I've always had a fondness for gingers.
Don't ask me why.
Maybe it's the hair,
Whether it's sunset orange,
Dark auburn
Strawberry blonde
Or just plain red,
I love it.
But there is something within the people themselves
That just makes me go awwrr
And makes me want to hug the affected person,
Affected meaning, well,
Gingered.
That's a verb, right?
For example,
My three-year-old brother is a ginger, the only one in the family.
I like to call him any of the following:
Ginger Baby
Little Ginger
Baby Ging'
And really, really cute.
You've got to love gingers.

She thought her outfit was beautiful when she put it on this morning.
And it was.
She donned the skirt with care,
Kitten heels polished and perfect.
Adjusting the turquoise blouse in the mirror,
She brushed her hair,
Put on her makeup,
And left her apartment early for a stroll.
She walked down the city street,
Head up, shoulders back,
A faint smile on her fresh face.
But as she neared the crosswalk,
She noticed the looks.
First came the looks from the men.
"Hey there, beautiful," one said.
"Nice ***," said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to cross to the other side of the street
So that they couldn't try to touch her.
Then came the looks from the women.
"****, she couldn't fit her fat *** into a minivan," said one.
"Who does that ***** think she is,
Walking around in that outfit?" Said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to keep her head down,
So that they wouldn't think she was promiscuous.
Finally, she noticed the looks from her co-workers.
"Does that violate dress code?" Asked one.
"If we had a dress code, it would," said another.
She ignored them all,
Choosing to head home early
So that they wouldn't laugh at her.
When she got back to the apartment,
She took off the skirt,
The polished kitten heels,
And the turquoise blouse.
She pulled on a pair of sweats,
And decided to watch Netflix instead of
Facing the cruel outside world.

I saw her again tonight
That pretty, angry girl among so many others.
Her hair fell over her dark eyes,
A bitter frown on her pale face.

Her words are so brutal and curt.
She writes of stupid, ugly things
Battered, tattered things
I can't help but wonder
If that girl who hides behind
Blue skies and sunshine smiles
Popular friends and a rule-all attitude
Has a method to her madness.

I long to ask her, though I know I'd be met with trouble
Speak quietly and ask,
"What are you so angry at?"
Is it the world?
Her life?
The parallel white scars on her left wrist
Long healed, but unwilling to disappear?
Why does she feel like tomato juice
In a world of bubbly citrus?

Does she want to be relieved
Of whatever burden pains her?
Can she find the power
To release herself from her wrought-iron cage?
Does she need a true friend
As badly as she needs a real smile?

Pretty, angry girl, I wish I could help you.
I really do.

Blue is something I can taste
The thinspun candy floss
Of saccharine summer memories.
That final exhalation you take after the exam
Because really, finishing your exam is pure relief.
It is the realization that no longer are the days of
Obligation and Responsibility here;
Those days have fluttered away
Like butterflies wearing blue ribbons.
Blue is the satisfaction of knowing
That the blueberry bomb quietly bursting under your tongue
Is one of many more to come.

I'm sorry, everyone.
I hopped on the Internet
Hoping that I could produce
Something beautiful, deep,
And heartbreaking for all of you to read
And enjoy.
Unfortunately,
In the words of fangirls,
I can't even.
I have nothing. NOTHING.
Nothing for my poetry,
Nothing for my prose,
Nothing
At
All.
If you people I don't and do know
Realize this feeling of
Suddenly coming to the edge of the world of writing
(Which I didn't even know was flat)
And just STANDING there
Staring into the black empty
That is absolute nothingness...
Well, make me a sympathy card, okay?
Because I can't write today.
I've got nothing.
So, if you're looking for something
That is not a piece of crap
Coming from the brilliant mind of this author?
Feel disappointment.

I am Tiana
On my feet until I can't go any longer
Promising myself everything will be worthwhile
And that all my dreams will come true.
I am Merida
Trying to find my own path
Desperately trying to evade my fate
Staying brave for everyone, including myself.
I am Rapunzel
A little bit conflicted sometimes
Dreaming of an adventure
But not to betray what she knows.
I am Mulan
Willing to be unconventional
And ready to protect her home and family
From dishonor and shame.
I am Belle
Making the best of seemingly impossible situations
Searching for knowledge and beauty within words
Spreading light to the darkest of souls.
I am Elsa
Who just wants to be free
To be able to use her gifts
Without hurting the people she loves.
I am me
The girl who sang into a pink-and-white plastic karaoke machine
To "I Won't Say I'm in Love"
Who saw these women as strong and beautiful.
I am a princess
The author, main character, and narrator of my story
Dancing to the beat of her own drum
Taking life's problems and turning them into lessons.
I am a heroine in my own right,
Disney or no.

Amorousness is a cerulean stone
Beautifully colored, but weighs you down
Too afraid to speak, or smile, or stare
Scared of a secret you don't want to share

Months with a mixture of love and fear.

Devastation is an indigo jewel
Found deep in the earth of the lies of a fool
Yet in devastation there lies the truth
Hidden in notes and gray telephone booths

The years weathering the emotions of youth.

Purification is an apricot timepiece
Clean and bright and punctual, please
Don't mistake pure to be free from sin
Though the heart can start over as a new hour can

The time cleansing wounds from a phase worn thin.

While we are talking about time, let me just say
That the memories of an hour don't all go away
But memories are saffron ink pens in the sense
That their time fades, but never ends.

Greta
Had just wanted one true friend
Maybel
Only asked to hold your hand
Scarlett
Was the only one to let you down
Teddi
Didn't give you what you wanted to own
Lynnie
Wanted truth but got lies in return
Amory
Told me that you could never learn
Yasmin
Fell in love and into a mess
I
Was smart and didn't say "yes".

Thumbnail small
Delicate
Your petals curve out from your slim center
Pale arches spreading out and over.
Sweet smelling stalks support
Bells that sway in the night.
The moonlight shines through your vibrant white body
Filling you with unearthly light.
Gentle music accompanies you.
As this night surrounds us
I place you in the gentle rock pool
And the water shimmers cool, clear gossamer.
The smooth stones will protect you
Watching in the waterbed.
Will you sing back to the moonbeam, dear flower,
While I leave you here to rest?

Stare into the eyes of the wolf.
Which do you see,
The predator or the lamb?
Which do you love?
Which do you fear?
They are the same, but they fight for space in the flicker of the iris,
the flash of the teeth,
the curve of the brow.
Which will win out? Neither. Both.
Is it a fight if you can't win or lose?
If twin souls, displayed against an infinite canvas,
never run out of room
but never quite fill up as much as the other?
Which do you hate?
Which do you ignore?
I dare you to stare and not be intrigued.
It may be possible to look and not see,
But we are drawn to wars and dances alike.
You know, you
can tell which is which
When you squint
Clench your jaw
There's a difference
A purpose behind each half.
The wolf you can find
Out of the goodness of the lamb
The lamb you can find
From the hatred of the wolf
Or is it switched?
When one soul is tied to another
The colors start to blend
And the mix is not reversible
So I ask again,
Which do you love?
Which do you fear?
Love the lamb. Fear the wolf.
Fear the lamb. Love the wolf.

Make your choice.

9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.

I think
That I might
Date a boy
Who will let me
Throw rocks at him

She looked at me with colorless eyes
And café-au-lait face.
Beads and thread spun into her hair,
Descending to her waist.
The scent of rosemary and answers drifted off her skin.

She fed me no lies, assessing the situation
With critical efficiency.
"I think I have something for that."
I waited in a red velvet, upholstered chair,
Twiddling my thumbs as she shuffled through the shelves
Lining the walls, crammed with books and trinkets and vials.

She selected one, careful not to drop it on the knitted rug
And handed it to me with a promise.
"Drink this. It will do what needs to be done."
I gave her thanks and payment,
And stepped out of her residence, happy.
As I returned home, the grape-juice colored potion
Was opened and sipped out of a wineglass.

And nothing changed.

I peered around the room.
Inhaled.
It still reminded me of him.
The walls were still his favorite color,
The fridge still held the pictures he took,
All I could see or smell or touch reminded me of
Him.

But he wasn't there.

He still wasn't, and he would never come back
Because I kicked him out in a fit of madness
And I never realized how much I would miss him
And some stupid potion will never get me to stop-
knock knock
Hello?

Sleepytime tea
Soft purple sheets
Puzzles that hurt your brain
Good book
Reading nook
Any kind of rain
Picture of me at two by the lake
Striped pajama pants
Facebook invite
Natural light
Beautiful tortoise-shell cat
My bed
Real bread
Dark chocolate (70%)
No worries
DQ Flurries
And afternoons with no end.

I found the porcelain songbirds
Fractured and faded with age
Dusted with web and candlelight
With grins that were weary and sage.
The story they told was fleeting
Clear as truth, and cold
Of the times of gems and music
And the melodious songs of old.
That day they gave me knowledge
It was all I asked of them
I put it in my eyes and they
Took it back again.
"Your soul is old enough," they said,
"You don't need any more."
And as I sat on velvet stone
To the songbirds I implored.
"Come with me to the light," I said,
"I'll carry you up the stairs.
Then you can sing the songs of old
To an audience everywhere."
"No," they replied with eyes half closed,
"Our days are past their prime.
For now, you be the songbird
And leave the past behind."
They taught me the songs of old
To keep close to my heart
And when I said I did not want to go
They said "Before you depart,
You know our time is over
There is no point for us.
Leave us here to wither
And return to sweet stardust."
And so they did, their bodies stilled
And as they did I sang
I carried them up the wooden stairs
To the light again.

I can tell when someone needs a hug
When the pain is too much
And the mask is gone
When the world's on your shoulders
Instead of in your hands
I won't ask you what's wrong
Or what I can do
I'll just hug you.
I won't complain when your long hair gets in my eyes
Or when your briny tears stain my shirt
Or when you squeeze until I can no longer breathe
And when your voice
spurts,
splutters,
then pours out
Into haphazard words translated from your heart
I will stay there
And
just
hug you.
When your story wrenches my heart
Fills my own eyes with tears
I will not let them spill.
Whether we stay there until late at night
When all is silent and smooth
And I see you finally withdraw
Your eyes still pinkish red
I'll still get you a glass of water-
My duty as your best friend.
Then if there's time before I need to leave
I'll give you a small smile and one last hug
But.
When I'm back home
Far away in physicality
I will still be hugging you.

Trending hash-tags:
#love #hope #you #heart
#sad #death #depression #pain
#life #thoughts
Love, turmoil, thoughts.
Anyone else seeing a trend?
Hello Poetry is.
But I'm still waiting.
Waiting for #beautiful
#funny
#awareness
#brave
#diversity.
When did poetry mean
#pain
#heartbreak
#nohopewhatsoever?
Let's break the monotony.
#TwistTheTale

Liquored fingers entwined in hers
The nectar on her palms
Dripped to her wrists
Before, she did not know the scent of sunshine
But in the glint of copper and gold on their wrists
She could see forever
And beauty
and youth

Then the night came in a blaze of colors
Sinking into her skin and drying the sweetness on her hands so that it cracked in a glaze
She was afraid and alone
Cloaked in darkness blind
Nothing could save her it seemed
So she looked for shelter inside herself
Hunched her shoulders into her hurt
Waited for the sun to rise

And then the light came
Not in the form of peaches and summer
But in unadulterated silver
Clean and cut out of shadows
Illuminating her eyes in a thin layer of moon and breath
And the stars spread before her
Plated crumbs around a celestial plate

She found sustenance in it, spread her arms out so that she could catch
every bit of the light
and the glaze on her wrists peeled and fell off,
and she stayed that way
with her eyes wide open
until the sun came to claim her once again
in a cherry red glimmer at the edge of the earth.

That day was like amcig
It gave me epho
You gave your olev to me
And I caught it like a srta
But every day is a new day, and a new tmie
Calls for new gebninis
And violent ndes
So our love ended like a redam
It was quick, shocking and lruec
And everything in my lefi now
Is mixed up like lavees
Blowing away in the wnid
To a better lacpe
A better ruhtt
And a better love.

Hey darling.
It's been a while since I spoke to you,
Really spoke to you.
I've had you since I was nine
I picked you up at the local toy store
And said to myself,
"This one will be my companion."
And so you have been
A part of my life for five years straight
And though I've stopped taking you to sleepovers and vacations
Don't think I'm leaving you
Anytime soon.
The only reason I do that anyway
Is because I don't want to somehow lose
My BSF
(Best stuffed friend)
And confidante.
While I'm too scared to tell you things out loud
I know you listen to everything
So don't think if I lost you, I could replace you
With a lookalike, because for the thousands of Moxies in the world,
There is only one that is my Moxy.
So, thanks for being you.
And don't think I don't notice
That someone somehow
Eats all of the Oreos while I'm at school.

I feel it
That itching
That aching
That yearning
To break out
With a toothbrush and spare clothes
And hop on a plane
Or a train
Become a stowaway
See the world through different eyes
Things are bigger than what we grew up with
And culture goes beyond
Pencils and polos
I can observe that world of keen minds
Inhaling the aroma of savory finery
Find elegance
Strength
History
In the grand scheme of things
We are very small and
Insignificant
But we are watchers
And creators
So we watch and create
And re-create
And this is how we can change the world

There is a quilt on the bed in Shea's room,
Pink, red, blue, green, and violet,
Lace and stripes and polka dots,
White pillowcases with crisp corners.

There are books on the shelves, different genres,
Stuffed in sideways and upways and frontways,
old fantasy, thrillers, adventure,
Smudged ink in their yellowed margins.

There are papers on the desk by the wall,
Poems and Post-its and signatures,
Cardstock cut into star-shapes
Journal entries and unfinished sentences.

The closet is empty in Shea's room
Cobwebs and dead ladybugs lie still
A lamp has a cord around its middle
No breeze stirs the air; the curtains are closed.

There should be music in Shea's room.
There are songbooks, yes, but no hum of the heater
No branch scrapes the window outside
When a storm comes, the raindrops fall without rhythm
No longer are things made in Shea's room.
The colors are faded in Shea's room.

They say that there's something in Shea's room
Memories and fragments and pleasant dreams
They say stories came alive and still linger
Seeping through the cracks of the wooden floorboards
Horses graze in green pastures in Shea's room.

But I know what's really in Shea's room.

There's a year's worth of dust coating Shea's room
Not a thing has been touched for months
There's no Shea to be seen in Shea's room
Since she headed for the hills and never came back
There's no life and no soul in Shea's room
Shea's room is an abalone shell
The inner shine scrubbed away by disuse
Only shadows survive in Shea's room.

There is nothing alive in Shea's room.

Just an empty closet
And books
And Post-Its
And ladybugs
And remnants

The thing that I wish for most in life
A thing I yearn for constantly
Is an Adventure.
Getting As on your report card
Does not count.
Neither do
Projects
Homework
Responsibilities
Plans
Or walking ten feet into the woods behind the house.
The Adventure I seek
Is one where there are no plans
Or perhaps they go awry
In exactly the way where everything
Turns out to be grand.
To walk hundreds of miles
With a
Dwarf
An elf
Four hobbits
Two men
And Gandalf
On a Quest to destroy the Ring.
Maybe it is the greater purpose
Which I lack.
There is no true magic I can see in this world
So I delve into another
And another
Turning pages and
Pretending that I am part of that greater purpose though I am
An observer
Somedays I wish books could come to life.

You were not a firestorm
Nor a wild spirit
You were the tide,
the thing I always knew but never saw
Until it came upon me.
You did not ravage me,
But you lifted me up, so that I was floating
In salt and kind smiles.
The one thing you had in common with firestorms
Was that you couldn't stay for long.

Hey, so, um...
This is a bit awkward, isn't it?
I don't know what you're like
From a personal point of view, that is
I've heard people talk about you
I mean, in a good way
Or a neutral way
Whatever

Shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that

Anyway, I don't know if you know me
Since I don't really know you, you know
But I think you are... er...
Attractive?
Yeah, except on the inside
And the outside, too, especially
I mean, um, not especially.
I'm not shallow.
But you're really cute.
So, I guess that's just what I wanted to tell you
My work is kind of done
But I mean, talking to you isn't work

Oh, this is harder than I thought

Well, you don't have to say anything
I'll just, uh, leave now.
And you don't have to talk to me, ever, if you don't want to
So, bye...

Oh.

I, I mean, sure, sure I'll stay.
OH.
Really?
Wow. Okay.
So, what's next-
Oh. Sweet. Okay.

The other night I had a dream about us.
I snuck into your chemistry class
And we talked and laughed, ignored the rest of the world
It was a happy dream
Only one of the few that have ever made sense.
But when I woke up, it was snowing
A punishment for the month of April,
And possibly, for dreaming.
It's depressing, really
That even my subconscious has jumped the bandwagon with the rest of me
Except for that small, small part that keeps telling myself
You hate him
You hate him
But how can I hate you?
I almost hate myself for feeling.
I keep telling myself,
"Your emotions are encased in a steel box
Locked- no, welded shut
Nothing can get in
And nothing can get out."
Many, times, I feel as if I have succeeded in keeping them stuffed in a drawer
Deep inside
But the second you pass by
I feel you there
The steel box disintegrates into red-brown dust
And my heart lurches in response to
That stupid emotion.
I hate to call it what it is
That
Paralyzing feeling of
L
O
V
E
Love.
Is it really love at this point in life
When I'm still figuring out
Who I am?
I don't want it
But I do
And I must have it
Like asparagus, even,
But this kind tastes like chocolate.
Laughing about it
Makes my abs hurt
Right in front of my gut
The part that churns
When I think about you
Or rather, how you don't think
Or care
About me.
Do you?
If so, then just tell me,
Because I am sick of this dilemma
Plaguing me
Keeping me wondering if you do care
If you want me to fall into your arms
Like in fairytales.
I wish I could tell you myself,
But even if I tried,
I would be rendered speechless
By love and fright
Because I am both enamored
And terrified,
Enamored by you
But terrified
By what you could do
To my heart.

The first thing I see is blue eyes
Well,
Blue
Green
Gray
Bright eyes
And long black eyelashes that didn't need mascara
Then the straight brown hair
That goes to my waist
Went to my waist
I never had to straighten it
The uniform bangs
My mum cut them for me
Just a fraction too high
Just a little too thin.
Then the light eyebrows
Slightly thick before I started waxing and plucking them
The pale, unmarked skin
Like a china doll
Still in her box
No blackheads on my nose.
My nose
Before I developed the Gallizzi nose
Or the Dunlap nose
(I can never tell between the two)
Not like a button
But I didn't want a button for a nose.
Those days back when beauty was a princess
That fell in love with a beast
Hey, just like me
Because with my now short hair
With bangs cut to the side
I see auburn, copper, and gold strands
When I step in the light
And my proud nose, I think it suits me
And those blackheads will go
And my eyebrows are fine
(But I'll still wax and pluck them)
And I don't often straighten my hair
Even though I feel like I should
And my eyes are still beautiful
And beauty is still a princess
And the princess is me
Who has fallen in love with with the beautiful beast
That is, was, and forever will be me

I feel like the stars and the sky
Have eyes
And that they look upon us and see
Straight through to the core
Of every tiny life
Realizing that for every bit of good
There is an army of bad.
Maybe that's why the sky cries sometimes
Fills every crack with tears until there's nothing left
And maybe that's why she gets angry
Furiously scrubs away the roughness
Until all she can see is her reflection.
Perhaps the stars are the reason
Riling up the poor sky
Showing her tiny crimes and tiny lies
Whispered in tiny ears
The stars shedding little lights
On a seemingly hopeless situation.
Perhaps she can't help but vent her frustration
Because the stars are right sometimes.
Then who comforts her, I wonder,
Who gives her strength to show the sun
When the hours of night are waning
And the day still hasn't begun?
Is it the sun, the moon, a god, the wind
Or love as the case may be?
Or does she comfort herself
When she feels that she's in need?

All right, ladies and gentlemen, let's get something straight.
I'm sick.
Sick of checking all the poems
All about pain and
How horribly beautiful love is
The sadness that consumes you on the daily
Why don't we write about the good things
There is beauty in nature, describe it
Let the strength within you be nurtured
Have faith in those who trust you
I'm tired of wrenching accounts
Of the razor sliding across the skin like a pen on paper
I know how it feels to have pain
But writing about the bad makes the good seem gone
So smile at the cool grey sky
Taste the rain
Write something funny
Let movies inspire you
Drink a chocolate milkshake with a cherry
Using the spoon to eat the whipped cream
Write about how he/she/other
Has eyes that light up the sky
You know there is happiness in your life
Don't create a contest
It's not about who has it worse
So write about joy
Or a silver candlestick
Unleash the inner beast
I know it's tough to beat the baddest of things
Sometimes you can't have control
So let the hippogriff fly
Let the extras go
It's you versus the world
And I personally think
If you can't beat it,
Join it.
You all probably think I'm stupid now
For surely no one can know your sorrow
But heed my words
And write about lovely things tomorrow.

Four-square
Is a grossly underrated game
Don't you think?

I used to think that summer was mean
A hot, sticky, mosquito-ridden season
With no reason to be here but to annoy me.
Maybe just because Michigan, but who knows.
I stuffed these discontentments in the back of my mind
As the summer began,
Letting them float to the surface on parade days.

Then after one of those torrential July rainstorms
Where the water falls straight down unless pushed by the wind
And thunder crackles with a static energy
I realized that as spring was clean
And as fall was crisp
And as winter was bracing
Summer was the only season
That I could sit on a blanket on a lawn
Bottle of Coke in hand
Watching a movie with friends.

It is often said
And agreed with
That left-handed people
Are the only ones
In their right mind

Well,
I still keep searching for
Your Hershey eyes
That turn amber hazel sometimes.
Geez, doesn't
Unrequited love
Kind of ****?

276
Young schoolgirls
Who just wanted to learn.

Taken under our noses
By evil men
Threatening to sell them to slavery
Because they don't believe they deserve an education.

276
Lives unaccounted for
Let the world search for these women
Let them stay strong

Give them a chance, Heaven
These girls are unsafe because of the beliefs of madmen
Don't let the villains win this time because there are

276
Young women
Afraid for their lives
A life of oppression looms over them
Their innocence so white, it's blinding
Bring them back

Fate?
Are you listening?
Spin your silver thread with care
And good toward these beauties
Sew a story with a happy ending
Because they need it
We want our girls back

Bring back our girls, **** it.




Bring back our girls.

Dear tea mug,
Dear, dear tea mug.
I have finished what must be
My seven hundred and fifteenth cup
Of tea.
I see a faint discolored ring inside you
You're getting old, my friend
I see scratches at your bottom
And a bit of sediment
But no matter what, you're my favorite
And no matter how old
Or discolored
Or scratched you become
I will depend on you to carry the great burden
Of
Mint
Chamomile
Or orange spice tea
For years and years to come.
I raise you to my lips
My sweet carrier of warm drink
And set you back on my windowsill
As I read on my wooden bench
Cushions pressing against my back,
Blanket embracing my cold legs.
But no matter how drafty it gets, kind friend,
I will always depend
On you to carry that great burden
Of tea
To warm me.
I appreciate how hard you work
I'm writing a poem about you, see
And I just want to let you know that
I love you and your burden of tea.

It bothers me so much
When I become an i
Or your face becomes you're face
You are face
No, I am Sam.
It bothers me even more
When definitely becomes definately
Or defnatly
Or definitliy
Oh, it hurts to write that.
I understand the need for speed
To get the point across as quickly as possible
But we are writers, whether we call ourselves so or not
And paying attention in English class
Won't do any harm.
Oh, also, while I'm thinking about it,
When you insult someone online?
"Your a idiot"?
"Go dye i a hole?"
"U don now nothin"?
That's the worst thing of all.

Spring brings me memories
That I cannot remember
They are commonly found in
Scents
The iron smell of after-rain and before-rain, too
The slightly musty smell of my bedroom
And flower-smell strengthened by that rain
The light
Hitting just so on my old mustard yellow desk and chair
Filtering through soggy leaves and grey clouds
Filling the air with gentle gold
The feel
The feel of the rough grain on the brown-grey weathered porch
The touch of old blankets
The worn ropes on the hammock
Where I lay
On cotton pillows
And read of fantastic journeys
And feel content with the new beginnings
And long-forgotten memories of spring

It drips along my hairline
Dragging my eyelashes down.
The urge to open my eyes wanes
As the moonlight brightens.
I should stay up, stay vivid
As the constellations dance
Waltzing along the horizon,
As the last hint of rosy pink fades.
Listen to the birds sleep, their
Faint fluttering of feathers.
Let the sound of slumber calm me,
But not fool me into sleep.
The fatigue is so welcoming,
I shouldn't give in to its promise
Of sweet dreams like I'm still awake.
Just wait, watch them be lovelier than I thought
Watch me wake up and feel the instant disappointment
As the harsh sunlight permeates my eyelids,
Snapping at me to get up, carpe diem.
It's so much easier to stay standing
Never feel the empty oath sleep brings
And never know what better things there are
Without the dreams of impossible things

One day I realized the fact
That I fear what I don't understand.
Then I chose to understand my fear
And so I am not afraid of it.

She wanted what she didn't have
So she hid what she had
And found out how quickly she wanted it.
And so she appreciated what she had.

He fell in love with a stranger
So he got up and dressed his wounds
Before he could obtain them.
And so he was cured before he was sick.

They had nothing else to do
So they threw nothing away
And found something worth doing.
So they were never bored.

The people were content.
Does that make sense?

Sweet dreams
Give me a chance
I don't understand
Why you won't
Give it a rest
I'm sleeping here
Don't interrupt my slumber
With your happiness
Because
When I wake up
I realize
You are only dreams
And when I wake up
You're no longer there
Leave but don't leave
Let me forget you
When the sunrise comes
So when it does
I'm left with only me
And the beautiful feeling
You bring
Sweet dreams

Hello, everyone.
I have created a solution to our confusion in a single word.
Dopsexual.
I made it up myself.
It has no crazy Latin prefix (that I know of)
But I am content with it.
In fact, you all should be,
Because you also define as dopsexual, in my book.
So does your friend.
And the kid behind you in math class.
Everyone is dopsexual.
We live in a dopsexual world.
Mwahaha.
No matter who you are,
Or what you define yourself as,
Keep in mind that you are also dopsexual.
What is the definition to this magical term, you ask?
Well, it
Depends
On the
Person.

It's unsafe for pedestrians
The need for speed is eminent
But I'm the only one who disagrees

We turn our backs to everyday
Adventure seems too far away
No gas money to spend among the trees

But oh, my dear,
Home is right here
In the sun, the sky
The fairyland of your childhood

The love remains
And when you come back it's not the same
As when you left
Give it a rest.

The garden is too bare today
All the seeds have blown away
But the bench you used to read in's standing here

You want to go to Paris, France
You'd fly away if you had the chance
Sorry benches in bare gardens don't compare

But oh, my sweet,
The barista still knows your order
And your books still wait
Collecting gray dust on the shelves

Your dreams of light
Aren't always as bright as you've known
Don't forget your home.

It is possible
To feel small, without feeling
Insignificant

Looks like a storm tonight
and i'm glad
because an integral part of my existence
thrives on knowing that
there is power beyond our control.

They walked together in the hallway
Every day between classes.
Her long curly hair cascaded down her back
Like a russet-colored waterfall.
His straight hair was trimmed to perfection.
They talked and smiled at each other
Two pairs of warm brown eyes filled with what could be
Mutual admiration.
After a lingering goodbye and a not-quite brush of hands,
When she turned to the left and he continued straight ahead,
They both left each other with smiles on their faces.
Once they admitted their feelings,
It was sure that they would be happy together.
If only that was how it worked for others.
For you see, another girl passed the boy every day.
She witnessed their lingering goodbyes,
The way they talked and laughed,
The girl's beautiful hair,
The boy's brown eyes, noticed them
Every single day.
And each time she did, she smiled ruefully,
Hoping that the boy and the girl would be happy together,
So at least the ratio would be two to one.

It thrills me
The haphazard drumbeats
The hushed, excited whisper of the wind
Churning the leaves on the branches
This is a night for excitement
The rush of cool water down drainpipes
A rolling roar of thunder
The patter slows, then stops,
Then starts again.
How the rain washes away
I feel lightheaded
White light on the windowsill
Washing over the navy sky
A great murmur of crackling sound
The branches on the magnolia tree
Stark black, barely visible now
How much power must you feel,
Thunderstorm,
To give so much life
Take away
Frighten the people
Yet hold them in your embrace
Gently wrapping them up
In your light it lights up brighter than the day
How can you be so harsh, yet comforting
Wailing, tearing ripping, growling
Yet soft as silk
So empowered
The elements giving you strength
Wild I can only think of dark grey
No bland about this Abnegation
Thoughts are whirling away
Swirling by like leaves down brooks
The mind is a fickle thing when faced
With the bright glass eye
That
Dancing
Singing
Stabbing
Stinging
Storm.

There are those days
Where I would rather be
             Anywhere else, or
                      Doing anything else, or
                                  Talking to anyone else.
I'd rather ride the
                    ancient            yellow          Schwinn  ­       in the shed
To the cemetery
Pay my respects       to Baby Lanny
And
               think.

I'd rather drive to            Chicago
Stay by the Pier for a while,
Drinking warm cocoa                 eating a hot dog.

I'd rather stay in my room,
                                     curled up under a blanket
Reading and staring out the window.

That's not how life works, unfortunately.
So I have to take my                        responsibilities
And wield them     with a
                                      heavy
                                            heart
Waiting until a time
Where I can        drive          to Chicago.

It starts with the shards of black glass flying through the air
Wild winds rub the skin raw
The sky came gray, but turned red-orange as the arid land
Welcomed the black sunset as poison in its throat
The land is sick, it seeps into the roots as an obsidian rainstorm
This is the chaos, it rules all
No room for thought can't speak
It whips the life slowly
Turning the mass into smog
Just a whisper of beauty gone
Can't find it, all gone
No remnants left in swirling plague of debris
Can't see
No room to breathe

Yet.

Then comes a breath, smooth, even
The dust is replaced with white light
The beauty returns, calm and quiet
This is Order, what is right
Good comes, draws the venom out of the system
The wind is still, then comes back
As a cool breeze soothing the skin
Returning the nature to the arid land
It will stay this way, Order
Healing, pressing, stilling, controlling
The chaos, which crawls back
An injured panther will not end the fight
Chaos will call back the red winds
And the obsidian rainstorm will return again.