she wrote words in
between the cracks of
sidewalks, so people wouldn't
step on them
she scribbled in notebooks
and left them at bus stations,
where strangers took
them home
she wrote her words in
aquafresh on the bathroom
mirror, and the next
person would have the
arduous task of
cleaning her mind off
and flushing it
she wrote on the stalks of
wheat, which baked into
bread fed rich and poor and
stealing orphans who became
trancelike
she wrote in red sharpie ink
across the train platform
and up the handrails and across
the 90's patterned seats
she wrote pieces on the graffiti
boards in skate-parks
because they were covered
by *** leaves and ying-yang
signs that are anything but balanced,
smiley faces more crooked
than the person who painted it
she scribed phrases into
candy given to children, sitting
in stomachs and spit on the
ground
she wrote everywhere so
someone might remember her, and
they didn't
they remember words across
their cheeks, maybe a glimpse
of beauty in the
twirling joy of a child in the rain
they do not remember a girl with
cropped hair and eyes
that pierce, they do not
remember a writer, only a
book that spans the entire world with a page
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
she wrote words in
between the cracks of
sidewalks, so people wouldn't
step on them
she scribbled in notebooks
and left them at bus stations,
where strangers took
them home
she wrote her words in
aquafresh on the bathroom
mirror, and the next
person would have the
arduous task of
cleaning her mind off
and flushing it
she wrote on the stalks of
wheat, which baked into
bread fed rich and poor and
stealing orphans who became
trancelike
she wrote in red sharpie ink
across the train platform
and up the handrails and across
the 90's patterned seats
she wrote pieces on the graffiti
boards in skate-parks
because they were covered
by *** leaves and ying-yang
signs that are anything but balanced,
smiley faces more crooked
than the person who painted it
she scribed phrases into
candy given to children, sitting
in stomachs and spit on the
ground
she wrote everywhere so
someone might remember her, and
they didn't
they remember words across
their cheeks, maybe a glimpse
of beauty in the
twirling joy of a child in the rain
they do not remember a girl with
cropped hair and eyes
that pierce, they do not
remember a writer, only a
book that spans the entire world with a page