I'm making a
Mental list.

It includes high-pitched noises
And dried up creek beds
A few gallons of orange juice
And an empty tube of toothpaste.

I'm bold enough to add some
Paper bags and that time in an
August rainstorm with you and
The moon when it's blood red.

Recently it's acquired a canister of
Powdered sugar, a slew of people I
Was too afraid to talk to and several
More who I wasn't.

The receptionist I smile at and
An empty bench where I sometimes sit
And the feeling of hands covered in
Acrylic paint.

I'm making a
Mental list.

But now I'm moving it
To paper, a list
Of things I never
Write poetry about.

There are moments I'll
Remember.

Like the bellyaching laughter on the
Living room floor when I said
Eisenhower, ****** and Giovanni Arnolfini and
His bride negotiated at Camp David.

Like sitting in an old Chevvy
Van with a half empty Starbucks
Cup, singing along to a song I'd
Never heard before.

Like dancing on the hot
Asphalt that has seen so much of
Us, and falling neatly enough to
Put me on crutches.

Like sitting in a bedroom that
Looked vaguely like mine when her
Boyfriend decided he would play
My guitar.

Like perfect
Complete and
Utter
Silence.

There are moments I'll
Remember.

I didn't ever write a
Journal entry about last Wednesday night.

It was strange, the dampness
In the air and the cough in
My throat, and the whole world felt
Empty and deadened.

She didn't really want to
Go, and I guess I didn't either, now
That I think about it, after
All I could have been writing a paper.

But I had my alterior
Motives, which fell through and
I wanted to get out of the
House, to clear my stuffy head.

So we walked, like two girls who
Can survive on their own mistakes
And then after awhile
We walked back.

But we walked to the little
Playground instead of home because I guess
For nine-thirty at night we were
Both a little unsettled.

And we talked about God and I
Looked at the leaves on the
Pavement and thought about how different the
Uniform Methodist windows were from ours.

The whole thing smells like chlorine, which is extremely unsettling because chlorine always tastes green and a lot like hereditary paranoia. These pants were only two washes  removed from brand new, and now there's a slit in the knee, a slit as precise as the shape my eyes make when I'm suspicious of wanderlusting newcomers who moonlight in my former prison cell.  And I'm unsure if I should call it like I'd like it to be and say the **** things were defective or if I should investigate further as to where I placed my legs while hacking bits of plastic.

I'm TIRED of hacking at bits of plastic. I daresay if things start looking up, I could get there. I'm desperate, while this pumpkin-leaf hole grows in my chest, I'm realizing I'll never get to Lancaster at this rate. Sure, sure, I'm obsessed. I also have a blonde tail hanging from a tack on my shelf and a lot of cards tacked to my wall. They either resemble a quilt, a window or a complete mess.

I'm relying on plastic cups and the Internet to continuously foster this false sense of belonging. And I don't want to shatter it, but I'm terrified by the threat of a midterm and I feel trapped by my own sky. I mean, have you SEEN the prices for quaint bed and breakfasts? But the sad truth is, I would be haunted by insurmountable guilt at leaving her behind. The cash flow isn't flowing, either. I'm thinking I'll have to forget about it and sit at my shiny laptop on an empty desk, staring at the cottage cheese ceiling and wondering if God is looking back.

There's a lot of mercy out there
For sinners like me
But a lot of things are going on
That I won't let you see
While I'm too afraid
To seize this day
Well, I swear I'm not
The girl in this glass box

Once there was a time
We were sons and daughters
But men, like lambs
Get led to the slaughter
I'm so afraid of falling
In this love I don't deserve
But I'm gonna die if I don't accept
This grace I didn't earn

There's a lot of forgiveness due
That I don't have the means to pay
It's hard to know that any blood but mine
Could take this pain away
But I can't sneak out
One more back door route
And though I don't lie
I've still got a lot to hide

Once there was a time
We were sons and daughters
But men, like lambs
Get led to the slaughter
I'm so afraid of falling
In this love I don't deserve
But I'm gonna die if I don't accept
This grace I didn't earn

Cause I can't live on front row chairs and pinned on prayers
My good deeds, historic creeds, Thursday night salvation
And I've gotta shake this fourth-floor faith
But I'm drowning in alternative translations

I think I've lost my touch, my flair for poetry. Most of my recent writes I've not been happy with, so I'm going to take a break from it. I'll still be on here from time to time, but if you want to keep in touch more, message me and I'll give my kik info. :)

God bless!

An empty room
   Sand and dust strewn
Sinister malicious feeling
   Baby doll head in the corner
Doorknob turning with no pause
   And a breath across my neck

Words have always been an effective method of construction. In fact, if I ever wanted to build a wall, I would use nothing but my shoddy verbal and written constructs, and it would be stronger than my willpower and higher than the same wall you've built for yourself.

I keep saying I'm just tired, but you're disputing that fact and I'm sleeping at nights as if nothing were wrong, but when I sleep like that, I know it's all wrong. I don't miss the way things used to be, I miss the way I used to be.

I've got this ridiculous theory that you can love someone without being in love. Call me crazy, right? There's got to be some kind of distinction, but with you, the lines don't make sense. And I can't imagine a world of mine without you in it.

I'd like an out, a kind of escape from the harsh truth that you're a boy, and I'm a girl and our skies don't line up. I've got a long driveway with a lot of trees and stars above them, and you've got a life trajectory that doesn't include me and never will. The second you realize there's a hole in your pocket is the second you know that you lost your hope.

Mowers that bump and buses that jolt are two things that cause anxiety. Sometimes the only way to reach me is through my poetry, my cracks and chips. Hand me a sledgehammer, we're all crumbling anyway.

The sky was tilting and dipping downward and if it hadn't been so beautiful, I would have assumed it to be a tornado. The way the clouds clustered and swirled into a hole directly above Pennsylvania reminded me of when you shut the bathtub drain and rinse the soapsuds out of your hair, then open it back up and watch it vortex away.

Like I said, I've never seen Lancaster at night, but I'm assuming it's lovely. At least, it must feel lovely. How lovely can anything really be in the dark? But if you think about it, even little old ladies have a nightlife, they play bingo and then go to bed. What more could I ask for? A pencil that doesn't attempt ****** on a sheet of drawing paper? Because every pencil I have keeps trying to **** something inside me that's trying very hard to stay alive.

It's strange to be in someone else's shoes, and even stranger when they fit. If you ever want to trade teddy bears for the weekend, I'm down.

I haven't cried since April 24th, but lately every time I start thinking about life, my eyes get damp and my expensive eyeliner starts running onto my cheeks. And speaking of eyes, my lids are always feeling sleepy and puffy and my lashes frequently weigh down my entire body. I'm trying to see the bright side, but all I've got over here is a cup of mistemperatured coffee and a dimming world that I already extracted all the poetry from. Somebody get me to Lancaster this fall, I'm thinking a slew of unfamiliar parking lots might lift this insufferable fog, and maybe you'll become my Seattle.

this one is for every poem
lost in the digital age by
a mere slip of the finger, a
faulty web browser, your notorious
lapse of wifi, the convenience of
an anti-analog world, and now
a moment of silence.