She knew exactly what she was doing
when she stared into my soul.
She was looking for the emerald
I have been hiding from the world.
So I shut my eyes before she cracked the code
and I ran in the empty, black maze holding onto my treasure.

I'm goner.
Spit one last splash of lukewarm words out
and I'm a solid rock on my bed.
You see,
I whisper words out to the world
like the way you'd sing to a plant,
silently so as not to be overheard,
but hoping that a soft tune
will make it grow.
I speak to you
the way a child asks the stars
for his wish to come true,
considerately, moderately,
shyly, greedily.
And then I shut my eyes.

Dear Facebook lovebirds,

I get it. You like each other.
But seriously, just stop.
If you want to tell someone
you love them,
that you're nothing without them,
that you'd die for them,
send them a message,
or better yet, actually tell them
face to face and savor the embrace of the moment
because if I see another post
about your immortal love
I'll remind you of its mortality.

Sincerely,
Someone who's heard it before

I'm hungry.
That's not a metaphor, I just really want to eat something.
The end.

Jk, it would be cray if I just said that and left.
I just really want to eat something
but at the same time I'm not desperate.
My stomach isn't growling.
The inner beast in me isn't howling.
I'm not famished. Should I be
before I stare blindly into the fridge?

Yeah, there's no soul-staring here,
just a nonchalant rant about
a girl who just really wants to eat something.

Write me a poem.
I'm tired and beat,
so please make it short and sweet.
Make it happy
because I need to smile.
Make it happy
because you need to smile.
Write it for someone else,
but let me wear their shoes.
Take me dancing
and let's waltz to your words.
Please write me a poem.
Thank you.

Tidy room, tidy mind.
Logical, is it not?
We splash our life onto the canvas of our bedrooms.
Our dreams escape onto the walls as we sleep.
Our feet drag the dirt of our adventures on the floor.
Our desks are hidden under papers, pencils, a calculator, papers, a spoon, a comb, and two large hands ransacking the surface looking for a misplaced paper.
I like my room in the mess of sense I understand but maybe mom was right. I have to reorganize my room. I have to reorganize my mind
to clear the pathway between my bed and the door, so I can have a new vision and spend time looking for the right things.