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Juliana May 1
Love the ocean more
than a dark bar
on a Friday night.

For there are plenty
of fish in the sea,
yet nobody is here for you.

Love the ocean more
than a summer night’s air,
for only one
can leave you breathless.

Love the ocean more
then the stars,
because one’s a mystery,
without ever
having to leave home.

Love the ocean,
because it’s telling you
you’re human.
Juliana May 1
How does it feel,
to know the secrets
of an entire city?

I mean, you can see
everything.

The handshake
for a sold deal,
a new cooperation,
a million jobs created,
another million destroyed.

How does it feel,
to see a ***** street rat,
a plastic bag of sugarcane,
vermin taking their pick
of Chinatown’s lovely leftovers?

How does it feel,
to see children
turning into fathers?

To have them grow,
hoping, praying,
that one day they’ll
be as tall as you?

That the children
will fly among the stars,
angels cursed to play tag,
for just a little bit longer.

How does it feel,
to know that one day,
your favorite will slam
his apartment door
closed for the last time,
bags packed into boxes,
driving into a tunnel,
your line of sight gone,
never to return?

How does it feel,
to know that he might
love the ocean more?
Juliana May 1
Under a blanket of deadlines,
of exams proctored by a machine,
eye movements consistent
with a learner’s lie,
I found solace tonight.

I decided not to give a ****.

My computer remained unopened,
a calendar a forgotten application,
not a thought given
to the glare of a grade book.

My bed was warm,
the cloth of sheets and PJs
wrapping around my body like a hug,
hiding me from the ghosts,
shed from the television screen.
Ghosts that wiped my tears
after the hours of repeated drama.

While my sheets slept,
I opened a page.
No, not a page full of fact,
the monotonous monster
which is studying,
but a separate world.

I ceased to exist,
become one with a novel,
falling deeper,
deeper.

I won’t even remind myself
that tomorrow, I’ll have to work.
Juliana Apr 29
Hey Mommy?

When I type bat instead of cat, do the letters get mad at me?

Is it a vacation, a retirement to the land far away,
full of words I’ll never get to know,
or did I send them away to crumble into pixels?

Is that forgotten apology chopped up
into little pieces in the back of the computer,
a plastic box under the harddrive
that Daddy gets to clean out
when he refills the printer ink?

I want to read the book filled with all the lost letters,
the one where my fourth-grade book report
comes after the job application you were never qualified for,
but just before the neighbor’s college essay,
deleted so his own Mommy could help him.

Hey Mommy?

Can I ever check on them?

I hope they turn into a book about superpowers.

I’d be sad if these keys turned into nothing more
than a scrapped poem or a forgotten apology.

Hey Mommy?

I miss the forgotten letters.

Do you think they ever miss me?
"Hey Mommy?", "bat," and "cat" should be italicized.
Juliana Apr 29
I hope every day
brings you as much joy
as you felt riding down
that Florida highway.

I hope you can drive
with the windows down,
sunroof open,
a convertible as safe
as your recurring fairytale.

I hope the wind
blows through your hair,
the humidity feeling
like a warm hug
from the clouds.

I hope the music is loud,
and you know every word.

I hope you’re present.
Suki G Apr 27
They call me a good girl
and so, I’ve always tried
but somehow, I can’t seem to find
the shining white pearl inside
and so, I always try
to find the good in others around
and hope that in some way, somehow,
it rights all my wrongs.
They call me a good girl —
I think I’m too good even for that.
They’ve walked over me,
stepped on my feet,
crushed down my throat,
trampled across my chest,
pinned my hands and legs,
clipped my very wings,
and for it all, they simply say
that I am a good girl.
I wonder if I’d still be good
if I shake my mane and roar
and thunder claps at my voice
and the earth trembles below
as I trade my wings for talons
and claw my way out
and soar a thousand feet high
and take back what’s rightfully mine.
But what does it matter?
They may call me names,
but I know mine:
I’m a good girl.
NaPoWriMo 2021 (April 14) Prompt: Write a poem delving into the meaning of your first/last name.
Juliana Apr 27
Strands of brown scattered
every which way, my hand
runs through my hair again,
my breathing deep.

Papers seemingly scattered,
a groove permanently centered
on the futon so deep I could fall,
deeper,
deeper,

Until my dreams
become my reality,
the words in my brain
painted onto the landscape,
my characters as real
as actors, newfound friends.

A knock on the door
snaps my thoughts back
into a file folder,
circled back to when
needed the least.

Who’s there?

The door opens,
breath catching
like a wish upon a star,
a man dressed
in a black suit standing
in the doorframe.

I’ve seen him before,
not once, but once
for every season,
a repeating figure
as familiar as my heart,
as unique as days
in the calendar.

I call his name,
the version matching summer
when the warm rays
fated to blind his brother,
when his sister destined
to lay across the asphalt,
her last breath a song,
voice fluttering,
soaring among the eagles.

The man says hello,
I ask if he’s real.

He assures me he is,
he has escaped the confines
of a page, allowed to dance
in the breeze, stroll in the sun,
find his way to me.

I ask of his family, his girl.
He answers, matching
to my memory meticulously.
His turn to present a question to me.

An offer to accompany
him to his world.
To feel the safety
of those pages,
the serif text wrap
around my body,
my organs spilling
onto the page
adding to it all
of my being.

I could find my home.
Be with those I love.

I answer him.
Pretend the formatting saved (first 'deeper' should be indented once, second 'deeper' indented twice).
Juliana Apr 25
twenty students in
perfect little rows
worker bees in training

a crooked child
shakes his hand
a silent celebration

he knows the answer

it is not one
of math or science

he cannot tell you
who won the war
but he can tell you
what makes the world
beautiful

he can tell you
that knowledge is
about more than
just facts

that what’s interesting
isn’t always what’s
important

behind those
failing grades and
messy locker
is a child who longs
to learn
a child who is
smart
a child who
isn’t meant to be
just another
worker bee

some children
are meant for more
then the target
of a flower
Juliana Apr 25
my lips
are a doorjamb
blocking all
but a wail

my words succinct
yet you cannot
hear them
Juliana Apr 25
my attention is deficit
like a bird with no worms
to find

he teleports
to his next location
a jolt of electricity
popping
from one streetlamp
to the other

never soaring
he has no wings to flap
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