O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

whiter than the purest milk,
or untouched snow.
Smooth and chalky,
as if crafted by a potter.

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

crushed under the weight
of a fallen frame containing
the oldest photo
of my friend and I.

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

I'm sorry to say you've suffered
from the same fate
as my
friendship...

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

she shattered us into
dozens of tiny pieces,
and left me as the only fool
bothering to pick them up.

I wouldn't have thought

That my only kryptonite

Would end up as you

I'm gliding through life
When suddenly my path just
Happened to cross yours

We were drawn to each other
Some scientific properties
Pulling us closer and closer

Now it's like Elmer's glue
You're stuck on me
I'm stuck on you

And I'm not letting go
Till some greater power
Somehow forces us apart

Confidence is key
A key to opening doors of opportunity

Always keep your confidence with you
You'll never know when it'll come through

Don't make it your spare
Don't leave it out there

Because everybody knows that
Spare keys are left under the doormat

I can see how much
you've changed.

My whole life
you've made your house
a home
and always
invited me inside, but

you're beaten down now,
worn out and overused.

You need help
from top to bottom,
chips and cracks
lining every part of you.

Your railing is wobbly,
swaying from side to side
until one of us
can steady you.

We can't help you anymore,
we don't know what to do.

We're leading you
into someone else's hands
so they can fix you,
so they can help you.

You need to make someone else's
house into a home.

There she was,
staggering down the evenly-paved road--
passers-by wrote her off as drunk,
but really the tears were impairing her vision--

clad in Ugg moccasins that barely covered her
heels anymore, that embarrassing pair of
heart-covered pajama pants from middle school,
and the ever-too-big softball sweatshirt.

Tears cascaded down her face
in a waterfall, while her chestnut-colored hair
shrouded this natural phenomenon
as if it were sacred.

Her shadow stretched far taller
than the girl's actual height,
adding those always-sought-after inches
to her petite frame.

Ironically, her thoughts overshadowed
her own shadow; those pesky, ferocious demons
causing the salty tears of frustration
to stubbornly leak from her green eyes.

A young girl shouldn't be tortured by
her own thoughts, the worries of her elders,
carelessly blown in her face
like secondhand smoke.

She needed to get away,
escape the smoke-worries
that weigh her down in her own home--
but it was too late.

*The damage is already done...

You're just a **** maze

And I'm really struggling

To find my way out

I.
You came upon me so suddenly--
a tornado,
a burst of energy--
I couldn't help but be swept up by
your pull

You tore me up
chewed me up
and spit me out
after spinning me around
mercilessly;
the circumlocution
making me dizzy

I had absolutely
nothing left.
I gave you everything
I had--
my heart and soul--
****** up by your vortex
never to be seen again

But it was my fault too,
I was too
curious, too anxious;
I dove in your storm too quickly

After all,
I'm just a
stormchaser
looking for
company
in the
oddest of places.

II.**
A new, different storm
approaching--
barreling through,
electric--
full of
life

Surrounded by my new storm
impossible to
escape its presence
but I'm not worried:
choosing to stay
by it

After all,
I'm just a
stormchaser
looking for
company
in the
oddest of places

Clouds are
rolling in,
this beautiful storm
coming my way.
Only thing I have to say is
"Bring on the rain."

Why are roses the

symbol of lasting love when

they die so quickly?

To everyone else
I'm just a ball of play-doh
Stretched and pinched and pushed
To fit whatever mold they want

My family wants me
To be something I never will:
A nurse, a doctor, something with a large salary

My peers tell me
That being "cool" constitutes
Drinking, partying, getting high

And society shows me
Beauty is acquired by
Being inpossibly attractive, tall, slim

Don't they know that
Stretching play-doh too far
Eventually tears it apart?

Give me your wounded; I can heal their ills.
I spin miracles like tailors spin thread.
I cure bleeding, sneezing, quaking with chills—
believe it or not, I can show you the dead.
Very few can handle the magic I spawn—
I bend the rules as blacksmiths do metals.
My power is strange, running dusk to dawn;
it’s gained from people, pencils, even rose petals.
All it takes is a wave of the hand:
I swirl words on paper—an artist mixing paint.
Not witchcraft, yet some pieces are still banned;
each and every writer isn’t a saint.
Some claim our magic is fading away,
but really we’re thinking up more words to say.

I should be studying,
since I have my first formal final
in three days, but I
have too much on my mind right now.

It's probably due in part to
procrastination, but these
thoughts have been
swirling around my head for
awhile, impatiently waiting
to be flushed out.

I often look back at
old photos, old memories--
comparing my old self to
who I am now.

The obvious changes grab me first:
watching the multi-colored braces
disappear; followed shortly by
that stubborn baby fat; the
gradual transition from
softball bats to tennis rackets.

Only recently have I noticed
the evolution of a smile.
It's difficult to explain, really,
but the difference is definitely there.

The younger smiles are...less...
burdened, for lack of better words--
less weighed down. Now I'm
not saying that
smiles become less
radiant and genuine
as we get older,

I'm just trying to point out
that the innocence is gone--
it's as if our smiles
sport our scars too;
as if our lips are saying
"This is what the real world
has turned us into."

Numb the pain, take it all away
I've been hurting long enough

No, pile it on and let me drown
I don't deserve numbness

You can do so much better
Why keep a friend like me?

Wait, come back, don't leave me
I'll go insane without you

Memories of you are fading fast
I think it's better off this way

Don't fade! Don't fade!
I don't want to forget!

My thoughts are messy contradictions
All tangled around you

We came together
because our ancestors brought
us to each other,
weaving us as one
like the way
they did with baskets,
poised and precise.

Two distinct
pieces of bamboo
skillfully woven
into one entity--
our ancestors
couldn't have known it,
but their action
changed our lives
for the better.

is driving faster than the speed limit
Windows all the way down

Radio turned up as high as it will go
Music blasting through your speakers

Singing loudly and off-key
Not caring who happens to hear

Sunlight streaming through the car
Reflecting off your sunglasses

Barbecue-scented wind knotting up your hair,
Letting you know that summer's almost here

We never wanted
to let you go,
but we knew it was
inevitable.

We tightened our grip
around your smooth, white ribbon;
a futile attempt to
keep you with us
just a few moments longer,
even though you
silently begged us
to let you go.

You were there
to brighten up all our milestones--
every birthday,
every graduation,
every wedding.

These thoughts
consumed our minds
as we slowly relented;
painfully and agonizingly
loosened our grip on
your long ribbon.

You left us
so gracefully, so gently--
our eyes never left you
as you defied gravity
while we remained
tethered to the ground.

The sun reflected
off your shiny blue roundness,
creating a small, quick
flash of light--
a wink or a smile,
your final goodbye,
a promise of reunion.

We'll think of you,
a lot at first,
and then from time to time;
wondering where you ended up
or if you found company
in the sky,
above the clouds.

But we'll know that
letting you go was
the right thing to do--
you're now liberated,
completely and utterly
free.

All the kids
I teach tennis to
at work
have bright eyes.

Sparkling blues,
dazzling greens,
even brown eyes shine bright
on the kids at tennis camp.

There's their bright, wide eyes
soaking up the world around them--
and then there's
my dull green ones;

light ****** out
years back,
by the same world
these kids are trying to absorb.

They are so
pure
innocent
whole--

why am I
the teacher
in this situation?
I am nothing but

tarnished
corrupted
broke
and broken.

The sad part is
these kids can't even
teach me how to be
whole again because

you didn't know
you were whole
until the world finally
breaks you.

She is rain
in the way
you feel her
all around you,
soaking you with
everything she is,
the feel of it
reaching deep
in your bone.

She is snow,
a collection of
unique snowflakes
coming at you
in a beautiful flurry.

She is the clouds--
when she is around,
it's impossible to
overlook her presence.

She is a hurricane,
her effect on people
widespread and unavoidable;
she is a tornado
in the way she pulls you in,
wrapping you tightly
as she does in her hugs;
she is a tsunami
because she loves
with everything she's got,
a tidal wave crashing down on you.

But mostly
she is a sunny day--
warming you,
shining down on you,
letting you know
everything will be okay.

Sprinting--arms pumping, heart racing
Trying my best to destroy
A thought bubble of you

Slipping--dodging, avoiding my grasp
Each and every time
I go to pop the memory from mind

Multiplying--surrounding, trapping me
Thought bubbles overwhelming me
I promised myself I'd let you go

Finally I relent and allow myself
To drown in my memories of you
Just one more time

Everything is changing
Hustling, running to the future

I feel as if I am submerged in water
No sounds, no one around me
Frozen

Now I am in a crowded street
People pushing and shoving to eagerly reach their destination
While I remain
Frozen

Everyone around me is constantly moving
And I am standing still

I didn't know
what to make of you
the first time we met.

You have one of those faces
that makes me feel like
I've seen you before--
on TV, in a movie,
someone famous.

Your jokes and quick wit
had me convinced that
I'd befriended a comedienne
when first getting to know you,

but upon learning more about you,
I realized you are more of
a renowned poker player,
somehow able to make
the hand you were dealt
into something valuable.

Like Mr. Gorbachev,
you listened to Reagan:
you tore down the walls
that confined you--
that people used
to define you--
and used them
to remind you
just how fortunate you are.

Like the rest of today's celebrities,
you are penning your own story.

I know you never wanted
to breed an addict,
it's just one of those
uncontrollable risks that
accompanies parenting.

Or was it controllable?

I remember, as far back as
ten years old, you cursing freely
while I was in the room;
never directed at me though,
thank God.

You told me once, when I was twelve,
a playful smile on your face as you
gripped the steering wheel at 10 and 2,
that you wouldn't be surprised if I
became just as foul-mouthed as you.

Well gee, I wouldn't even utter
the word "God" for a year after that conversation.

But then the teen years hit,
those dastardly years of
storm and stress...
and rebellion.

That's where my addiction began,
in the midst of middle school.
What started out as a rebellious experiment
has quickly spiraled into
an uncontrollable addiction.

Oh, Mother;
we share the same looks, same jokes,
hell, even the same gender--
now add another commonality to our list:
the mouth of a sailor.

It must be nice
Being a pencil

It can erase
All its mistakes

Whereas I
Must live with mine

It's true that
I'm known for causing
people to cry
from peeling away
at my many layers,

but what people
don't realize
is that
it's not always easy
bouncing back from every
tear and rip and tampering
of my being--

careless cooks and
****** shoppers taking pieces of me
that won't ever
fully heal.

But I know that
one day
a good grocery shopper
will come along
and appreciate
all the layers of me
in order to create
something beautiful.

Walk in, close the curtain behind you...
Reality doesn't follow you in here.

Sit down, look at the camera.
All that matters is this one moment.

3, 2, 1 the flash goes off
click...click...click...

Nowadays, this is the only place  
I'm genuinely happy.

Even after all this time
You're still stained on my hands
Lining every crease
Embedded in my nails

I've tried to rid myself of you
Scrubbed my hands raw
Leaving pink and cracked skin
But your residue remains

I won't stop scrubbing till you're gone
Because God forbid
I accidentally stain someone else
With traces of *you

We were just two planets
that happened to fall into the same orbit.
God, it sounds so cliché when I say it like that,
but that's what we were--

I was a small and cocky freshman
much like Pluto; all high and mighty
with its long-lasting title of "planet"
when really it's just a dwarf

You were two years older:
seasoned, hardened, experienced;
no one needed a telescope for you
because your presence was that large

We were never supposed to be friends.
But I entered your atmosphere
while your entered mine,
and nothing was the same

But as quickly as we collided,
our orbits changed,
causing us to hurtle through space
in completely different directions

is driving fast on the highway
Sitting in the back seat

Not knowing where you're headed
Or when you'll get home

Face pressed against the window
A smile lurking on your lips

Watching light after twinkling light
Pass you by in an instant

I'm sorry my clothes
smell like cigarettes
even though they're
newly washed;
I don't smoke, I promise--
I don't do my own laundry
when I'm at home

And I hate that
I am now familiar
with the disgusting,
skunky odor of ****
even though I've never
seen a blunt with my own eyes

But yet I still know
how it feels to be addicted--
not to a drug, to a person--
the effects are just the same.

It's like I need you to be
whole; a part of me is
missing when you're
not near--and God,
it hurts sometimes!

The anxious jitters
overcome me, eyes
cold and unnerving,
thoughts more
and more
convoluted
by the minute.

No, I've never smoked,
but that doesn't mean
I'm unaffected.

Secondhand smoke
has the power
to ****, too, you know...

I. the way it was
Running round your yard,
laughs shared and memories made.
I was carefree then

The disease found you:
Wheelchair-bound, memories lost.
Our worlds crumbled fast

Black was everywhere.
Tears flowed, casket closed--goodbye.
I don't like goodbyes

II. the way it is
Brow furrowed deeply.
Labored breathing, sleepless nights.
The stress consumes me

Looking at the sky:
golden rays brighten white clouds.
Are you watching me?

III. the way it could have been**
...
..
?

As I lie awake at night
I unconsciously leave my bed
And enter the jungle that is
My mind

I'm there without a map
Struggling to navigate
Through the countless thickets
Of thoughts

Going deeper in the jungle
Going deeper in my mind
This is where the thoughts
Get scary

Suddenly I can move no further
I am trapped in a web of worries
And forced to stand there and wait
For the monster that spun the web
To consume me

I'm a painter here--
my pencil's the paintbrush,
the paper my canvas.

Happy, sad, good, bad:
I control every part of you
once my thoughts come to life.

Lately I've spent too much time
emphasizing the dark in your portraits,
turning you into some monster.

But you're not pure evil;
I must've lost my pastels--
can't seem to paint you in a lighter way.

How can I call myself a painter
when my most recent works have been
****** up optical illusions instead?

I'm trying to get clean of you
But it's hard quitting cold turkey

Hands sh-sh-shaking
Pupils                   darting uncontrollably

Legs stomping. Zombielike. I pause
Every so often. To keep myself in check

Thoughtsracingamileaminute
Somehowtheyalwaysfindawaybackto--

N­o.
I can't take it anymore

I open my mouth,
No longer caring if I put your name between my lips

It rolls off my ******* single exhale
I savor the forbidden sweetness of each syllable

As quick as it entered my throat,
Your name's already vanished into thin air

With it goes my peace of mind,
The withdrawal setting back in

It's never fun needing someone
Way more than they need you

I'm walking out of
the Nordstrom Rack store,
sky as dark as the
asphalt of the parking lot
under my sneakers. I'm
not wearing a jacket even though
the Weather App said it feels like
twelve degrees Fahrenheit outside.

But I'm not that cold--
my hands are still warm
from the laborious inventory work
I wound up excelling at.

I can't say I'm surprised, though.
I was born and raised
on hard work; knew it
before I knew my ABCs.

My thumbs are a deep pink,
angered from picking up
shoe after shoe after shoe
for nearly five hours. Deep
grooves and torn skin
accent the pink hue.

As I stare at my
worn-out fingers,
I can't help but wonder
if this is what I'll
end up doing with my life...

Am I meant to
follow the career path
laid down for me
by my family? Will I one day
inherit my father's tough,
callused hands; or his father's
overworked knees--
all from pushing my body
to its limits just to
barely make it by?

A, B, C, D--
will I eventually fulfill
A Blue Collar Destiny?

It's easy going around
Seeing happy people
And thinking
"You lucky *******"

But the truth is

We're all just
Broken souls
Waiting to be put
Back together

Gently clutching these
Pages, your heart touches mine.
You hold a place there.

I want to taste
the beer lingering on your lips,
even though
I've never drunk alcohol before.

You drank a Corona.
My dad always told me
Budweiser was the best.

I don't need
beer or wine or *****
to get the
content and happy buzz
I get from you.

Just a glimpse;
a fleeting look
into your dark,
brooding eyes
is enough to leave me
drunk all day long.

I know that
one taste of you
will be enough to
black me out.

Who are you?
I don't know anymore

Like smoke
You slipped through my fingers
Leaving only your scent on my hands

You say you're my best friend
Yet you hurt me again and again
Burning me, scarring me
Leaving me to question everything

I don't want to throw it all away
But I'm losing hope
I've tried so hard to make it work

I may know your name
But the rest of you is fading away

The falling part is easy.

Wind blowing through your hair;
strands flying in and out of your mouth,
knots forming too--
but that doesn't matter in this moment.

You're in a completely different dimension:
liberated and empowered,
your love can conquer all,
the sky is the limit!

(how ironic that you think this,
when in actuality you are
rapidly moving farther and farther
from the limitless sky.)

But you've got to hit the ground eventually.

You land with a single THUD--
pain coursing through your back,
the bloodstream; your whole body is throbbing
dun dun, dun dun, dun dun

Your pupils are fully dilated,
mouth frozen in a perfect "o"
trying to figure out how on earth
you plan on recovering from this fall.

The falling part is easy,
but you've got to hit the ground eventually.
The real test of character
is picking yourself up afterwards.

You left Scotland
when you were three.
Even though
it wasn't your choice,
you left behind
most of your family.

When you first husband died
you left the city
for a smaller, sleepier town.
You left his gravesite there.

When your second husband died
decades later,
you left your house in that town--
again, not by choice,
but you left your good health
in that old white house on the cul-de-sac.

And when you died
less than two years later,
you left us behind--
left a hole in our hearts--
you left us to live a life
without you.

But when you died,
you also left memories--
laughs smiles hugs love--
you left an impression on us.

I guess sometimes it's okay to leave
as long as you leave something good
behind.

The dinner tray
that you spray painted gold,
behind the sink, where you set it to lay,
represents nothing more than friendship gone cold.

Once an ugly brown,
now pretty on the outside--
but we chipped it away, wore it all down;
found the ugly you tried desperately to hide.

Messy, lying, manipulative
your grand façade faded quick,
it was rather short-lived:
your combative nature did just the trick.

Friendship's about giving and taking.
We too late heard the tray's silent warning
about the one who spawned its making.
It dawned on us suddenly, like sun in the morning:

trays are meant to maximize gain
you took too much, gave too little;
over and over, a song's sad refrain.

You've now lost your chance to meet us in the middle.

You sit across from me
Your face visibly relaxed, innocent
I feel as if my teeth will shatter
From the pressure of my clenched jaw

My eyes are dark, a storm rages in my irises
Staring at nothing but the eyes across the table
But your attention is focused downward
Mindlessly playing games on your phone

You raise a hand to run it through your hair
As I struggle to keep mine at my side
I want so badly just to
Hurl something across the room

But then you utter a pathetic "sorry"
And my body begins to relax
While I silently curse myself
For not being able to hold a grudge

The guitar was strummed
deftly; fingers moving
carefully yet effortlessly
across the instrument's
smooth, wooden neck,
creating a soft and splendid melody.

We stared at the musician as he
lay on the white-tiled floor, enraptured--
we unknowingly formed a circle around him,
as if he were the sun and we were
the planets revolving incessantly around his pull.

Then the thunder outside joined in,
invisible drums pounded by an invisible drummer,
making our melody louder, stronger.
A downpour followed, drenching the dark night
in streams and puddles; all the while
adding the quickened pace of maracas
to our song.

The makeshift band played in harmony,
the audience watched in dazzled awe--
and suddenly the lightning came,
capturing this incredible moment
with the flash of a camera.

I am
the real world's
writing utensil.

From checks,
envelopes,
to contracts,
you'll find me,
not a pencil.

The only problem
with being
the real world's
writing utensil
is that I can never
erase my mistakes.

From scribbling out
to whiting out,
they never
truly disappear.

The snow trusts the grass
To catch it every single time
It falls

The grass loves the snow
So much that it never fails
To hold on

One, two, three...
One, two, three...
Don't look down now;
Eyes on you partner's;
No, right turn first.

I can't get these moves down,
no matter how hard I try.

A puppet
being maneuvered by
a drunk ventriloquist--
I move about the floor
clumsily, never in the
right place.

Don't look down now

Shame and embarrassment
burn my cheeks.  
My neck snaps downward;
a sunflower going
out of its way
to be close to the sun.

Eyes on your partner's

My feet won't cooperate.
I can't help but
look at them:
they're made for
walking and running;
my feet don't like
being told what to do--
teenagers in a
rebellious phase.

No, right turn first*

I slowly rotate in a circle
(The wrong way, of course)
and everyone around me
belongs here,
fits in,
knows what to do.

A circle in a room
full of squares--
I don't belong here;
I'm left out.

Homemade posters line the walls
of my basement—
white computer paper dominated by
once-vibrant crayon scribbles
and once-funny inside jokes
now faded and stupid
with the years of neglect.

The posters used to be
the only thing hanging
over my head. But
I’ve outgrown them;
torn each one down with
quick, decisive tugs
and replaced them…

You try to tell yourself
"I'm just confused and all,"
but really
you're delusional:

Your insides quickly
fill with dread
as irrational thoughts
violate your head.

"You're a selfish idiot;
you think your friends really care?"
"You'll never amount to anything--
just thought that I should share."

The seeds of worry have been planted
deep inside your core;
sprouting and growing and spreading,
it's more difficult to remove them than before.

You try your best to combat the thoughts--
a steep mountain you need to climb--
getting back to normal
takes a decent amount of time.

Energy dwindles fast as
you try to win this inner debate.
You feel like such a freak show--
an animal in a crate.

You try to tell yourself
the worries are all wrong,
but the only thing you think is
"God, why is this taking me so long?"

And when you've finally won,
after all is said and done,
you realize one thing about these episodes:
you can't control what happens to you--
*it's twisted voodoo!

The routine started, and
the world around me stopped.

Intricate arm and legwork
carefully layered to create a
smooth rhythm. She moved
in time with the music,
she was the music;
her body a vital instrument
for this Dream Girls song.

She was a vision--
captivating,
liberating,
invigorating--

my head spun
with every pirouette;
heart leapt
with her graceful jumps.

A great love radiated
from her entire being.
I saw it in her eyes as she danced.

I felt it in my heart as she danced.

My insides
were so
full
when we first met

but then
you kept
squeezing and
pushing me,
using me
till the
very last drop
was gone.

Any excuse
to touch your lips
is okay by me,
even if it means
I am now
empty.