Two decades in and already swamped with memories
And only the desire to make new ones.
Walking to class or coming home
People ask me what I want to do,
What do I want to do with the rest of my life?

I can feel my throat constrict and my heart skid,
Don’t they understand how much of a commitment that is?
The rest of my life.

And what if it’s not something I want to do, but something I want to be?

I’m 20 years old and don’t ever have my head in this atmosphere,
So how can I ever hope to decide the rest of my life?

I want to write with the raindrops that kiss the grass
Or sleep on the waves of the ocean
And hold the stars in my hands.
I want to climb the highest tree or the highest mountain
Just so I can jump and call it flying.
I want to read the faces of others
And put them into stories.
But mostly I want to run,
Not literally,
But running still.
I want to catch time as it passes by
And go to all the places in the pictures
Enjoying adventure upon adventure
Until the end of my days,
Surrounded by the select few that I love.

I want to be nothing short of me,
And who I am isn’t a constant that can be applied to a formula,
It’s constantly changing, growing, fighting, loving.
How dare you ask me to define what I want to be,
When it’s plain that I don’t even know who I am?

I’m 20 years old and what I want to do for the rest of my life
Is nothing sort of a mystery, an adventure,
Like a storyline leading to an epic plot twist,
But it’s wrapped in uncertainty
And the only way to find out where it’s going
Is to keep reading the book.

How do you explain

to your children that the

horrors of the world are real?

How will I tell my son, We

found a place you can call home but

your bus might not make it to school.

Do not look too Jewish in this part of town

Do not play in the train station

Do not get used

to the weight

of a machine gun.

Or look my

daughter in the eye and say, someday

you might say “no” and someone stronger than you might

not listen

You will not tell me

Know that this happens a lot

Know that your wrists pinned against a

backboard will

echo in the way you move your hands

for as long as you let it

But

human hands aren’t as heavy as metal shackles

And I’m so sorry

but I won’t be able to

take the weight for you

You’ll wake up in the morning

That I can promise you

You’ll wake up

and your lungs will fill with air

whether you tell them to or not.

One day

I will hold someone

small, with my face

and they’ll cry and I’ll say,

*I know.

I know you’re tied with little yarn strings to the last life

I know it hurts to be here and

(honestly)

you’re never going back

But

the older you get the less you’ll remember

what it was like

before you had a body

when you were made of ash and infinite light

You’ll convince yourself you live here and

that your hands are you,

But remember that once you were boundless

Inside my body, without yours.

After Seven,
She stands at her stall,
Glass Case.
Scarlet strobe.
******* clad, she practices
The oldest profession,
Scant consolation.

A Smile, A Tap, A wink.
“Come in, I’ll show you
A Good Time.”

After dawn,
No leading lights,
Lying alone,
She watches television.
No good news in Libya.
An assortement of literature on
Her coffee table;
Cooking manuals, How-To guides,
No Austen, No Wolfe, No Bronte,
Just an illusion.

And they say we are the mad ones. Rebellious in spirit, and reckless in life. We walk with fire beneath our feet, careless about everything. They say our eyes are blindfolded from reality and we live in a dream. Burdened by their words, we find ourselves following their black ties and white lies. We begin to see with their obscured eyes and hear with their clouded ears. But I say to you, do not fall prey to their snaring teeth. They do not make you, create you, or shape you. We are the pearl of mother earth; a beacon of light bestowed on those in the dark. Tumultuous and free, we are creating a world of color in front of us. Hold the torch up high and set fire ablaze to our trail. Make love your religion and insanity your hymn.  Live vicariously through words, poems, music, and the soft whispers of another. Open the books to your lives and begin writing. Do not swallow society’s propaganda or be tamed by their whip.  You are spirited, talented, and wild with passion. They will give you a map with lines and arrows. Unabashedly you will throw it away; your compass lies near your heart and will guide you from here. Nestle all fears in your coven. Fear keeps bad company and chases away your dreams. Capture your dreams and bear them upon your chest. They are the scapegoat from reality. Love as if you never have before, for it is the only thing that holds us together. Without it, we are mere beings living in a structured frame. When you wake, hold each day as its own. We are wise, beautiful, and simply wonderful. Sing a tune, laugh continuously, dance circles around strangers, and kiss a friend.  Be joyous. But most importantly, be mad.