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Lexi Jun 2013
i could say a lot of words
but they'd never mean as much as your three do to me
a lot of syllables strung together
with pretty punctuation
like the golden flecks embedded in your eyes
and rhythmic lilts and twirls
like the way we sway together to no music
i could list the reasons
why i stay up too late to talk to you
why i think in terms of 'we' not 'me'
why i would give up a million words for your three
or why i find myself smiling at the mere stupidity i succumbed to
but you know the answer
you know why without need for any words
you know why without need for those three
Lexi Jun 2013
am i
blackness, shrouding, crowding
darkness, coldness
breathless pouting
am i
lost, goneness, wrongness
searching, urging
always missed
am i
ever, ending, pending
beseeched to rending
am i
hell, cloudless, doubtless
doomed fortune
eternal kiss
am i
fending, slowly, bending
timeless, fightless
i am
blackened, shrouded, crowded
divulge the clouded

am i, i am
i won’t know.
This received second place in my entire sophomore class's annual poetry contest.
Lexi Jun 2013
have you ever thought
why does the wind howl like wolves-
they have both lost their sanity
why does the sun shine like your eyes-
i'm beginning to think you are the sun itself
why does love feel like dying-
a slow, pleasurable death
and why
why do these words fly from my fingertips
i am not apt
i am not an exclusive fool whose life
can only be defined as study, breathe, listen
i am no poetic monstrosity
i am no ocean dwelling mirage
i am a fickle existence-
one of billions
and my thoughts on the wind
and the sun
and love
they are not new
they are recycled, unneeded
at least i tell myself that as i cry to the moon
and see your eyes in the sun
and feel the stabs of love
attack me from all sides
i hear the whispers in my mind
'this is alright'
and i feel
in my own sufferings.
Lexi Jun 2013
there's something entrancing in knowing that I am not quite young
young minded, no.
young in control, perhaps.
young in prowess... definitely not.
and since young and old
are only based on the amount of
and tocks
you've been breathing
or the amount of wrinkles you're covering
or the amount of tears that have fallen in laughter
aren't we all a little young,
a little old?
time is a thing
and i am a being.
and beings are not things,
nor do they enjoy being constrained by such things.
Lexi Jun 2013
within the word, "everything,"
you find the word, "thing."
such a mundane word
for something that encompasses
every aspect of who i am.
and maybe that's suiting.
or maybe it's diminishing.
i may not know a lot about who i am,
who i'd like to be,
where i'd like to go,
or what i'd like to do.
but i do know that there will be many "things"
accompanying me on my journey.
like my little nothings,
your sweet love notes
i hide in my favorite place.
or my art things
which i only stare in amazement
(and maybe intimidation-- i never use those things).
there will be somethings,
the feeling under my skin
when all i'd like to do is disappear
or when you whisper words
into my ear, words i've never heard before.
i can only hope there will be everythings
you, you are my everything
us, we are everything i thought love was meant to be (and more)
me, undeniably in love with you,
who you are,
who you want to be,
where you'd like to go,
and what you'd like to do.
and hopefully this something
will turn into a thing of the universe
(but never a mundane aspect)
with things, come hope,
and nothing is always guaranteed.
Lexi Jun 2013
shades of hues so dark, yet iridescent, lined the minimalistic realm during the era of the Grays.
each Gray wore gray clothes
ate gray food
thought gray thoughts
and could only think in terms of black and white… and gray.
there were no rules, simply because no one was unhappy with the way things were.
happiness was trivial;
trivial like a pale shade of pink managing to make its way into the spectrum of the Grays
or trivial like the way a Gray would see that pastel and disregard it entirely.
it did not exist.
happiness was trivial, smiles were trivial, balance was necessary.
balance, balance, balance.
order, order, order.
creativity did not exist.
creativity was not a word.
if a Gray’s words had no obvious meaning, they were disregarded, because they were incomprehensible. Words not in terms of black and white were seen as red, seen as blue, seen as green,
but never seen at all.
the magnitude of something’s potential depth was measured by their ability to disregard anything not pertinent to what a Gray should believe.
a Gray must be Gray, must be pensive, must be reserved.
a Gray must be tedious, must be timid, must be poised.
a Gray must be obedient, must be trusting, must be trusted.
a Gray must not see red, or blue, or yellow, or green, or purple, or indigo, or orange,
especially not cerulean or magenta or cyan or mauve or tangerine.
the Grays evolved from Whites, from Blacks
the degenerating masochists of times before
the Grays could not look down, nor up, nor in between, or sideways, or vertically, or around
they could not think what to possibly think of what these people before them may have thought about thinking and thoughts
and couldn’t bear to think about all of this thinking
so the Grays did not think about thinking
they lived for the sake of living
they breathed for the sake of inhaling, exhaling
­ exhale
but somewhere
somewhere in that Gray society
a young Gray began to breathe
and opened his eyes
his blue, blue eyes
and brought thoughts of color
to every Gray’s mind
lightened the world with light
opened the world to chance, to luck, to love
exposed the world to color, to beginnings and ends, to loss, and to destruction
and cried tears of red, of blue, of yellow, of green, of purple, of indigo, of orange,
       especially cerulean and magenta and cyan and mauve and tangerine
flooding the world with possibility
flooding the world with creativity.
Lexi Jun 2013
I wrote this about a year and a half ago, so mind you, I was but a mere 14 and a half years of age. I've detected problems in the plot and grammatical errors, but I don't want to take away from what it was when I first created it. Thank you.*

There are times that I decide that I must stop, so I pause in my placid, scheduled routine, and wonder about life, and how I came to be such a disheveled human being. I stare at the repetitive pattern of white squares on the ceiling, count the squares a couple of times (it's always 54), and just think. My thoughts bounce around my head persistently, I can feel them hitting against my head, back and forth, back and forth, never stopping. They slither like evil, determined serpents, throughout my veins, around my face, between my fingers. My thoughts fuse together with my dreams, intermingling with my memories, desires, the lies I was fed every day as a child, and the constant anger so close to the surface, but for what reason it is truly there, I was never able to figure out.
Each time I feel the need to think, I start with the same beginning, that same beginning which my mother repeated to me so many times, every morning, every hour on the hour, every night. “You are Todd Stevens. You have beautiful green eyes, the color of emeralds. You are as quick as a fox, and as sharp as a needle. Your mama loves you very much. You've got a great future ahead of you. You killed your sister, Holly, but mama still loves you.” After that, which was so deeply penetrated into my skull, it would be impossible for me to forget it, my thoughts would wander and dwindle down the stream of consciousness.
On this particular day, my thoughts were focused on my current position in life. If I had such a great future ahead of me, why is it that I'd been locked away in an asylum for the past ten years? My mama never lied, she was the best thing that ever happened to me, except maybe Holly. She was my twin sister; we looked so much alike, we could get away with trading places and mama would never even know. We both had the same cropped tawny, brown hair, piercing green eyes, and olive colored skin. I looked down at my flesh, and saw my sister's hands before me. I tried to remember the last memory I had of her, tried to remember how I killed her.
“Todd,” she had called out from behind a door, the door my mama always told us never to go into, 'cause it was our daddy's workshop. “Todd, please help me.” she had whimpered.
“Holly, I'll help you.” I yelled, clawing at the door and grasping for the doorknob. It wouldn't budge. My mama was standing at her doorway, looking at me with the most pitiful eyes I had ever seen. She was sniffling a whole lot, and had one hand behind her back. I became entranced in her stare, and I immediately ignored the small cries of Holly from behind the door. Mama starts approaching me, and I saw something silver in her hand. And then it ends, just like that. I never saw or heard about Holly again. A lot of my memories ended that way, seeing mama come at me with a silver thing. But I always woke up, very happy, if not a little bit ache-y. She'd sit there and run her hands through my hair, and murmur her repetition to me, over and over. My name was still Todd Stevens, I still had green eyes, I was still quick and sharp, mama still loved me, I still had aspirations, and I still killed my sister.
Mama was always the best thing in my life. She loved me a lot, really cared about me. She never truly appreciated Holly as much, but that was fine by me. Sometimes, when Holly had been jealous, she'd yell at me, so loud that it pulsated throughout my head like the ocean waves on the shore. I'd never been to the shore, but mama showed my videos of it all the time. She never let us out of the house, she said she didn't want the other kids laughing at us. I would ask why anyone would laugh at us, and she would just smile and shake her head, and say, “Oh, you're special Toddy.”
I look up at the ceiling again, because I'm feeling too emotional, and count the 54 squares again. Thinking of mama always makes me feel funny, especially when I think of the day she sent me to the place I've lived in ever since, this asylum I call home.
It was all of a sudden, one day out of the blue. She looked at me with ferocious, hating eyes for the first time in my life. Without words, just her intense glare, she forced me to go to my daddy's workshop door. She was breathing real heavily, like she did when she chased me around the house and scooped me up into her arms, and kissed my forehead. This was not one of those times, though. She pointed at the door.
“Go.” She commanded. I never said no to my mama, but I was scared and stuck in her trance again, like I was when Holly was calling out to me. Mama began to walk closer to me, her hand still pointed towards the door, shaking. “Please,” she begged, her face instantly softening, “I can't do this anymore, I'm sorry. They'll take care of you, Holly. They're much better than me. I'm not a good mama. I ruined you.” She then began to cry, and I had never seen her cry before. It was all too much for me, so I twisted the handle and left that house once and for all.
I ran and closed my eyes, because I didn't know what I was going to find in daddy's workshop, and I didn't want to see Holly after all that time being so far apart. I didn't think as to why mama called me Holly, or why she abandoned me after so long. I left mama behind me, and sometimes, if I think hard enough, I can still hear her cries.
What I found behind that door was absolute nothingness, like a dream of black fog, thick and enveloping, not letting me go. Pictures appeared before me, quick and not ceasing. The pictures showed me and mama when I was born in a hospital a long time ago in a place I didn't remember ever seeing. One was of me and her, right when I was born. She looked so happy and at ease. Then, another picture showed mama with another baby, it must have been Holly. What confused me was that she was real blue, and wasn't crying, and mama's face was all contorted in this strange look of horror. I shied away from that picture, it made the anger come up again, the worst it had ever been. I screamed in this strange state of delusion, and that picture was replaced by ones I didn't recognize in the least. Mama was in one of them. She sat in a small cell enclosed with metal bars, and looked completely lost and alone. She looked much older; her once black hair was a shade of silver and her porcelain skin was cracked with age. I wanted to comfort her, to reach out, but that snapshot was then replaced with another picture, of me, with long brown hair, green eyes, and a door behind me. I smiled a goofy grin, and pointed at the name plate by the door. It read, “Holly Stevens.” Then, like a movie clip, it showed me opening that door, looking around a small white room with 54 white squares on the ceiling, sitting on the bed and smiling, then the door slowly closing behind me.
I look up at the ceiling once more. I count. 1, 2, 3, 4... Subconsciously, I knew I had just stumbled upon the truth, but I would never let myself admit it. After all, my name is Todd Stevens. I have beautiful green eyes, the color of emeralds. I'm as quick as a fox and as sharp as a needle. My mama loves me very much. I have a great future ahead of me. I killed my sister, Holly, but mama still loves me. ...51, 52, 53, 54...
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