A distant look in her eyes,
Stretching beyond the horizon.
A battle long fought,
In her dreams so surreal.
A thousand miles did she walk,
Before pausing to rest.
But the lights began to fade,
For it was time for her sunset.

You used to be the golden sun and lingering kisses.
But now you're the reason thorns grow around my heart
and the reason my poetry is filled with metaphors for heartbreak.

I went on a nature walk
with no idea,
no preparation,
only to take some pictures.

At a certain point
I got lost
with no phone
no one but me,
my thoughts,
and the layers of
cold sunken through.

I had no idea where I was,
only faith that I would get out
at some point
if I kept going.

I forgot everything
except this poem, my camera, and my next step.

The best purchase I ever made
was the blackout shade for my bedroom window,
made to allow ignorance towards
the hasty mornings in which you arise.
Glass panels show haze across the valley this January. Did you sneeze?

For a world that revolves around you,
it's beautiful.

Even though the mountains aren't as tall anymore,
and the clouds hang lower—unlike your self esteem, but much like mine—I can still climb these melting piles of guilt in an attempt to reach solitude.
What is solitude?
Can anyone find this in a muddy world that revolves around you?

I want to know the course that the rivers beneath your skin take

I want to know the valleys in your heart and how deep they go

I want to know the canyons in your bones and who put them there

I want to know who's initials are carved into your mind

and the memories that they can no longer call "mine"

The room feels heavy,
sleepy morning smiles
and satiate English words
clinging to to air.
They reach out,
trying to pinch me,
as insistent as
the professor's smile.

Some of us still feel
as we do at 7 a.m.,
though our minds are
overflowing fountains
of new knowledge
as we try to hold
and scoop it back in.
they're drowning me,
the letters are drowning
and too tired
to swim.

It's the feeling I get
of a stomach ache
and not being able to tell
whether it's because
I'm actually sick,
or just overwhelmed
with possibilities.
*What will I do?
What will I be?
Maybe I should
just try to focus
on what's in front
of me.

Someone, or something,
has wrapped me in syran wrap,
encased me with endless chains,
and pushed me into the ocean,
demanding I swim to the other side.

Picture your pain in a plastic pouch
Put it away till it’s lost like change in your couch
Maybe you’ll miss all this aching
Maybe you’ll be better for the loss
Maybe you won’t ever really rally past it
Maybe your pain is like plastic
Elastic and ready to snap back on you
Perhaps you can send the couch to the cleaners
Perhaps they will take all the pain you were saving
Wash it in foamy suds or dry clean it
Perhaps you should have just thrown it away