“I parked my car in the Harvard Yard”
People ask me to say.
My state was a
Paper
T o  r     n
by terrorists
This day.

7th grade, April vacation
on a cruise ship, I was excited
To get out of that cold
New England weather

Laying on the twin bed
Stomach churning
From the sea, Like butter that never thickens

TV said,
“Boston Marathon Bombing”
My face turned red.
I willed my friends to stay out of Boston.
Jill was in Boston
Thank god she’s alright

What kind of fame did they want?
What kind of pride comes with this?

The worst part:
We could not do anything about it.

Aged 13, 7th grade.
Nothing we could do.
Cruising past Virginia in a stark lit cabin room
I couldn't do anything.

In these months passed since the attack
I have taken the live and dead and held them like a closed fist in my heart.



They will cease to remain a number
of a statistic
of an event
5 dead
It said.

5 dead means nothing
They had lives, families, people knew them.
People knew them as more than the “5 dead”
So when you say 5 dead. Think about what lies behind the number,
1 was 1 to many.
No time for regrets.
Could we of changed what happened?
Could we of taken more precautions?
No one knows.

We can’t change what happened that day.
So if we can’t change our past,
Lets start by changing
Our
Future

I miss my stupid perfect girlfriend.

With her stupid cute face.

With her stupid nice smile

that makes the pain erase.


And I miss her stupid lovely eyes,

so stupid pretty brown.

And I know I’m stupid in love with her

because for some reason,

when she’s feeling stupid or unpretty

I feel ****** and down.


I miss her stupid laugh

full of joy and wonder.

And I miss how she doesn’t make me feel stupid, at all

And how she makes my heart feel like thunder


And I wish I was with her right now

I wish we could be stupid together

But I’ll give up a few stupid days

In exchange for being stupid forever.

Poetry Is Beautiful
Poetry is a painting.
        Your canvas, your paper.
Your pen is your brush.
        Each word a pigment
When blending pigments in sentences
It can create beautiful things.
        People have trouble sharing them.
Because art is personal
It is a part of them that they do not want judged.
It is honest.
        Which is beautiful
And raw
        And is not always perfect.
Which is beautiful.
Poetry is music.
Each note tells a story,
Every crescendo
        A word
                                STRESS
Each pianissimo a whisper.
        The fermata, the lines
The tempo the rhyme
        Music is beautiful.
Poetry is music.
Poetry is you.
                        YOU are beautiful.
Poetry is beautiful.
Like poems,
                You are are criticized.
And looked at up and down
                        By greedy eyes.
People search for meaning in you.
                        You, like poetry
                are complex and different.
and people have different opinions on you.
Like Poetry, some do not get you.
                                Some do not understand you.
And others have a great appreciation for you.        
        Which is beautiful.
                
I am poetry.
        I am different.
People judge me too.
From the curve of my thigh
        To the shape of my hips
To the swing of my walk
To the length of my lines and stanzas.
You are poetry. I am poetry. Music is poetry.
        Poetry is beautiful.
Poetry is the earth.
From the burn of the sunset
                to the ache of the old willow tree
To the rusty croak of the toad
The golden fields of wheat,
To the mountains.
         Confident and strong.
        Which are beautiful.
The earth is beautiful.
Poetry is the world.
It is yours,
        It is mine.
Like the world
It is yours.
it is mine.
        People have trouble sharing them.
Which is not good
for anyone,
But like the world, poetry can be beautiful if shared.
Poetry is beautiful
Poetry is us.
It is everything.
Poetry is beautiful.
        
p        o        e        t        r        y
IS
bEaUtIfUL.

If my jealousy was water
the glass would be full
If my laziness was a lawn
It would be green
If my beauty was an ocean
You would see only sand
But
If my devotion was a bird
It would soar
If my happiness was a bell
It would ring
If my hope was a glass
It would be full
If my Passion was a spark
It would turn into an inferno
If my love was a waterfall
It would roar
And If my peace was a song
It would sing