Sometimes it feels like you're walking around on tiptoe as not to disturb the glass beneath your feet
Broken edges, sharp shards of memories and the life that once was
Shoes mask the familiar feel of the ground, confuse your feet, and throw them off path
Barefoot and
Not so free
Hobble around, try to regain your balance whilst staying upright
Don't look down, feel around for the soft areas
A blind man, navigating through a minefield
What are the chances of getting through safely?
When it rains more glass you grab at your threadbare sweatshirt that is trying so hard to protect you
Your innocent, now scarred white flesh glistens against the storm of needles that ***** your skin
At what point do you decide to stop caring?
At what point do you take off the jacket that's not been doing much for you anyways and just give yourself to the battle?
Sacrificial living or
Sacrificial dying
Sacrificial being
At what point do you blow up?
I'm trying to understand this way of walking
But I stomp around on heavy feet
My feet are calloused and sore
I'm barefoot and free
I've blown off my limbs but what's a little blood to stop the war?
My scars have faded
I gave myself to the storm
Yet I'm still breathing
I've not died though I've walked many a mile on
Tiptoe back when I thought it was wise
To walk on shattered glass

the last time I saw Death
I was waiting anxiously for his arrival
he'd been talked up so much in my life i just had to see him for myself, with my own two eyes
I was ready to meet the one who would put an end to my misery
when I finally came face to face with the creator of endings, tears slid out of my eyes so silently I wasn't sobbing or mourning but rejoicing
Death was so ******* beautiful, you know?
He put my mind at ease, and my soul to sleep
Kept asking me if this was what I really wanted
Death knows consent is **** but he also knew
I wasn't completely ready to leave yet
He stroked my cheek, wiped the tears from my eyes, and whispered
"not yet, love."
he promised he'd return but another winter has come and gone and
I haven't seen him since

the good poems
are constructed from fragments
of painful experiences
times when i felt numb and nothing
there's thought,
structure
or lack of anything entirely
the good poems
remind me of a time
that i can't really remember
i'm going back to this pain
because it's familiar
i remember what desolation looks like
i remember what silent screams ripped air in two and
my skin apart
the good poems tell of a time
where i was mentally so far gone
when i had a concrete concept of the darkness enfolding me but no concept of what scary was
the good poems aren't really good poems
there's just emotion there
i felt so much
and it hurt to touch
if i can somehow make sense of it all
rewrite my scars into fresh cuts again
remember the nullity i fell into
maybe i'll learn how to feel again
leave the past in the past and bury it with a hatchet
no need to dig up all the skeletons you once hid in your closet
you let chaos rest, why disturb it?
it never escapes you
i talk about past pains
like it's something i crave
what a foolish thing to want, to need
to thirst for to feel whole again
this pain
i think they call it growing pain
like the pain of physically shaking off an old skin that no longer fits
the skin i felt comfortable in and the skin i abused
so a new skin can grow
i miss the familiarity
and my limits
the good poems
weren't good at all
but in my head
they're good because
if i can fathom images of what trembling nights felt like
out of shaky breaths
that's better than when i can't
and if the only thing i ever write about for as long as i live is pain
then so be it
they say that you spend your whole life
rewriting the first poem you ever loved
perhaps
my definition of love
is synonymous with pain
perhaps pain
is synonymous with life
if that's true
then the good poems remind me of a time
when i was so so alive that i was on the brink
of death
-
-rgp

When the ink flows from the tip of my pen onto paper,
it really is a
Majestic sight
My thoughts come alive via
scrawled script in
Blue Ink

i am apathetic.
which is funny, for an empath
to go from feeling too much
to feeling nothing
what stress caused the strings to break within me?
what bitterness and hatred caused a sudden lack of feeling?
oh
chronic depression
you’re back.
****.
-rgp

like a phoenix
i'll rise from the ashes of
the girl i once was
i've lived
a thousand lives
and i'll live
a thousand more

i want to talk with someone
but i don't know how to say it
i want to talk just talk
not about specific life events or what i ate for dinner last night
please don't ask me about my family or my academics
ask me why my replies get short when you ask me how i am
tell me more than
well i'm glad you're still breathing
when that's my response to your short question
i know
that i can twist my words into appearing positive even when they're not
i know that my sarcasm doesn't always transcend beyond the computer's algorithms
i know that you don't know how to mitigate my suffering
and that's fine
really
it is
so we'll talk about you and your great life adventures
even though right now
i want to talk about the poem i just read by andrea gibson
i want to talk about my writing professor and her brilliant mind and how i've never been more motivated to get to class just so i could sit there and take in the simple grandeur
i want to talk about the night sky and i know it's overrated woohoo the stars and moon huzzah for the earth's night light but have you ever noticed
how when you stand out in the middle of the road at 2 am in the morning,
the world down here is silent and flat but up there, the galaxies stretch and bend beyond the eye can see, the stars are all placed so perfectly
hapharzardly scattered about but in the right places
sometimes they're so dim, you know?
i will never stop aweing over the miracle of the sky nor will i ever not stand in the middle of the road at 2 am in the morning on a rough night just to be reminded of the beauty that's still there within each and every one of us even though sometimes we can't see it
i want to talk about the dream i had last night
and the night before that and how i am scared to fall asleep because my mind is a ******* complex and ***** thing that can thread unimaginable hypotheticals through something that was supposed to be peaceful
i don't want to sleep
i want to talk
i want to talk with someone
because i'm tired of talking to myself
-
-rgp

“It is time to write,” she says
I open a new Word Document.
A blank sheet.
My mind does not want to write an essay.
I write in verse and
chopped lines
not straight paragraphs that drone on and on about William Faulkner and his acceptance speech.
My mind, it drifts off and thinks in flowery words, much too flowery for an essay.
My fingers start typing and words appear on the screen.

Enter.
Type, type, type.
Enter. Type, type, type. Enter.

My thoughts appear in verse and William Faulkner goes unnoticed.

How many times have I written about the whirlwind of a storm inside my mind instead of
whether or not cohabitation is a good thing or
speeches about equal access and the themes in Harper Lee’s To **** a Mockingbird?
How many times have I given into my urge to write and relieve my brain of the pressure that gets built up instead of writing things that will earn me a grade?
The answer is often.
The grade,
Just a number
The conceptions?
Just words

What I write in procrastination?
Everything that bleeds from my heart.
The low grade I received on my speech because I couldn’t be bothered to write about horrid subjects when my soul yearned for something greater?
Worth it.

Once I met a man
who called himself
the Dark Poet
He spoke but quietly
in hushed tones of wisdom
Might I be a fool to check the year
but I could have sworn it was
the great Poe himself
reincarnated through this man
I laughed at the possibility of the truth and
shrugged off the obscure thought
he said I should laugh often
that the sound of laughter
is a sound the world has been deeply deprived of
there we sat on a park bench at dusk
with the fluorescent streetlight flickering above us, insects buzzing and dying
He spoke of treacherous times
and
the past that should have been left behind
He told me,
“The past, much like the present, is inescapable. Try as you might to let it go, but still will it linger in the dark crevices of your mind”
I asked him if he would want to relive the past
He folded his hands
There was something about the way he held himself that made him look so unnerving, yet naked and small
I immediately regretted my question, but he looked at me with a glint in his eye and whispered
"No, child.
As many days as I have seen of rain, I know that there will always come a rainbow. I look for the rainbow.
I do not wish to relive the past, because the rainbows I saw were the most beautiful rainbows in my life."
He stood up then, brushed off his pants, and walked away.
I sat on that park bench a while longer, pondering what had just happened
It started to rain, but I did not get up.
Instead, I let the rain soak through my clothes and chill my bones
I stayed on that park bench until it stopped raining.
Though the night was peculiar, I knew one thing was for sure;
I would always look for the rainbows.

if i were the drinking kind
i'd fill my body with enough poison i might slip into a deep slumber and not wake until the pain disappeared
my poison of choice
is music
melodies strung and sung so sweetly my heart aches until it numbs
when tears slither their way out of my dry, cracking face i try to convince myself i'm just rehydrating the dead cells that mask my tired bones
pay no attention to the hysterical grin, the Gucci bags under my eyes, and the hair that's wearing Thin and Matted like designer names on B-list celebrities
every night i cut the ambien into pieces, working my way up from halfsies to wholesies so i don't have to listen to the conversations i have with the walls in my room
it all hurts so ******* much, you know?
you don't numb this kind of pain expecting it to go away
you listen to it and coddle it and sit back as it consumes you because **** it looked so innocent
at first
when 10 am finally comes
hashbrowns with too much salt, a mug of cold tea, and a couple Prozac can remedy even the worst of depression's hangovers

sleep tight

don't let the bedbugs bite.

-
-rgp

i think you hurt me
and i think,
at the time at least
i liked it.

i liked that someone listened to me
that should’ve been the first red flag
no one listens to me
i mean no one like you listens to me.

and i didn’t think it odd or inappropriate
i’m gay,
i told you
i didn’t think you were a threat
and that should’ve been the second.

i didn’t think it was weird
when you asked me for selfies
because people swap selfies, right?
i’ve sent some pretty hideous double chinned bedhead dead eyed selfies to my girlfriend
how is it any different if it’s to a guy friend?

except it was different
you asked to see my thigh gap
my feet
my lordotic back because you wanted to see how my muscular dystrophy affected me
physically.
that should’ve been the third.

you called me pet names.
you told me you loved me.
you said you would always be there for me when no one else was.
fourth. fifth. sixth.

at first i thought it endearing and a platonic kind of love.
but you don’t say those things to a girl you met on the internet
i don’t.

i struggle saying those three words.
they weigh me down and make me choke on air when i try to say them out loud
so when you insisted i say them back, that you wouldn’t stop bugging me until i did,
i panicked
typed them, hit “send”
and cried later
and you told me it’s no big deal, everyone says “i love you”
not me. never me.
seventh flag.

you told me you’d visit
you told me we were meant to be
like a ****** up romeo and juliet
you spent your nights talking me down off of suicidal ledges
you thought you saved me
you kept telling me to just ******* eat, that starving myself was stupid, that you couldn’t have me die on you, that you were supposed to die first
“death is not a race,” i said
“you’ll win anyway if i don’t save you,” you replied
eighth flag.
i didn’t like it anymore.

i think you hurt me.
i can’t be too sure since you’ve convinced me you were just being friendly but i’m starting to come out of this fog you’ve put me in
and i do believe
you’ve hurt me.

-rgp

i don't/can't/won't/shouldn't/ write this essay
instead i'll write poems
in procrastination
about girls that don't exist
guys that don't know i exist
unicorns i wish i was riding
holden caulfield
my brother
death and general grayness
procrastination poems
are better than my essay
writing essays are 95% procrastination and maybe 2% work
3% denial
this poem is already longer than my essay is
should i get to work or
read another article on my favourite band
or hover over the email tab
someone talk to me? no?
but music!
no good music is this a sign
minutes tick by drawing closer to midnight
my fingers have yet to fly over keys
like a reporter's with the Next Big Thing
i suppose i will sleep
and let the essay write itself

i wish i knew how to turn this rage into passion
maybe then i'd stop being so destructive
i'm a ticking time bomb and a ******* ant
i'm the toddler crying for no reason i don't know what i want
do you realise how long it's taken me to look like i have my life in order i don't i never have
i'm one drop away from a hurricane destructive enough to shake up Red Cross
i'm dancing on the edge of a cliff
i'm speeding down a mountain road no barriers between me and an abyss of rocks and cacti
basically
the thing is though, i don't know how
i won't know how
i'm not 17
i'm simultaneously the
annoying three year old who can't stop asking why
and the 20something wondering if it was really worth it
one of these days i'll know the answers to the questions
i'm looking forward to that day
i hope it arrives before i have the chance to leave
-z.z

rainbows are
so freaking amazing
not in a sappy literature
way but in the way of simplicity
that something so beautiful can come from something so violent it
gives me hope and hope is such a delicate thing to also come
from something so big why do i hope something more can become of me from a rainbow
excuse me, i got off track we were talking about simplicity rainbows and simplicity rainbows and simplicity rainbows and---
rainbows every time i hear that word i think hope and there's no way i can change my thinking
nor will i ever change my thinking because maybe hope from rainbows i don't know maybe hope from rainbows is better than
nothing
rainbows are pretty freaking amazing in the sappy literature way in which i have been referencing throughout the majority of this failed attempt at simplicity poem

wind below, sky above
rain is a falling that i love
earthy flesh come anew
torrents destroy the battered and bruised
rejuvenate my soul, be free!
run rampant, shout, proclaim with glee
let thy happiness explore
what nature's beauty beholds once more
-
-z.z

I was taking a walk late one night because I couldn't sleep
Just a stroll around the neighborhood as I let my mind wander freely
I walked over to the playground where I used to pretend I was the queen of the world
I sat down on a swing
creeeek creeeek creeeek

Times have changed so drastically since I was young
I've seen four families move in and out of the house next door
I watched the old couple who used to walk their little white dogs disappear
First the dog, then the man
The woman stopped walking, too
The little girls who used to sell Girl Scout cookies from their rusted red wagon grew up and moved away

And that’s when I see her
sitting on her porch swing
gently rocking back and forth
back and forth
with an expression on her face that reads
save me from myself

her eyes, so sad, glisten in the moonlight
her hair
so straight and pale yellow like the straw in the hay bales at festival
cover her tearstained face
her hands
so delicate, yet strong

hunched over a notebook
she scribbles her woes
ink bleeds soul onto the paper
painting the most beautiful picture

a picture of misery and hunger
a picture of betrayal and twisted roads of insolence
a picture of anger and frustration
a collision of colours splashing the pages as she drowns herself
in tears

I take a couple steps back
This girl is so familiar
I know this girl

Might she be me?

i'm afraid of rejection
re-jec-shun
loving someone with every ounce of my being
only to be tossed aside like
I don't know, a fly?
that homework that I forgot to do?
a battered book or picture that means nothing anymore?
i'm afraid of what it means
that something I liked had an ending
and that I saw the ending
you're not supposed to see
the ends of things
I don't know why i'm afraid
of something I know
so well
I shouldn't be afraid
of an acquaintance
but I am
deathly afraid
of rejection

hearing sound for the first time after not knowing it for years
because i'm selfish
fooled myself into thinking
i didn't need to hear
to know what you are saying
i can get by with reading your lips
i can even hear
what you aren't saying

there are 365 days in a year
1,095 days in three
60 seconds in a minute
525,600 minutes in a year
26,280 hours in three

i heard you
maybe
once or
twice

i thought
"middle school is just a bunch of drama it's okay if i tune out for a while"
i thought
"high school is just a waste of time"
i don't need to hear the melodramatics and fights

when i went in for my yearly hearing check-ups with the audiologist
she asked me if i'd been wearing my hearing aides
i said no
rolled my eyes
and tuned out her lecture on losing the ability to speak

it has been three years
four if i'm being truthful
i'm relearning language in a way i've never known language
silence is so ******* loud
i can hear the plips and plinks of water droplets bouncing off of porcelain
in the bathroom, two rooms away

sound is vibrating in front of me like
i'm watching a movie of sound again
maybe i'll be able to turn off the closed captions
or maybe i'll keep them
people are hard to understand sometimes
even with dialogue running along the bottom of the screen

i like what i'm hearing but just in case there's ever a time
when words are a bit too sharp and on the verge of hurting me
i'll know to turn the volume down instead of taking
my ears
out.
-
-z.z

don't fall in love
you'll taste the bitterness first
rise in love
and know no limits
falling in love
might hurt less
but rising in love
has the better view

anything is
anything can
be
a poem
if you
will it
there are
no rules
in poetry
at least
not in
my
poetry

Goodbyes
The words never come easy
Goodbyes
Signal the end of the best time I've had in ages
I don't want to say goodbye
I'm scared that if I say it
One of us will leave and the memories will fade
Maybe you have to say goodbye to say hello again
But I don't want anymore goodbyes because I liked my first hello
Adios
Farewell
So final
I don't like the idea that we'll be apart
I don't like the idea of life going on as soon as I leave
Going back to old habits and falling into the same monotone routines
Goodbyes
The colour drains from my tear-stained face
One last hug
I want to hold on forever
I won't say goodbye
Because I know this isn't the end so
Instead I'll say
See you soon
I'll let go when you do
See you soon.

close your eyes it's okay
your demons won't follow you there
they're afraid of the dark
i'm afraid of the dark
how am i supposed to sleep, mama?
shhh just listen
listen to the silence
they don't like silence, dearie
but i can't keep quiet, mama
i must speak i am afraid
shhh*
i...
okay
...
"shhh"

here’s a lie to keep you living
a veil of truth to shade your eyes
what searing pains your body has endured
are illusions from your mind

it’s nothing big, it’ll be alright
you shout above the cacophony upstairs
my monsters have just come out to play
they do that, you know, in my nightmares

we dance an endless waltz with darkness
and convince ourselves we’re fine
so what if we haven’t seen the sun in months
we’re alive, we swear, we’re not dying

but what happens when we stop showing up?
are we still here, or no?
does anybody miss us
or stop to ask “where did they go?”

will they notice the lack of color
will they miss our favorite songs?
will they wonder how we lived
with all of this darkness for so long?

nah, they won’t notice
it’s all an illusion anyway
at least that’s what the doctor said
that, and $150 for your stay

-rgp

voices echo
laughter booms
on the screen
pictures flicker
everyone's smiling
we're all anxious
and excited
it still doesn't
seem real

I've spent many nights Awake when I should be Sleeping
Thinking about You
What happened?

I was looking at Old Photographs the other day
A smile trickled across my face but I wiped it off before the Feelings hit
The smiles on the faces of the people in those pictures
Were they Real?

I'm listening to the same song over and over and over again because I think it will make the pain less painful
But it doesn't

You didn't have to change and yet Change
was Inevitable
Why?

The little girl in the pictures somehow knew who she was
But I know it was a lie
I saw it
the Corruption in her eyes
She didn't know it

some nights, i dream in technicolor
holographic three dimensional, i'm looking through shards of a broken mirror
my dreams are hallucinogenic memory strips of my day, played over and over
some nights, i dream in wet paint on a black canvas
on these nights, fear shakes me
my heartbeat pounds and i lay paralysed
everything is so blurry
other nights, i don't dream
those nights, my mind is endlessly the grey textured walls in my bedroom
they've seen my past but say nothing
because some nights, there's not much to say.
-
-z.z

when will they stop watching
gawking
laughing
poking
prodding
shoving

when will they start caring
speaking
changing
helping
encouraging

when will she stop crying

when he stops dying

when they stop lying

they will start trying

do you
have the strength?
they asked me
i looked at my frail arms then at my legs
skinny would be an understatement
i’m
deadly thin
do you
have the strength?
they asked me
i looked at my mind then at my heart
battered, but not destroyed
i
haven’t given up
yet
do you
have the strength?
they asked me
yes
i replied

i-iii-i
i-i-iii can't
let me catch my breath
and get back to you

she whispered a secret into my hair
ruffled it like she does
my skin burned beneath her touch
ccc-c-can you not?

sshhhh she said
it's okay
no it's not
if i could only say the words

sss--sst--
what was that, honey?
ss--ssto*
you're a snake?*
no

stop.

This morninng, I woke up to the sun shining down on my face
Like literally, shining down on my face
My bed is beneath a window and my blinds are
always open so I can see the clear blue skies or stormy grey clouds
Nature is kind to me
Today I decided I was going to live and let go
It is summer so let me be free of the papers and test grades and numbers just numbers that I let manipulate me into being a sour, depressed person who hated everything and everyone
Let me walk out in the sunshine, face up towards the sky and out of this dark hole I've been hiding in
I will breathe in the warm air
Let the heat particles dance on my skin like eyes flicker in the light of fire
Here I stand, barefoot with my arms open wide as if to say COME AT ME WORLD, THIS TIME I'M READY FOR YOU!
The wind blows my hair back and dust devils swirl up around me
I will wait for the rain and even when it pours will my heart smile
Let the monsoon storms come down and wash away the remnants of the monster I have become
I will run towards the rainbows and never will I stop
It's summer.

my math teacher once said that the reason superheroes came about in the USA was because americans are the ones who needed the most saving
i didn't know if i should've been offended on behalf of the kids in my class
my math teacher isn't american yet i found my mind wandering throughout his lesson on polynomials
i thought about super heroes in comic books
batman, superman, ironman, wonderwoman
someone had to do the saving
but they all saved the world
maybe they saved individuals i don't know
americans are the ones who need the most saving
we're the ones who need the most saving
teenagers are the ones who need the most saving
i'm the one who needs the most saving
not from batman or superman or wonderwoman
i need to be my own hero and
save myself

my super power
is getting into my own head
i can bring on the rain
faster than flashfloods

my super power
is disappearing
not invisibility
disappearing
like in bad situations
i close my eyes and f          a         d      e       a          w         a         y

my super power
is smiling
because even on the worst days
i can pretend i am okay

my super power
is

-z.z

suppose I wasn't destined for joy
that the complex systematic masses and impurities within me prefer darkness to thrive better in
because what if they knew all along
how much one can hide where the rest of the world isn't looking
they wouldn't know if I never smiled a day in my life
they wouldn't know if I did

suppose the off white of my skin means I'll live longer and isn't a result of the fact that I rarely see the sun
suppose I tossed the fake sun supplements into the garbage for some odd soul to seek sanity in
consider it a gift, these worthless pills I never needed in the first place

suppose I loved this life
and hated it at the same time

suppose I believed them when they told me it wouldn't be temporary
and I made myself a home in the nullity

suppose I felt something

.

what happens when i no longer like your pink, sweet, version of me you’ve curated?
what would happen if i erased all colour completely?

no, i’m not talking about choosing blue over pink or yellow or green
“gender neutral” clothing isn’t any shade on the colour wheel

i’m talking about if i never associated the colour pink with femininity
and blue with masculinity

and yellow and green with “gender neutrality”

what if my life was just void of colour?

like if i were to say i didn’t feel like a girl nor a boy
nor the brief possibility of both

i just feel
like that grey space in between the most diluted shades on the colour wheel

would you still force me to call myself “daughter”?

The colours of a mirror are foggy, but lucid
I don’t see my reflection,
But colours of a girl I remember being

Dark purples and greys, she’s bruised and scarred
Shards of glass line her hollowed out, bloodshot eyes
Ghostly pale, she’s barely alive

I watch as she transforms before me
Her colours are metamorphosis and she’s the revitalized butterfly
The greys and purples swirl into blues and whites

She’s stepping out of the shadow of who she was
The colours of the mirror are brighter, more vivid
I recognize this girl

The colours are clearly defined
I see shades of blues of sensibility and confidence
She’s stronger and exuding life

The colours of a mirror are the colours of honesty
I see my reflection
Not the girl I was

But the girl I am.

Dear Teacher,
I am not your "Inspiration" nor am I your "Motivation"
Do not use me as an "Example"
They hate me enough already
I do not need to talk to you after class, I am doing just fine
Bs aren't acceptable?
I'm sorry I couldn't complete your assignment
I was mentally ill that day.
No, don't give me an A when I didn't work for it
That's cheating
Me
Out of life
Yes I can handle it
I'm not as Weak as you think I am
Dear Teacher
I know I made you cry at graduation
You didn't think I'd be able to do it
I told you
I could handle it.

I don't remember the day I picked up a pencil and wrote my first poem
I don't remember why I even wanted to write in the first place
But I remember the day I stopped
It was in the third grade
I'd talked about wanting to become a poet the way some kids talked about becoming firefighters or dancers
"You won't make a lot of money"
"Poetry is for old ladies to read when they're sad"
"Poetry is boring"
9 year old me was so naive
I believed them
I was different enough already why attract more negative attention to myself?
So I stopped writing
I didn't pick up a pencil with the intention of writing a poem until about two and a half years later, when we had a unit in language arts on Poetry
We were learning sentence structure
"Welcome to the poetry unit
You're going to write some of your own whilst we discover some of the greats"
At first, they were short haikus and rhyming poems about bunnies
6th grade was when I realised reading poetry was almost as good as writing it
7th grade was when I realised how much I loved it
I realised I could be anyone I wanted in my poems
My poems could be as dark or as light as I wanted them to be
I could pour out my soul onto the pages and the paper wouldn't judge me
8th grade I was scribbling stanzas in the margins of my notebooks
9th grade I found out my poem was being published in a book of student poetry
I've spent summers writing, making up for lost time, writing poetry as I breathe oxygen
I know who I am through poetry
Looking back, I know why she stopped
She thought she was saving herself the humiliation
Looking back, she was pretty wise for a girl her age
I remember the day when my 8th grade teacher told me I was talented
I remember the day she told me to enter that poetry contest
I didn't win
But
I haven't stopped writing
That's a win for me.

I wonder if the Greats
Ever knew each other in their time
I know the Painters knew one another
I imagine the conversations they had
What gossip crept through the grapevine?
"Did you know that Van Gogh fellow cut off his ear for his mistress?"
"What a treacherous man"
"Poor soul"
"And that Monet's pictures always look so fuzzy"
"What an odd concept, indeed."
Would Dickinson and Poe be acquaintances or great friends?
Or Mr. Robert Frost and the great John Keats
Would e.e cummings be the laughing stock of the crowd or the hipster everyone else secretly admires?
Painters and Poets, creators alike
Would the two groups clash or join in joyful merrymaking?
Creators not destroyers
Artists and Masters of their work
Both disturbed
And slightly insane
I think
They would have gotten along great.

The last song I listened to
Told me to keep marching on, we've all got battle scars
The last song I listened to
Told me to just remember who you are
The last song I listened to
Told me it's never too late to clear your canvas
The last song I listened to
Let me free myself as I let the words sink into my skin
The volume climbed higher and I gave myself to the ocean of notes
Crashing against the rocks as my delicate glass soul splintered into a million pieces
The last song I listened to
Didn't know how much I needed to hear it

“I need to write a poem”
Were the first words out of my mouth when my mother told me about
The Letters

One letter arrived one day, postmarked July 1st, 2014
I don’t know when it arrived, but that day
I guess that day her soul earned it’s wings
That day, that one day
My soul crumbled as hers rose to the heavens, with that piece of paper
that had Apology scrawled all over it in that handwriting of hers that
Didn’t change one bit

I was watching my family extra closely as my mother read the letter out loud
I didn’t want to see any of us hurt anymore even though I knew in my heart
We would get through this
We’re Zelinskis, strong and forgiving
We open our hearts to perfect strangers and welcome them into our home with hugs and laughter and game nights that don’t end at midnight
We are one in suffering and one in rejoicing
We wear the teachings of the bible on our shirtsleeves and kindness drip drops from our eyes
My dad says
We’re all children of christ

But Children still get hurt
My sister, she chose Laughter
My brother, his face was a blank canvas as I rubbed and rubbed, trying to see through the white blanket of paint that masked his emotions
My sister in law told me the Truth
My brother, I don’t know, I just hope he listens to his heart this time
My sister, she has a wedding to plan
Me,
Maybe I’m the only one who wanted to be angry
Maybe I’m the only one who sees their pain even though they can’t
Or maybe I’m delusional and no one’s really affected by the Letter

We’re still children
I’m still bouncing around the house, following the older kids around like a lost puppy
My sisters are still my heroes and my brothers
Are still my knights, my Protectors, the ones I could sass and make fun of because they
Did the same to me but with much more force than my small voice could carry
We’re still children
I know nothing of The Letters
Instead, I’m welcoming Her into our home again with a tray full of Grandma’s famous chocolate chip cookies and the goofy grin of a six year old
I’m meeting Her eyes again
Only this time
I know she’ll leave
This time, I know how much time I have

So I’ll write my letter now
And instead of remorse and anger
I’ll fill it with good times and Remember Whens
I’ll put it in the mailbox, swipe the red flag up
And wish on the mailman that you’ll get it

The thing about being disabled is that people seem to think you can't do anything. That the wheelchair I'm sitting in or hearing aids in my ears mean that I am not mentally capable enough to form sentences
I'm a quiet person
but that doesn't mean I can't speak
I just choose not to waste words

The thing about being disabled is that people always stare at you
Trying to figure out what my disability is when I get out of my car parked in the handicapped spot
She looks okay, so why? shouldn't she give that spot to someone who is actually handicapped?
Appearances, my dear, can be deceiving

The thing about being disabled is that it's a label designed by people who needed an explanation for why other people are different
Disabled is not synonymous with strong, at least, not in their books
though it always is in mine.

The thing about being disabled is that you gotta train your voice to screech
be loud when you feel like being quiet
because this label, these hearing aids, this chair, this lack of able-bodied-ness, does not define me
and I need to let you know that

"The world? So confusing"
"Complicated."
"Messed up"
"Deceiving"
"Ever-changing"
"Not enough"
"Ridiculous"
"Black and white"
"Boring"
"Ugly"
"Mysterious"
"Disappointing"
"A page of out of a book of lies"
"I think the world is beautiful"

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I know you said you are not the world
But for a minute,
Can you be?

Dear Wish Granting Factory
You asked me what I would wish for
If you existed
Right now, in this moment, I believe
You exist

What do I wish for?
Oh, Wish Granting Factory
I wish to know the sensation of feet slapping against pavement and lungs burning so bad that you feel you are going to faint
I wish to know that the muscles in my fingers will not fail me when I spread them and cross my arms over to make the Nerdfighter gang sign
I wish to know what it is like to look at myself in the mirror and think
I like the way I look

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to see myself clearly through the eyes of someone
That Someone Who will one day look at me like I am the most beautiful thing in existence
I wish to know that that love exists and it is not just a figment of my imagination
Dear Wish Granting Factory
Do William Darcys really exist?
If so, please point me in that direction so I can find him

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to make a difference in this society in which I am the minority
That my voice may be heard loudly and clearly even though it trembles
That my story be told truthfully and I, a person, a human being with feelings and emotions and thoughts that are not invalid because I have a disability and are therefore “inept” am represented as I see myself
A strong, confident, young girl who is living her life the way she wants to see it and nothing will hold me back.
Disabilities do not define me now, nor will they ever

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to live to see the day when I meet my birth mother and face her
As a stranger, though her daughter
And tell her these words
I love you
I forgive you
I missed knowing you

Dear Wish Granting Factory
Sincerely,
Z

this poem is for you
remember all those nights
no
remember all those days
that you spent with your head towards the sky?
when you met the mailman at the door
knowing it would just be junkmail
with an eager grin on your face anyways?
every day
is a reason to make the best of the small things because
remember when the small things kept you alive and
out of the hospital?
you can’t say no
to a lover who keeps persisting
so i’m calling you out of your darkness
the light is always on
this one is for you

I think about death
I do
Not in the gory suicidal way but in the
"one day I will die....hmmm" way
I've thought about my funeral
I don't want anyone to cry
I wasn't THAT great of a person
But as snarky (and sometimes full of it) as I tend to be
I know
The day that I die will be a sad day
I want flower seeds scattered at the base of my headstone and
my ashes scattered deep in the mountains because I loved my mountains more than anything else Nature had to offer
My mother always said if He can raise people from the dead then he should be able to put people back together from their ashes
So let me be cremated
I never liked the idea of my body being left to rot six feet under anyways
I think about who will be around when I die
I could go at any time so
whether or not my parents will be around to mourn the loss of their child is irrelevant
How much would I have accomplished?
Would I have made an impact on the world like I'd always dreamed I would?
I've thought about my last words
What sound will people hear as I take my last breath?
I hope it will be
"see you soon"
I wonder where I'll be when the time comes
What sound will people actually hear as I take my last breath?
Will it be filled with regret? remorse? happiness?
I think about death.
I do
And as I close this poem, I'll ask you this question
Do you?

Time slows down as you grow older
yet for whatever reason, I don’t remember waking up this morning
Age is a number determined by how many rotations around the sun you’ve made it and a year
is a ******* long time
yet by the time I’ve blown out my candles and finished last year’s cake,
I find myself in front of another, being serenaded by family, encouraged to make a wish
my days consist of waking up, going to class, coming home, doing schoolwork, eating, and then going back to sleep
I’m stuck in this routine to further my life whilst stopping it to some extent
I’m walking in place, the same scenery passing me by
until suddenly, I’m at my destination
I’ll look up, look behind, and marvel at how I seemed to get to where I was when it seemed only moments ago I was miles away
Headlines flood the news, one after the other, describing some world tragedy, some natural disaster, some marker that humanity is here
and then time will pass, the headlines will float to the bottom of the pool with hundreds of thousands of other headlines as if nothing had ever happened
days later, new headlines will wash up in their places
but they’ll be the same headlines, on the same televisions, being reflected back on the same screens to the same aging faces
after a while, they stop mattering
it becomes news again to the young but the same old to the elderly
after a while,
Time becomes your greatest nemesis
joints ache, hair turns to grey
complacency settles in like dust
all gradually, day after day after ******* day after day after day
almost coming to a complete stop
so you don’t realise it’s happening until you wake up
and you’ve been here a hundred rotations around the sun
and you wonder when the hell did Time **** me
-z.z

some people hide it better than others
but that doesn't mean they're not secretly wishing you'll care enough to dig deeper
the ones with smiles on their faces
are the ones begging someone might hear their cries
the ones who seem to have it all
have nothing
nothing

brittle bones cracked but not broken
bruised battered bloke but not dead yet