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kayla morrison Mar 2014
My boyfriend does not say he loves me.
“I love you” is reserved for family members only,
and even then, sometimes, it’s a boldfaced lie.
My father “loved” my mother,
he cheated on her, drank away her money
he abandoned me.
Another victim of his so called love.
I don’t even know what “love” means.
Somehow there is a supposed difference
in love.

I don’t see it.
I love you, should mean
I love you.
But it doesn’t, does it?
We can’t even rightfully define the word love,
so how can it mean something?

No, my boyfriend doesn’t say
I love you
instead he swears he adores me.
Now that word has meaning,
it isn’t common.
It’s unique to us.

It means he respects me,
he likes my quirky smile.
The way I walk, talk, and sing.
He likes the way I fight
the way I dance
the way I like to read in the dark.

My boyfriend also doesn’t call me
honey, sweetie pie, cupcake or worst of all,
love muffin.
I am not a pie, cupcake, muffin or honey…
although I do like all of those things….
a lot.

He calls me by my name,
and there’s something special about that too.
My name, the thing that is constant.
All of my accomplishments are wrapped up in that one word.
I own it.

Tying my shoes for the first time,
riding a bike,
acing that test I studied all night for.
It’s all there
in my name.
Honey, sweetie pie, cupcake and worst of all love muffin
don’t hold any meaning.
It’s what a guy calls a cute girl.
That’s so original.

My name carries all of my accomplishments,
and my failures.
The first time I fell off my bike,
and my best friend had to walk me home.
The first time I got into a car accident,
and the airbag bruised my face.
The time, my ex boyfriend said he loved me,
only to cheat on me and have his mother call.

“Hey sweetie, I’m sorry I just don’t think you guys are in love
and as you know he’s already moving on.”
I guess even though I “loved” him,
I lost him.
So no,
my boyfriend does not say he “loves” me.

And the next time a boy-
because he will be a boy
calls after you
“Hey sweetie pie”
“Hey Honey”
“Hey cupcake”
or worst of all
“Hey love muffin”

Tell him you don’t have time to talk,
you’re looking for the man,
who will adore you,
and learn your name
in all its glory.
kayla morrison Nov 2010
I am making a log pile
I choose a chainsaw carefully,
sixteen inch
I prime it,
push in three times
and pull
it roars and comes to life,
I find a tree,
dead and rotting,
poor thing
there is no time to think
so I start cutting
it falls.
Next comes liming
small branches fly
time to log it
careful not to hit the ground
the chainsaws teeth chew through birch
it’s a clean dismemberment.
I stack the logs one by one,
building on what is already there
one on top of the other
sometimes they fall
and I have to rearrange
but I never give up
that log pile
isn’t a pile at all.
kayla morrison Feb 2016
I stare at the brown ocean
Contained in a translucent cylinder.
White pebbles, the sugar coating bottom

Sweat drips down from the umbrella cap
Sitting out on my desk for hours.
A puddle forms, the ring of time.

I stare longingly at the
Beach towel colored straw
Orange-like the sun
With white stripes

The wing tipped tongue of the saleswoman
Flutters on about numbers
And percentages.

Those numbers, and doodles,
And my face
Reflect in the cylinder.

Bold black letters
are written on the side,
F/V 3C 3S.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
"He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone"


We condemn others,
For mirrored shortcomings.

"Love thy neighbor."

Mr. Jackson runs to catch the door,
You let close in his face.
As you rush to Church.

I help Mrs. Cunningham with her bags.
We stare a moment.

My friend says "you'll get good Karma"

I could use it in Hell.
kayla morrison Mar 2014
You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.

I can’t try to pretend,
that their faces are familiar.

three faces,
of seven.

One is pouting, almost frowning,
that’s me.

I have not altered,
I still hate birthdays.

I changed only in looks,
and vocabulary.


Amanda, the second,
as close as a sister.

Three years older,
hands on hips.

She craved a career,
the Air Force.

Her goal was good grades,
and stability.

She had everything she needed,
to join the military.

He arrived,
not a boyfriend.  


The final face,
one of Joy.

He lived eighty five years,
and I cried at the end.

His harmonica, buried with him,
his last sounds were words.

“Tell the girls I love them”
he said on the hospital phone.


You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.

What you do recognize,
causes pain.

I don’t recommend looking,
unless you’re a *******.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
The pan pops and sizzles
As I open the creaky wooden door.

The kitchen sink sings,
He washes a pepper covered cutting board.

The sounds never change,
The routine is always the same.

I count on,
"How was your day?"
And "what do you want to drink."

Dependability, stability.
One thing know at the end of the day.

The plates clink as they touch the table.
"Lets eat."
kayla morrison Apr 2017
I told them to disguise it.

Hide hope in despair,
Wealth in poverty
And beauty in hidiousness.

I told them to stash it away.

Sneak love into a hateful heart,
Oppotunity into the pocket of failure
And tuck intelligence under a fools tounge.

Cover it up
So those who are willing
To lose it all,
Have it all.

My children,
Take the chances that come from losing,
Gnaw on the bones of poverty,
crack them open
And **** on the marrow of a full heart.

Go confidently into the world,
Knowing the value of an ugly old coat.
The warmth and memories it carries
Wrap yourselves up in dreams past,
And realize the brightness of your future.

I told them to disguise it,
Now go find it.
kayla morrison Jul 2010
Standing at the edge of uncertainty
at the threshold of our lives
we stare numbly down the hall of opportunity
As youths every door wide open
As young adults many are locked shut
Rooms never to be explored,
Yet as ederly members of society
they could all open again
after the one thing we all fear
An experience of which there is no return
it's odd how life works
So as children take advantage
of an and all opportunities
and as young adults try to hold open as many doors as you can
Don't let society or pressure slam shut
Love or hope or untraditional carreers
and as an ederly man or woman
always look forward
never back
as your doors will all re-open
kayla morrison Nov 2020
Orange face, war paint,
The White House wrapped in caution tape.
Right to ****, lives at stake,
I wonder when we'll get a break?

Sickness prevails,
the devil's in the details.
Bees are dying, nations crying,
Natural disaster underlying.

Wear a mask,
It's not a task.
Save yourself and stay at home,
Frontline heroes are not alone.

Look to the sky, look to the sea,
this fresh hell is reality.
kayla morrison May 2014
We are not a fairy tale,
we will never be a fairy tale.

We are not Romeo and Juliet,
Troilus and Cressida
Cinderella and prince charming.

We are not a happy ending,
fairytale ending
perfect ending.

We are not the embodiment of
true love,
loose love,
new love.

But we are love,
our love.

I am not perfect,
I will never be perfect.
I’m not a princess
but sometimes you call me princess

and you are not a prince,
but I guess….
I would call you my prince.

I’ve come to realize
without Disney’s eyes

Drunk and throwing up,
I was there for you
sick and sniffling
I was there for you
stressed and upset I was there for you
through it all, and to it all I was there for you
and I will always be there for you.

Just like you
were there for me
last minute, late, losing your mind
still there for me.
feeling hurt, me making it worse,
still there for me.

We are not love,
we are not a fairy tale
but we are our own fairy tale.

One that might not have a happy ending wedding,
but one I’m proud to be a part of,
so until the end,
if we end,
I will close my eyes and
I won’t pretend.

Because my prince who is not a prince,
makes me happy.

And being his princess
is the biggest honor a non-Disney girl can get.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
The hot sun went down,
Behind the towering trees
But night has "fallen."
kayla morrison Apr 2017
Oh Fools!
The pain, the unheeded advice-
Oh Feste, oh gravediggers, oh Fools!

Hiding behind the garb of jesters,
I hear your truth.
I know the fate sleeping in the riddle.

Alas! Poor Yourick knows it well.
For that which lives must die,
And that which dies has no tongue,
No verbage to warn.

Whilst the kings laugh
At morbid jokes,
The Fool sheds a tear,
For behind all good jests
Is a terrible truth.
kayla morrison Apr 2021
What of those who place themselves in others?
Why, death.

The fool who trusts a stranger
Who can not see the buds
Of a flowering enemy
Revealed to be mine own self
Death awaits.

They've stolen, taken myself
By force, by sweet poison words
****** my life's marrow
Death comes to me

A friend,
That mortal sheet to lift
And I will emerge
kayla morrison Apr 2017
There is me,
There is you.

I have my books,
You have your video games.

We have our lives.

There's my truck,
There's your car.

I have my lift kit,
You have your stereo.

Together though,
We make a whole.

Our half hears,
Connect to make one.
kayla morrison Oct 2015
Here's to the untouched,
the naysayer virgins,
the believers, dreamers and bright eye beamers.

The poets with clouds in their shoes
Walking on gusts of autumn airs.
Humming the tune of a new idea
And sparking the wick of inspiration.

Here's to the inventors,
the birthers of thought
the can dos, will dos and get er dones

Brains in their pencils, cascading onto the page,
Blueprints blotting out
Black splotches in their lives.

Heres to the musicians,
The beat makers,
The Chance takers, love makers and feeling creators

Chanting the tune of tolerance,
Singing the ugly untouched image
Composing the stuff of life.

Heres to the artists,
The men and women
Still starry eyed with wonder,
The backbone of humanity.

Heres to you.
kayla morrison Apr 2014
I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I rolled up the window.

I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I locked my doors.

I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I drove right by,
I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
thought “I have nothing to give.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
but like most people,
I diverted my eyes.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
but like most people, I can’t tell you
what His cardboard sign said.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
He held a piece of cardboard,
it said “need…” but I don’t know what.

I wonder, did He need,

I saw a homeless man,
and I wonder
how long had it been since He showered?

I saw a homeless man,
and I can’t help but question
how long He’s been that way.
I saw a homeless man,
and I didn’t make a difference,
even though a bill burned my pocket.

I saw a homeless man,
and I realized,
I’m still a poor college student.

I saw a homeless man,
and He didn’t receive my sympathy,
I gave Him fear, distrust, and invisibility.
I saw a homeless man,
on the way home,
in my old truck.

I saw a homeless man
He found a backpack
and was given $100,000.

I saw a homeless man,
and thought maybe he’ll be lucky too,
but then I realized it takes someone like me
to make someone like Him
I know I will see the homeless man
again and again and again.
Maybe I’ll read His sign.

I know I will see the homeless man,
on my drive home in the evening,
I know I won’t change.
But, I wonder, who will?

I’m the girl who saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I did a few things,

Locked the door
Rolled up the window
Looked away
Kept driving.
I’m the girl who saw a homeless man,
with twenty dollars in her pocket,
and I didn’t help one bit.
kayla morrison Apr 2014
I stepped out into a hurricane,
let the wind and rain
touch me, push me,
lead me and whip me.

I try to wash away the pain.
As I sink my feet into the mud,
I look to the sky,
to the Father
and take comfort
in the fact that He breaks things too.

It was part of His plan,
I lie.
I had to destroy you,
gnash my teeth and rip apart your soul,
point my finger and smite your innocent heart.

I left you empty,
unable, with all the languages of love,
to express the hurt, betrayal and shame.
That thing beating in your chest,
it's beat a constant reminder of me.

They way I beat your virtue out,
beat my body against yours,
beat the drum of life.

But even the greatest heroes have regrets.
Even David committed his sins.
I destroyed you,
so you could be reborn.

I stepped outside in a hurricane,
and let the wind and rain
hurt me.
But nothing can amount
to what I put you through.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
I love it,
Snapchat, facebook, candy crush
Im high.

I sit at the table where we consume meals

Im lost in a colorful, fast paced, make believe world.
Missing the real wolrd.

I love it,
The instant gratification,
2 seond tweets and 60 second vines.

I feel the arms of the internet
Wrap around me,
Hold me tight and pull me close.

Pull me from my books,
Pull me from conversation,
Pull me from life outside this
5 inch screen.

I love my addiction,
And I don't know if I'll ever leave it.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
A simile is like a metaphor.
A metaphor is a similie,
Except if it forgot "like" or "as"

A similie is like checkers,
The rules are simple, easy to follow.
A metaphor is chess,
Complex and intricate.

Think of a simile as the store brand
A metaphor is the name brand
Of anything.

Metaphors are tests for the mind,
They make you visualize
Bear Mountain.

Similies are like little suggestions,
They point you in the right direction,
The Mountain was big like a bear.

Both important,
Both fun!

I like similies
Metaphores are love.
Just having fun with this one!
kayla morrison Apr 2017
I used to throw away my old clothes.

I lost it all for 1 year.

Now I drive around with blankets & socks,
to give the homeless.
kayla morrison Sep 2010
I wish I was a pretty girl,
I wish I was able to please you in bed,
I wish you loved me as her
a fairy princess
flowing gowns that sparkle and shine,
High heels, bracelets earrings of gold
maybe then you’d be sold.
Instead I am a warrior
broad shouldered, snarling, snorting, biting beast
I back down to no man,
I stand up at all challenges
fight every battle
I wish I was a pretty girl,
I wish I was your girl
In your arms every night
tucked in close
at your table every morning
bringing you eggs to eat and juice to drink
in your house every day
I wish I was a pretty girl
frail, leaning on you for constant support
but I am a determined ****
I am miles away, I am alone,
I have embarked on an adventure
far away from you,
missing you
wishing for you
unable to have you but in mind.
I wish a was a pretty girl
but I’m not and I refuse to be.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
I used to stare at the moon
In wonder.

The size of a pencil eraser
And bigger than my head,
All at once.

It was magical.

Now I stare at the moon
With hatered.

Another day wasted,
Another 24 hours spent,
Another miserable night.

My possibilities are limited,
Weigheted down by finance
Shrunk by stress.

I am smaller than a pencil eraser
To the big, gigantic, moon.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
Life doesn't have rules
it's nOt all laid out the the beginning
on clean paper
in black
And white.

Some say there is a plan,
some say there is nothing.
I Try to follow direction,
but there is none to follow.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
South Carolina summers were hot,
They were long and dry,
And for Mama, they were lonley.

Mama lived at the very end of our street.
She lived alone,
No chil'ren and no Husban'

She spent her days makin' sweet tea
And leomonaide, and pound cake.
She'd sit on her ol' rockin' chair,
And she'd whistle.

Mama was the best whistler in town,
All the kids in the neighboorhood came by
To hear her whistle.

She'd watch over us,
Scold those in need of scoldin'
She'd tell us not to climb the big oak tree
But we still did.

I didn't know it then,
But those long summers
Were the best I ever had.

The ice in my glass of sweet tea
Shone like diamonds.
And Mama's song,
Still plays in my head.

South Carolina summer were hot,
And they were too short.
kayla morrison May 2021
The ****** sun rises
To meet the green
boys preparing.

I watch the day divide.

Alas, if my story end here
Let it be one of courage
Not rage
Let it be of a human
Not a boy

Let my name be lost among the fallen
My soul forsaken among the ******
Let my story wrap its arms
around my brothers.
Let my death be life for them.

O! The gift I wish to give.
The sacrifice I face for them.
If my story end here
Let theirs live on.
Draft! Just some rough scribblings as we observe memorial day and rember those who didn't make it home.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
Such a simple concept.
Good and Bad.

They say oil and water don't mix,
As they pour both into the glass.

There's a little bit of good in every bad situation,
When one door closes, another opens.

I can tell you about the worst day of my life,
now ask to me tell you something good about it.

Sweet and Sour,
Good and Bad.

If you think about it long enough,
You probably can't tell which is which.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
Such a simple concept.
Good and Bad.

They say oil and water don't mix,
As they pour both into the glass.

There's a little bit of good in every bad situation,
When one door closes, another opens.

I can tell you about the worst day of my life,
now ask to me tell you something good about it.

Sweet and Sour,
Good and Bad.

If you think about it long enough,
You probably can't tell which is which.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
Such a simple concept.
Good and Bad.

They say oil and water don't mix,
As they pour both into the glass.

There's a little bit of good in every bad situation,
When one door closes, another opens.

I can tell you about the worst day of my life,
now ask to me tell you something good about it.

Sweet and Sour,
Good and Bad.

If you think about it long enough,
You probably can't tell which is which.
kayla morrison Apr 2015
I'm not.

My Dad thinks I should
be out burning bras
showing off unshaved legs
parading through the streets "like the gays."

I do not.

I remember talking in highscool
about my imaginary rich husband,
and never working again.

                                                My Dad does not.

He remembers panicking in hischool
telling me not to be a cheerleader
asking "why can't girls play on he football team?"

                                  My Dad does not realize,

I don't want to burn my
Victoria's Secret push up bra,
I want to shave my legs.

My dad thinks
the only person who
can decide whether
or not
to keep a baby
is a woman.

I do not.

A baby-life
is created by a
man and a woman.

It should take a
man and a woman to decide.

                               My Dad does not realize it,

He thinks I am a product of
the patriarchy,
a victim to the crime.


I don't want to
march down the streets of Boston,

Because I know some women,
cry **** when its a lie.

I know some men,
who cant cry
for help,
because **** is a woman's issue.

                    My Dad does not realize it hurts,

I am not a feminist,
I am an equalist.

I believe in
mutual respect,

Stay at home moms
Stay at home dads.

   My dad does not realize it hurts the cause to be a "feminist"

My dad is a feminist,
I am not.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
Someone asked me what being a poet is like.
And I blushed.

Not because I was called a poet
(Which I'm not)
Not because my poems embarrass me
(Sometimes they do)

But because being a poet
Is like that dream.
You know that dream,
where you're naked in front of a class?

Being a poet, painter, and musician
Is like being naked.

You're exposed to the world,
The most private parts of you exposed.
Ready to be judged, lauged at, criticized,
And loved.

It's like the world is looking at you.
The ugly scar on your chest,
Stretch marks from being spread too thin,
Fat pockets from when you weren't strong.

Someone told me I have a comma problem,
It hurt, like somone telling me I was ugly.

I know I'm beautiful though.
I love my imperfections.
My writing is my own, unique.
No critisizm can stop me from being me.

I lay my words uncovered, unaltered
On the page. They wait, breathlessly.
Sometimes being a poet is hard and brave,
Other times it's fun and easy.

Someone asked me what being a poet is like
I said it was great, and then I started to

Writing can be scary, but it's a wonderful, beautiful thing. It's worth all the risk, critisizm and misconceptions.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
I must caution you,
Against a world lacking conflict.

A wold enveloped in
Continual peace
is hell.

Without suffering,
Without anger,
There is no passion.

A world wothout conflict
Is a wold lacking the beauty of sacrifice
The love of conviction
The satisfaction of righting a wrong.

I must caution you,
Without wrongdoing, without war
There is no peace
kayla morrison Apr 2010
**** this restricting world!
**** this corporate America!
Just kidding, we’re free


we’re told we are free
given a right to life liberty and property,
well originally,
but now we have the right to pursue happiness,
not to be happy, just to look for it,

But my search is over.
Who could ever be happy in this polluted world?
No polluted like the air,
polluted in the mind,
We are sick twisted carbon copies of what was once greatness

No room in the curriculum for questioning
these standardized tests **** originality  
****** questioning
Memorizing the test is blinding,
shutting out the good things in this still wondrous world,

you see me sitting quietly in my room,
My mind is screaming
you see me sitting calmly at my desk
I violently ****, and pull, and stretch the cage I’m in
taken captive by a so called reality

A reality in which money is the same as success
A reality where feeling is a sign of weakness,
and a reality in which fun is only for stupid children
when did this horror begin?

Money is meaningless just a piece of paper
feeling is NOT weakness it’s what reminds us we are human
and fun is something everyone needs sometimes

I was given hands, a mind, a mouth and legs
these are (from what I’m told) the tools required to rise above this reality
Yet this image, this illusion is stopping me
this illusion that my tools are inadequate broken

It’s like that favorite toy a young child has because
as I said fun is just for kids, by the way thanks for denying us Trix
anyways he’s at school all day
just waiting to play with it,
unable to think about anything else,
and he gets home and runs through his mom cooking in the kitchen
rushed up the stairs
almost trips but doesn’t
and he gets to his room picks up this fantastic toy and
it’s batteries are missing

This is like me

My hands have the ability to write,
to draft new ideas
beautify the world with diction and rhetoric
unify the world with strong words
that have positive connotation,
because I don’t want to pursue happiness
I’m a little greedy and it’s like this
if I have the right to live
and the right to liberty
than I am making **** sure that I am happy

My mind is a holy vessel
or it was before I let it be molded
before I betrayed the great thinkers that came before me
it should be home to morals and ethics,
yet it’s filled with lies
all my productive thoughts blocked
by the newest TV series on ABC and FOX

My mouth would be very useful
if my mind would help me think of something intelligent to say
oh I wish I didn’t betray
let them in day by day
infusing me with poisonous thoughts
thought of memorizing facts not understanding them
thoughts about questioning being the same as stupidity
thoughts lacking individuality

My legs should help me
stand up for what I believe in
Like Martin Luther King did
Like Fredrick Douglass did
Like The Framers, Rosa Parks, Abbie Hoffman
and Abraham Lincoln did
Stuff I would fight for
live, cry, and die for-
But I’m feeling crippled today

We’ve run out of Prophets Renegades and leaders

we are part of a generation too easily influenced and too quickly swayed
but what can I say? I am a victim just like you
and I’m curious as to what we need to do

I have-I’m not sure yes yes I think it’s an idea
and I might need you

Lets hold each other up
support our crippled legs with one another
lets question even when we’re told there’s no room
lets resurrect originality I mean after all
we have the right to life liberty and property,
well originally
kayla morrison Nov 2010
My love
rains down
making puddles of feeling
at your feet
surrounding you
the subtle stillness
is beautiful
your words stomp on my
splash and trudge
each fragile puddle
they splash and dry up
for all time
my love does not rain
for eternity
abuse it
and it will evaporate
kayla morrison Apr 2021
The doer
Is merely a fiction
To the deed.

Some construct of morality
And self prescribed validity
Justifies the doer manipulates the language
Clarifies the plot

The deed.

The empty space between

And thought.

What is matter matters
And what matters do we find
kayla morrison Apr 2017
The sheets are melting.
They hung outside,
Clinging to anything they could,
Rooftops, signposts, streetcars.

They cry tears of life,
Nourishing dirt patches,
Where the flowerbeds will go.

The sun shines early now,
Allowing the moon to rest.
Stars no longer linger in the morning sky.

Buds wake up,
You can catch a glimpse of them,
Pregnant branches on trees.

The grass plays peek-a-boo
With pillows of snow.

Its time for revival.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
I take a second,
Pondering the strange situation I've found myself in.

"How are you?"

Mom said don't talk to strangers,
Is he a stranger?
This man I see on the subway

"I'm fine, thanks"

My heart is pounding,
The sentance has taken my breath away.

He's a stranger I decide,
I finger my trusty phone,
My safe place in the screen.


I ignore him,
Because saying something would be rude.
I pretend not to hear.

My breath slows,
My heart calms itself.

And conversation dies.

Two sentances.
That's all we had.
kayla morrison Nov 2010
the flowers are blooming again,
my dear little angel is dancing in them
her hair like a river flowing,
arms like a pinwheel spinning,

The sun emits rays again
my sweet baby is laying in them,
her skin so beautiful is sparkling,
her eyes so deep are closed

The seasons have changed again
and my love is happy
kayla morrison Jan 2015
I'm tetering
the pinnacle of life

I'm teething on a good idea
and crying for a bad idea
to come along and change my mind.

I'm toying with people
begging them for the truth

I'm exploring

Not quite the refined
fully for-
Varient of the child my mother knew
years ago.

It's a funny time in life
when we feverently search
for ourselves

In a toybox of

When we begin to learn
nothing we've learned
is true.

When we are high
on the sea saw
growing out of
old clothes
and old ways

Soon to be low
on our
and self esteem.

What a fun game of life we play
moving the pieces
towards love
or tragedy.

Many ups
and many
will come to us.

Just remeber what your mother told you...
the playground rules.
kayla morrison Apr 2010
I was shot down,
told I was too ugly to date the star of the football team.
But that’s okay,
I’ve had my eye on the geek.
But back to me.
Honesty, confidence and intelligence,
are these the qualities you all find so ugly?
Of is this concept of beauty within beyond your brain capacity?
I am proud of who I am and what I am
I will not change for you or you or you or ANYONE that calls me ugly,
My beauty is unique because unlike the prom queen, the homecoming qeen, Barbie and any other beautiful female figure….
no matter how old, how fat, how tall, how short I am
no matter how messy my hair, how runny my makeup
my beauty will not fade,
my beauty is of a different shade.
I am a rare find, one of plain honest normalcy
I am no super model, no cheerleader, no athlete in general,
I am not physically attractive,
and neither is that geek
that one you all make fun of,
the one who sits alone at lunch
the one with the disheveled look
the one I can not live without
The one lacking muscle, lacking an ego
just simply himself as I am simply myself
and as you should all
simply be yourselves
when you are you for you and only you
then you and everyone else can achieve a certain inner beauty
one that shines past the makup, that will run, the muscle that will turn to fat, and the ego that is so frail, and can rip open like a wound gushing false confidence at the sight of a challenger.
you with the attitude, you’re too ugly, you with the complex, you’re too ugly,
you consumed by your money you are all too ugly FOR ME and every one like me
for those above your twisted image of beauty.
kayla morrison Jun 2013
Who are you?
Why do you haunt even my dreams,
penetrating my most personal momens?
My heart races because of you,
mind runs wild,
I accuse, abuse and lose
How is it that I am held
by an unexplicable fear
parlyzed, cold and alone
When your near, yet
you lend open and guiding hands
Gently lulling me
into a state of blistful insanity
kayla morrison Mar 2014
People say they want to live in a small town,
but when I look out my window
all I see is

I look out my left window,

I glance out my right window,

The daily routines,
an Act Without Words.

We go through the motions in a small town,
get up, smile at people we hate,
hope for something more,

In a small town
you bite your tongue,
just to keep the peace.
Did you bleed today?

There’s no point in asking
how someone is
because we already know.

Each new piece of gossip
strings us along,

The small town will hold
anything over your head.
It will dangle a divorce
suspend a separation
and hang up a hook up.

In a small town,
the space between people’s teeth
revealed by their fake smiles
serve as cre-

People rave about the
fields of grass, and the trees.
In each patch of green
lies un lucky Clov-
The fresh air is fetid.
The stink of the town’s
***** laundry is
enough to make
any argument for the town Null.
It’s almost genetic,
the little Nagg-
lings in the school yard,
slicing, dividing, cutting
people like cake.

Settling for small town life,
is a fate worse than Hamm-
lets think about it.

No excitement.
No privacy.
No trust.
kayla morrison Dec 2020
Wing tipped tongues
Utter madness as their wings fly away.
It's art. Like a trash bag floating down an empty street.
Empty words float and circulate the masses.

We eat media, satisfied by garbage.
Wiping the latest episode of Tiger King off our chins,
We chomp on clickbait desserts.

The writers, thinkers, and philosophizers

Searching for anything with substance
they revisit old watering holes.
The marrow has been ****** from literature,
The cave is too real to re-enter,

But there is a rumble from within.

Weak but present.
The uprising is upon us!
Writers, Thinkers, and Philosophizers, rise!

Rise and pluck the birds from the sky,
steal their wings and soar.
Soar across time and spread the wisdom that has been bestowed upon you.
kayla morrison Mar 2010
So my dear dear homework we must go our separate ways,
I was loyal all winter,
but I can no longer see you every night
and I cant bear wasting my time in this newly found sunlight
month after tedious month you’ve expected my full attention
week after week you demand that I “do you”
and that I “do you good”
even on my off nights, when I’m tired,
overwhelmed or stressed
you want it.
and so my dear dear homework this is why I must break this relationship off
it’s not healthy
you’re suffocating me
isolating me from my friends and family
and don’t start with the “they never liked me” line
because they said the opposite all the time.
Go back to living in my teachers desk drawer
if there’s even room there anymore.
Maybe I’ll think back on you some rainy spring day
but while the suns out and the grills cooking
I can’t stand to even see you today.
kayla morrison Apr 2014
It’s fresh I thought,
Too red to be old.
Someday it will fade,
soon maybe.
It will turn pink.
I try not to stare but,
it’s as if some invisible magnetic force
is pulling my eyes towards it.
Does he know I’m staring?
It makes me uncomfortable,
I slowly sit down.
look into my tea, at the wall behind him
look at my hands.
“how was your day?” he asks.
He has no idea I see it.
I start to shake.
I know what he did,
what he’s been doing.
How do I ask?
Do we get help now?
It’s not healthy I think,
to just ignore the problem.
“It was fine.” I say
The lipstick perched on his collar.
The same way his hands were perched on her *******,
Maybe only an hour ago.
All I see is red.
Someday it will fade,
a mere smudge.
Nobody else will see it,
But I know, like a scar,
the mark will always remain.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
As a toddler my mom taught me
to use hands for games,
Patty cake, patty cake,
We had so much fun.

In 1st grade Mrs. Z taught me about hands.
The big hand represents the hours,
The small hand is for minutes,
And that skinny red one counts the seconds.

In high school Sarah Kay taught me
about holding hands, and hand models
She said "I read hands to tell your past."
Hands learn she said to me.

A coworker taught me to speak with hands.
Thumb in, 4 fingers up, thats "B" she said.
We could talk without moving our lips,
It was magic.

No one taught me the importance of hands,

The way you need to stretch your hands,
Reach out to the world and say,
"Here. Grab on, I won't let you fall"

How to make my hands, helping hands.
The kind with strong cracks and callouses
But they have a soft touch, gentle hands.

Hands that can stand the beating of

Hands that stay open,
Ready to accept whatever...
The world gives them.

I want to learn how to use my hands,
To inspire a nation.

Who will teach me?
I love Sarah Kay, her poem was the first thing I thought of!
kayla morrison Mar 2014
When are you leaving?

The smoke from the cigarette
hugs me
I stare in wonder at something I’ve seen so many times
the white trails in the darkness
everything fades


The smell will never
I begin to wonder
Why is it called a drag
You can smoke a cigarette
in less than 4 minutes
It’s not a *drag

it’s quick

Last call.

My cup is almost empty
Jack on the rocks
the ice drowns
it melts into the canvas
amber substance

I’m almost done.

One more sip
One last taste
the mesmerizing magical magnetic
amber substance
it holds friends together
while the supply is plenty
but what happens when it runs out

Better to smoke the last of that than waste it.

I am pulled back to the
fate stick between my shaky fingers
smoke teasing in and out
deep breath
quick inhale

One large swoop
grabbing liver waylayer

The bar closed
the door closed

kayla morrison Jun 2013
Timeis running short,
infinity is nearing it's end,
and ours.
The wax has spilled over
onto the table.
The candle is flickering,
gasping for air,
clinging fruitlessly
to a fleeting life.
The wick, the timeline of our love
is burning down to nothing
soon extinguished.
Just getting back into writing after  a year or gentle
kayla morrison Mar 2010
Oh wasted talent, neglected excellence,
how you enter the light every day, always leaving a black abyss
full of attitude, and rude remarks, offensive words that sting
long after you’ve crept back into your world of tenebrous isolation
we feel the effects, like a wave of negativity

you position yourself south of everyone comfortably north
repelling love, and understanding, but you’re not lonely
No you’ve found the ultimate alternative,
An imitation reality, like McDonald’s food,
Never quite  able to equal greatness, nothing worth praise, almost a waste
A great façade, a fake

Your glossy eyes and lethargic mannerisms tell all
Higher than life, Psh you don’t need us!

But don’t you know? Weren’t you told?
There’s a better way to get high,
why not… … take a drag of the cigarette of friendship,
or a hit of creativity?
These things will far surpass the boundaries of ecstasy

But no,
you sit
and you sleep
senses dulled
eyes glued shut
you reside complacent in a prison to which only you hold the key!

Don’t you know the greatness you could be?
I do because I can see, past the cloudy eyes,
beyond the stinging comments,
I can see the successful well educated man you continually refuse to be.

It hurts and pains me every day getting up from my seat taking the world away,
and on the desk where you used to sit,
is a pile of class work and lessons, that you call *******.

stop now, before the poison penetrates too deep,
save the dying man,
the long list of what you could be
times are tough and temptation is hard to fight,
just remember that salvation is close and it is in sight,
Ask for help and you shall receive,
let in the light and shut out the fog,
not one inky hint should remain,
time is running low, and faith is hard to find….
just once, sincerely try to open your eyes,
take advantage of the time that you have left
because when this years over,
it will be time well spent.
kayla morrison Mar 2010
Elusive love, why do you taunt me so?
Capturing me with your endless beauty
your arms grasp me, forcing me to follow,
not real arms, love is it’s own entity.

I want to turn away, end your cruel game,
but like the sun, I return everyday
with an ever burning passionate flame
my feelings for you can never be swayed.

I feel like trash floating in the ocean,
pulled in and pushed out by indifferent waves.
Your actions scream love, with no devotion
to another woman you are a slave.

I want to be her, I must have your love,
but into second place I am always  shoved.
kayla morrison Apr 2010
Dangling upside down, held up by only trust
I am suspended over a bridge,
One of which I am afraid to cross,
afraid to think about,
afraid to imagine.
But you hold me there
I don’t know why I let you torture me
I know I’m going to fall
hard and fast
but it’s happening and I feel as if I have no control
I let it happen
and then you’re gone
years later I can’t forget
that bridge,
that night
that mistake and the long recovery.
but that’s all later
right now I’m
dangling upside down, held up only by trust
I am suspended over a bridge
unsure of what to do.
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