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Olivia Mercado Jun 2014
This is the time of the year where
seniors in purple fly through the halls
riding on scooters
as per school tradition.
Where I play "Pomp and Circumstance"
twenty-eight times in a row
while they tromp sloooooowly down the aisle.
The days are scalding
and the nights are balmy
the sky is too blue,
the earth burned slowly brown
the trees green
the grass gold
and the air still.
These are the days when phone book bags
saw at my fingers while I trudge from house to house
raising money for next year.

Next year will be my turn.
The nights will be alive with the music
of my prom
and my graduation;
the halls will be aflame
with the purple of my spreading robes.
Next year I will leave, turn away to the river-blue mountains
the icing-white crests and go.
To Canada, to New York, to Seattle or Portland --
the throbbing quiver of life
of people experiencing one another --

where I go doesn't matter. Next year,
this time,
I will be gone.
Olivia Mercado May 2014
I stare at the ceiling and
love myself
for a change

It feels incredible
to be loved by someone
who knows me as I know
Olivia Mercado May 2014
Poems on
  graph paper
in the bottom of  my
Olivia Mercado May 2014
Broken as a

Lines broken off
                             in the

     what            would
Olivia Mercado May 2014
existence is merely the illusion of light inside a void
a narrative projected onyo the screen of darkness without
dreams are swallowed by the void and
make love to it
the children of souls and minds and nothing
of hate

breaking the sky
too strange to be horrible
yet too horrible to be

and so it falls apart
our projection shown for what it is
threadbare and disintegrating
revealed physically in our bodies
like everything we believe.

the desert of the real is upon us
and we are drowning in thirst.
Olivia Mercado May 2014
You're looking down
please don't look down again.
We live in a culture of self-deprecation
and self-loathing
but we are not slaves to it.
Just because you feel like curling up like a hedgehog
doesn't mean you have to --
It's easy, and you're tired,
but you don't have to.

You are better than this.
You are better than whatever version of yourself
you see in the mirror on those mornings  you don't want to leave the house
better than your father was
better than I am, honestly.
There is so much goodness in you --
stop pulling back
there is nothing to be afraid of.
Trust me.
It took me years to find that out for myself.
Olivia Mercado May 2014
My words feel broken

because I stopped using them for poetry
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