I died in my sleep last night,
It happens a lot.
When the lines are blurred, between conscious and not.
I go back to my true home,
The house where I was raised.
I try to call you, but my cell service is dazed.
I’m only 11, I don’t have a phone.
I’ll go next store on the iPod touch.
Or my walkie talkie, but you can’t stray too much.
But then I awake and I’m in my bed,
At least that was consistent.
I wanna stay there forever,
I’m begging you, please, the pain is getting persistent

i am older now (obviously)
and certainly feel it.
i am wiser now (probably)
and certainly feel that too.
however i am still not old or wise
nor do i know how to write a poem (although i now have several years of literature study).
all i know is that the older i get the more insurmountable the future seems
as it unfurls before me, limitless and suffocating.

today i write less than i would like to
as i let the words
slip through my fingers,
as they tend to,
because i'd rather regret not speaking,
marking my silence up to foolishness when i am older,
than say anything at all.

I know you don’t forget me,
Don’t view my posts nor my moms.
But I did have fun Ashlee,
You helped me grow strong.

Your marriage goes well?
I’d do anything to chat.
Besides picking up my cell,
And calling you back.

Should have went out to lunch,
Two years ago,
But I thought we had much more
Time before you’d go.

Military housing,
Did you get to bring the cat?
Do you remember the kitten?
His small fur pattern hat?

You did my math,
While I did your reading.
Now we need help in those subjects,
Do the soldiers have meetings?

I’ll call you again,
Probably text before I do.
I can’t promise you when,
But I want it to be soon.

Crooked hoof, diagonal jog
We moved the tractors before the goat
when I wished that dam would clog
Pinball machines tip over
but when the point is to lean
Upside down, dripping clean

Put on a bubble and keep yourself alive
Scared it will pop and you’ll die
But yet you slam it,
into rocks,
walls,
stone,
slate,
and brick
The bubble will bend before bursting

she is a narcissist
you can find her at 9 o’clock on tuesday nights,
taking photos in front of a full length mirror,
trying to find a spark of beauty in a life that is more bland
than bread without butter, people without mouths, mouths without words
(words outside mouths)

words fall out of her mouth before she can stop them
they are not always hers
she stole them from the magazine she reads on sundays, the one that keeps her distracted
because monday is back to the real world
(school means enemies)


she doesn’t make enemies, she chooses them
she speaks to a boy once and has a bad impression
and for the next three years he somehow manages to make her angry
she hates how he looks, how he talks, how he walks
how he beats her in an election of popularity
he doesn’t know he’s her enemy, but she doesn’t care
(if sharing is caring, she will not even breathe the same air as him)


air isn’t hard to come by, everyone she doesn’t like has a head full of it
everyone she likes also has a head full of it
the difference is that half think she’s crazy, and the other half are crazy
she has pride in herself
(that’s what everyone else thinks)


she has daytime insomnia, except
instead of not falling asleep, she can’t stay awake
in a world of people who think shallow water is safer and
shallow minds are better
it drives her crazy to think of romantic love
(she wants it but i guess she can’t have it)


her life is divided by the color of lockers
the yellow lockers of her first middle school, the good years, when she was admired by everyone
she was smart and charismatic
and she was happy in only a way that a
bee that has never lost it’s stinger can be
(innocent children always change)


the red lockers of a second middle school, full of memories she hopes to forget
the building where she first learned hatred and hopelessness and how you can never take happiness for granted because there will always be someone to take it away
(she was angry at her parents for their uninspired decision to move)


the blue lockers of high school, the idea of which kept her going all through the red year where she almost let go of the thin, little, fraying string of a balloon, keeping her barely out of the reach of the sharp nails of the devil’s paradise
she ran into blue as she ran away from red’s angry arms, crying for help, crying to be saved,
and she was.
she saved herself.


in blue she found herself away from the miserable creatures red produced, and she could never put a pin quite on how it changed
but she fell in love with feeling clean, and she started to look pretty
she pulled herself together and woke up each day grateful for the blue lockers that lined the halls of her high school
(she worked hard to be narcissistic)


she believed she found euphoria
she trusts in herself now, but
only because she trusted everyone at the beginning
(and no one in the middle)


her life is divided by the color of lockers
when she sees photos of the blue of her new school,
she is reminded of the yellow where she was so happy and
the red where the walls of the school mirrored what she saw everytime she closed her eyes
her mind is a board game, divided
by emotional reasoning
(i read an article that said that’s dangerous)