There are hills here.
I'm driving over the hills here.
I hit 90 miles-per-hour here.
All that is,
is me and the road here.
On the other side of here is there.
There are no hills there.
I am home there.
I am at rest there.
But while I am here
I will always wonder
if I will ever get there.
wrote this because my history class is boring
The airwaves live in the day.
What they whisper,
I cannot say,
but what I know
is that when they go
their message will live on in my head.
And what's in my head
should not be said
and when the night ends
all that will be found
is a life I could not fit my arms around.
this is the first thing i've written in a while. please be kind.
Do you remember that morning?
Do you remember the silk scarf of the breeze?
How it carried the remains of the fire?
I knelt in the chilled shade of the garden,
black soil memorizing the curve of my knees,
ashes tickling my cheeks
and burning the back of my mouth.
The pods felt like fleece in my hands,
so small when compared to the size of yours
as they cracked open a pod longer than my palm.
You explained to me how the peas,
perfect and small and round and nestled together
were just like you and I: two peas in a pod.
Do you remember how those same hands,
rougher than rope,
lifted me to sit of your shoulders?
They lifted me higher than the burnt ladders
in your shed ever could.
I clutched your shoulders,
just as burnt as your shed and shrieked.
My fingers twisted in your silk sand hair,
yours laced loosely around my skinny ankles.
You never carried me like that again,
you never again held my hands in yours,
you never came back home.
The shed's ashes danced on the wind
just as you danced out of my life.
Last memory of my uncle before he went off to who knows where.
The pen was an extension of her hand.
The line between skin
and dull plastic disappeared.
Words bled from the ballpoint,
her own blood poured out on the page
She filled page after page,
stanzas, epics, novels.
She ran out of paper.
She ran out of ink.
She ran out of words.
Her pen bled dry
and it would not breathe her words.
Instead, they were trapped in her head,
gathering dust with neglect, no way to connect.
in the thick of a block lately.
I surrender the battle,
But dare not surrender the war.
I will not let go of my dreams.
I have borne too many
Bruises and run too far to
Give up. All I want is to
Feel the sun the way I want
To feel it and feel how I
Want to feel. Without your look
Of disdain burning deep in
My eyes, making me feel much
Smaller than I deserve to
Feel. I will fight the shame you
Give me. I will continue
To fight and I will win in
The end. This is my life.
Live your own.
A note to depression and anorexia.
I live on misery street
With misery homes
And misery rooms
And misery men
Making misery memories
With their misery mistresses
To forget their misery lives
And their misery jobs
With their misery bosses
And misery coworkers
Working to get their misery pay
So they can feed their misery kids
So they can focus at misery school
And get misery grades
So they can have misery lives of their own.
I live on misery street
Where misery isn't misery at all.
Misery is routine.
I'm a UFO in this city
A spark in this desert night
Setting me apart from this war