create clouds
out of pebbles
hang myself to dry
on a silver lining

return to pasts
dwell
in their long lost shadows

move myself with it
as it shifts
with the sun

in my garden
linger on the scent
from my newly planted
reminisces

dew drops in the spring  
the sun is shining
I'm running towards my mom even though the time has come for me to say goodbye for graduation
I try to focus on the day that is graduation
But everything is a blur
I zone out until my name is called
I walk across the field
feeling proud, accomplished
But I can't help but cry
as I try and not trip on my small gown
I spot you in the crowd
All I can think of at that moment is the memories that we've created
and the way we're all huddled up
I cry one because I'm leaving the group behind
making my way in this word
adulting
still a newbie at heart
learning through trial and error
But know this
no matter where I go in life
I'll always treasure you and the memories that we made
my senior year

It's 3am

I'm on the phone
No one's awake and I'm alone

It's 3am

The radio's on
Songs are played on lonely station

It's 3am

I'm in my bed
My eyes are open and sleep has fled

It's 3am

I'm on the balcony
The sky is dark and just quite scary

It's 3am

Some windows have lights
Could they also not sleep tonight

It's 3am

I'm still awake
When will life ever give me a break

i often feel like hollow light. If you
were to touch me, there would be
nothing but a hand passing through
a few swirling luminescent particles—
i am a ghost pretending to be human.
i admit that this is hard for me to say–
writing without wrapping words
in warmth is unsafe, risk-laden; my
fingers freeze up, unmoving,
suddenly unknowing. there are
a few moments each day when i lose
all my speech, and five, ten, fifteen
years of learning how to hold myself
together with shaky hands vanish,
swallowed like lifeboats sinking. i
would like to tell the truths buried in
my stomach—like cutting open the sky
and watching all the stars fall through
torn fabric—but each time my
words fail me, and so I will never call
myself a poet. perhaps one of the
most difficult things is writing
without metaphors—i can’t make
fear or pain or the shaky breaths
that happen after you’ve cried for too
long sound soft or lovely or like deep
ocean tremors, and now i am no longer
an artist, i am just the raw, bare soul
of a person who never quite got the
hang of stability. still i am attempting
to decipher how all these people
keep their feet on the ground, so if
you find anything for me to saw the
wings growing from my ankles off with,
let me know.

Someone must have taken a spatula and stirred me,
feelings that were discrete are now perfectly mixed together,
popped into an oven, preheated,
and maybe its okay I don't remember the ingredients or recipe,
as long we enjoy whatever comes out the oven,
perhaps even together.