****.
Punxsutawney Phil attended the wedding.
Mary and her little sister stayed home from school every Groundhog’s day in elementary school, and in middle school they attended but came to school in matching Groundhog hats.

Mary’s kitchen counter has a small black speaker.
Each Sunday morning, Mary’s Father blasts the Polka Party Radio Show hours into the afternoon.
The whole family knows all of the polka songs by heart.
Each Sunday morning they came together to listen to the “Waltz of The Angels”, a Polka special dedicated to various passed loved ones.
Even the turntable in Mary’s dining room only plays Pennsylvania Polka vinyls.

Mary’s incredibly familiar with Hershey Park.
She and her sister have brought home various souvenirs from Pennsylvania’s notorious “Chocolate Town”.

Mary’s family knows Gettysburg like the back of their hand.

I’ve known Mary for over a decade.
I never knew her mother was from Georgia.
“The Southerner’s Handbook” sits in Mary’s living room, the only true mark of Mary’s Mother’s life before she surrendered her maiden name.

I think it is a beautiful thing to give up your culture for somebody else.
I think it is a beautiful thing to sing Pennsylvania Dutch folk music with your Husband on late weekend nights because you know it makes your children happy.

I brush my teeth
I use the bathroom
I comb my hair

I pick a shirt
I find some socks
No they don’t match

I walk downstairs
I grab a drink
I eat my breakfast

The bus is here
I get my bag
I say goodbye

I tell her I love her
And I walk out the door
I lock it behind me and think

I wonder if she cries when I leave

It's a fortune cookie religion,
Where we abide by our own truths

We crack them open in the kitchen,
And spill out our papers of youth

We count our lucky numbers,
As we count our own turns of fate

It's a crystal sugar altar now,
And this cookie is my soulmate

My lovely thesaurus that sits by my side,
I use it and abuse it and love it with pride
I am not ashamed I have nothing to hide,
My lovely thesaurus that sits by my side

A writer’s friend, an antagonists foe
The book that makes my characters suffer incredible woe
A tool that I use when my conflicts not steep
A tool that I use to make dialogue more deep

I replace mainly adjectives but sometime nouns or verbs
It helps spice up my story in a way a chef might use herbs
It gives me a way to avoid repeating what I have already spoken,
And it helps leave my readers uplifted or heartbroken

This lovely thesaurus that sits by my side
It improves the way my characters lived and how they died
I use it and abuse it and love it with pride

It makes me no less and only helps me inside
So I will not be ashamed, I have nothing to hide,
If I said I didn’t use it to write this then I would have lied
My book of adventures, fairytales and intense dragon rides
My lovely thesaurus that sits by my side

You held my water in your hands
I wasn’t even thirsty yet

I placed a bucket below you,
To catch the water if it fell through the cracks

Her thoughts became your thoughts
When your thoughts were bored

Your brain would go to bed at night
And your dreams would come to find mine

She would only call me,
When nobody else would answer

I reached out to her
When nobody else was there

But, a ventilator can only keep a person going for so long

We sit here waiting for the technology of the future
We write about flying cars and time travel

We create paradoxes in our heads,
as we dream of paradoxes beyond us

We learn about the past and worry about what's coming
We think we know what's in store and we think we're in control.

I wonder if they sat around waiting for Da Vinci,
in a pre Mona Lisa world

Clink Clink
A fork, a knife
A cork, it bounces
Soft velvet cloth

Sip Sip
A glass, a bottle
A napkin, it unfolds
Black leather heels

Vroom Vroom
A wheel, an engine
A key, it turns
Brown comfy seats

Flap Flap
A rod, a curtain
A moon, it shines
Person fast asleep

Scribble Scribble
A pen, a chair
A drawer, it opens
White lined paper

Our society is screaming
And you-you can’t *** here
Except…

You

Totally

Could

I’m not curious
I’m not thirsty for answers
I don’t need to know the things I do

My secret passions are not my own
My heart doesn’t lie in the heart of knowledge
I never wanted to know everything

My plan wasn’t to take it this far
But I’ve made it to the point of no return
You can’t learn this much and stop

But I promise you I’m not desperate
I’m not looking for anything-
Anything other than a cure
A cure for my worst fear

And I, well I fear boredom

The bottom of my feet have scars on them now
Im burning

There was a brown haired regional manager on my tv screen
There was an empty Reese’s blizzard cup in my left hand
There was my mother still out front of the house in her car

And

There was my college bound brother sitting on the couch watching alone

I began walking up the wooden staircase
Making my way to my room

The place where I would
Shut my door
Grab my phone
And leave my family behind like always

I’m telling you this without a sigh
And I’m telling you this with no regrets
The story of a staircase

An after ice cream staircase
On an after ice cream night

A staircase my feet didn’t touch  
As I chose to sit on a couch
And spend silently spent and silently recognized time
With my silently recognized role model

And that has made all the difference

I've never been a feminist
I've always ignored any possible pay gap

I've never attended a march
I've always felt like inequality belongs in the 1800s

I've never been opposed to a man holding my door
I've always felt like I was better off ignoring the movement

I've never stayed updated on the Me Too stories
I've always felt like half of the women were lying anyways

I've heard of patriarchy
Yet never fought against it

But now I'm startled
Because it wasn't until today

that I even knew Matriarchy was a word

Lately I've been walking with nothing to hold onto,
letting my arms hang from my shoulders like vines,
hoping that somebody will reach out and cling on,
even if only to use me,
to get to their true destination.

nobody sees me
they don't, i swear
nobody sees me
and nobody cares

I'm writing this poem for Nathan
which is funny since I have nothing to say

not because I don't wanna talk to you
but just cause we already talk all-day

I'm writing this poem for Nathan
and hoping that he finds it kinda okay

I want him to enjoy it just a little
or maybe take out to read another day
        
                                                                         - M

You know I wrote a poem once,
They said it wasn’t funny
They said it was too dark and symbolic
They said it should be more sunny

You know I wrote a poem once,
They didn’t like it one bit
They went on and on about how it didn’t rhyme
They threw one great big fit

You know I wrote a poem once,
They originally tried to discover the meaning
They soon enough decided it wasn’t fun anymore
They were hideous and awfully intervening

You know I wrote a poem once
I wrote it about them
I told them it would be upbeat and rhyme this time
Ha, but it didn’t

You consume me
I'm not stopping you

You're stabbing me
Because I'm asking you

I'm hurting you
By letting you hurt me

and i see it
i do
but im not stopping

Have you ever heard of Planet B?

It’s the one with the beautiful blue oceans,
Crystal smooth water pouring on forever

It’s the one with the soft blue sky’s,
Dark star lit nights and clouds of all shapes and sizes

It’s the one with all the plants,
Tall looming trees, coral reefs hidden from your touch, and precious delicate flowers

It’s the one with all the animals,
Birds flying, fish swimming, cheetahs running

It’s the one without the humans
It’s the one we say we’re all gonna escape to when Planet A cant take care of us anymore

It’s the one that many of us say isn’t real
It’s the one many of us say we’ll never find
It’s the one we’re standing on right now
It’s the one called Earth

There were three floors in my house.
three floors all full of my gratitude.

The first floor.
it held my bedroom.
this floor was hours spent gazing from my window seat,
it was long warm showers in winter-
and making sure I blew out my candle before it could burn down my curtains.

My second floor.
it belongs to my mother.
her kitchen, her T.V, her view of our backyard.
she made her tea here, yelled at the news, and watched my brothers play outside.
her favorite living room carpet that has now become ashes.

Our third floor.
the safest.
after all, heat rises.
it was my father's basement,
my brother's bedroom,
it's where we watched movies, played boardgames, and shed monopoly's great tears.
now it's all that remains.

We weren't home when the fire happened.
When my candle caught hold of our memories.

Maybe I should have seen it coming.
I was the one who chose the crisp campfire scent.

One day my fairy godmother asked me,

Do you want to be white?
Do you want to have fair skin and thin easily manipulative hair?
Do you want long legs, legs that look good in jean shorts and skirts?
Do you want the boys to call you pretty?
Do you want to fit in?
Do you want to live in a world where your most commonly asked question isn't "what are you"?
Do you want to go to a school where the administration doesn't think of you as a statistic they need to improve?

Of course, I said yes.
"Make me white" I said.

She said too bad.
Too bad, you're gonna be Hispanic.
You're going to have dark skin that makes your pale scars all the more apparent.
You're going to look different each time you walk into a classroom or onto the school bus.
You're going to hang out with your white friends and forgot you don't fit in, at least until you look into a mirror and you remember.

And remembering is going to haunt you.
You're going to avoid cameras and windows.
Avoid anything that reveals your daunting reflection.

You're not going to be white.
Fairy godmothers aren't real.
All you have is an hada madrina, and what can she do in a whitewashed world?

I held on tight
We added more
First one, then two, then three
We kept it even
Now six on each side
You go up I go down
We smiled and rode
See
Seesaw

See
See Pain
See
See Beauty
See
See Work
See
See Life
See
See Age
See
See Loss
See
See Yourself
See
See Them
See
See The Kids
See
See Them Smile
See
See Them Play
See
See Not Seesaws
See
See Not hopscotch
See
See not swings
See
See not frien d s
See
See not real o n e s
See
See connection s d i e
See
See generations c h a n g e
See
See everythin g c h a n g e
See
See it all di s s a p e a r
See
See them forg e t h o w t o p la y
See
See  
See
See

Jason told me yesterday
Something
Something special

Something about Jason
Nobody else could tell me the same

Only Jason could

Men with shovels
Lining up to pour dirt
They grin as it packs in,
More and more, suffocating all my thoughts

In the ocean, I'm running
I can barely even move, but I stay there
I swim and try to breathe
My lungs fill with water and memories flood my mind

Suddenly a room
Packed with people,
I'm pushed and shoved against hundreds of warm bodies
I crash into walls as I hear the noises of others fabric tearing
I fall down and everything goes silent

My brain begins to collapse as the rest of me melts
My feelings dissolve and outsiders go blind
My eyes are frozen as glass and nothing can break through
My mind begins to shield me from the rest of the world

Inside my head I find my terror
Inside my head I find my escape

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then I'd write in black and white

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then I'd convey messages through silence

If I wrote poems in my dreams.
then my writing would hold knowledge it doesn't when awake

If I wrote poems in my dreams,
then you'd see a side of me that even I don't know

the thread was caught
stuck on mine
unraveling more and more
every second getting farther
yet closer at the same time

then the thread snapped
and it was done
back to before
but not like it never happened

eye contact
a precious thing
when you look At someone
you might let it sink in for a moment

others
they look away
to them eye contact is quick
a sudden dart of eyes towards and back

now eye contact
well it’s nothing like when your eye
when your eye gets caught
gets caught on another person's eye

you were not looking at them
they were not looking at you
but when moving your eyes or heads
your eyes simply gravitate towards each other

your eyes were like magnets that all of a sudden
all of a sudden were connected
neither of you tried
it just happened

this look is short
but it is not a dart
it’s a smooth move of the head
where for one second your eyes are one

the thread soon pulls itself back together
like rolling up a roll of toilet paper
you compose yourself
but for half a second you were the least composed you ever could’ve been.

Shall we
Shall we
Shall-ote?

Shall we
Shall we
Escape on mystery exits?

Shall we
Shall we
Drink banana slushees in the wake of our own highs?

Shall we
Shall we
Find meaningless strangers through meaningless music?

Shall we
Shall we
Roll the windows down and release our fears?

Shall we
Shall we
Shall-ote?

A click rang through my ears as I locked the door.
A bang sounded off around me as I dropped the toilet seat.
All of my senses were blind, yet my taste was heightened.
I sat down and let my feet dangle in open space,
toes much too young to touch the ground.
The walls around me vibrated and a sugar plum anthem pounded in the room next door.
The door rattled with knocks,
dancers hurrying to use the bathroom in between rehearsals.
Bobby pins littered the floor, and a run in my tights that was once the end of the world was now deemed insignificant.

My arms grasped a happy yellow handle, my stomach rumbled with fear.
A forgotten lunch had forced my father to drop off the forbidden red box sitting in my lap.

I tore through the paper, pink nail polish flaking off of my fingers.
I reached inside and pulled out my delicious contraband.

My baby teeth broke through the sesame bun, as my small eyes swelled.
I forced myself to swallow the meat, my throat succumbing to salt from both the pickles and my tears.

Ketchup burned, dripping red with the pain from my soul.

I was the exemplary representation of a young ballerina. A girl struggling to find balance between two notions. The first that you must never starve yourself, and the second that you must never eat unhealthy

A splatter of ketchup fell onto my leg
Once I left that room everyone would know what it was

Everyone would know what I had done

At only seven years old I had already earned my scarlet letter

When I was younger,
Fridays meant putting my bag in our downstairs closet where I wouldn't see it again til Monday morning.

Now that I'm older,
Fridays mean keeping my bag right beside my bed so I will never forget my overwhelming tasks.

"Did you just work very hard for five days? Well of course you did."

"But please, do us a favor...and work some more."

Where others feel ignored,
I feel painfully visible

Where some may seem neglected,
I seem not worth neglecting

Where you might feel useless
I feel a use not good enough for using

I'd rather be invisible

If you sit up tall,
I’ll fix my posture.

If I see you smile,
I’ll smile back.

Forever I will watch and steal from strangers,
The qualities I’m afraid I’ll always lack.

I’m sorry if you feel like I have copied,
Admiration is all I want to show.

I take from you the things I’ll always dream of,
The confidence I’m afraid I’ll never know.

Batteries protruding out of my skin
Electricity stabbing me
Sharp like lightning
Shooting through my chest
My heart
My soul
My pen

I'm writing now
I'm poetically charged

Today I felt professional because I put my apostrophe after my S

A simple grammatical performance caused me to respect myself more

Never once before, have I allowed myself to carry my apostrophe at the end of my words

I felt this a performance reserved for the greats

Yet for some reason today I let myself put an apostrophe after my S

And for some reason, I felt professional

your tiny hand unravels and the ornament hits the ground with a crash
you cry as you miss the tree by a mile,
Mom hurries to clean up the glass.

An aunts arms imprison me, protecting my bare feet
skin unscathed by the problems of the world
It's baby's first Christmas again.

Years pass and now we're under the stars
you lay in a tent, shadow bunnies hopping all around you.

My face is invisible but my voice is loud and clear,
High pitched and delicate as I take Dad's camera and begin to narrate.
Old enough to tell my own stories now.

I try to cross the damp wooden log, mountain water flowing below me.
My voice goes silent and the screen goes dark with a sudden splash.

I walk down the stairs, you smile and Dad films.
His camera has now been replaced by a handheld mirror of technology.

My dress flows past my ankles, my date appears at the door
A new voice has entered our house and our lives.
Parent interrogation fills my prom night and my cheeks fill with color.

I laugh and I grab the remote, I find the luminescent arrow with a line adorned below it
I eject the CD but download the memories into my mind forever

Her name is dangerous but her face is a disguise
She's an enemy who fights with peace and rivals any previous jealousy

She's the exemplification of teenage relatability and she knows it

She's the movie you watch when your boyfriend breaks up with you,
You know she's bad yet you crave the cringe of all her qualities

She's enough to turn any girl into a *******

I have curtains over my eyes
You can’t see them,
But I know that they’re there

They don’t allow my eyes to close and open,
But they allow me to decide what I should truly let into my perception

In the back of my mind, there is a shelf
It holds memories from a long time ago

These memories are how I remember
And they are how others forget who I am

In my throat, you will find a trap door
It’s locked and not even I have the key

Sometimes it opens to let in a breath of fresh air,
Yet it closes when it deems it most safe

Buried down in my heart is a stone
It weighs me down and holds many things

I can’t pick the stone up to see what’s there
But I know something that heavy must hold something important

My brain has become a home of my imagination
My body is now a place where anatomy is obsolete

I only hold objects and things that I can never see
And never touch
So that when one day when I fade away, there will be nothing left for anyone to find

Somebody out there watches black and white films to satisfy a stereotype they wish to fulfill
They watch not because they enjoy the film, but just because it's in black and white

Don't you think,
a person alive in a time of only black and white films would perhaps

find it quite odd.

That people watch black and white films for fun when they could instead watch one in color.

First, of course,
you must preheat the oven
probably somewhere around 330-350 because I can't remember the last time I was told otherwise.

After that, you must make sure you have all the ingredients.
Check your pantry, your cabinets, even the smaller white fridge many of us horde away in our family garage.

You'll need a pencil or a keyboard.
Maybe an old typewriter if you're trying to make a true romantic.
If you're lucky, all you will need is some imagination, not even paper.

If you do need paper, try and find some with lines.
A small piece of paper ripped out of some adorable Barnes and Noble notebook we all bought at one point or another.

On the paper, you'll tell a story.
It doesn't have to be good, but it must be true.
True not in a way that it actually happened, but true in a way that it flowed from you with honesty.

Once your story is finished you can crumple it up.
Put it in a bowl, probably a metal one made for mixing.

Then you can pour in some water, to justify your creative thirst.
Add some spices, these are your flavor, your thesaurus.

After this grab something. Anything. Something you like or something you hate. Chocolate chips, ketchup, pickles, sprinkles. These are your characters. Or if you write nonfiction, maybe they are you.

Then depending on your abundance or lack of ambition, you will mix it. Mix it a lot, or mix it a little. Add in some imagery, similes, or metaphors and let your readers try to decipher your writing. Or keep it simple, orderly and clear.

Then, grab some oven mitts. Pour your masterpiece into a pan -whichever you deem appropriate. And voila, wait for your writer to cook.

The cooking time is unique to each of you. Some of us take much longer than others. But that's okay, no matter how long it takes you to bake we will all need to cool off in the end.

And then of course,
once you're cool.

You start all over again.

I have a brightness deficiency
Forever forgetting a world without darkness

My whole life is over saturated
******* all the good parts out until they are all that you see

I have a papery polaroid heart beating inside my chest
Its colors are faded, as they should be

I turn the lights on,
Brighter and Brighter and Brighter
All I see is dusk

I rely on stars and sunlight
Trying to open my eyes wide enough so they can see like everyone else

Maybe my flash is broken
Or I'm the one draining out all the light