“hello, my name is solar.
weird name, right?
i grew up in heaven,
it was really beautiful,
everyone dressed in white,
being happy,
flying with their white,
feathery, soft,
wings.

i’m different.
dark purple hair,
a few strands of white and black,
long hair.
black angel wings,
elf ears (as a child),
devil eyes,
wolf ears and tail.
i’m exactly what you think i am,
a monster.

i grew up with mostly white hair,
a few strands of black,
and an ombré from white to purple,
elf ears,
soft angel wings tinted grey.
i was adorable.
i was the queens daughter,
my father however,
the king of the underground nation,
known as hell.

12 years old.
so many bad things happened.

i was in bed, falling asleep,
i was carried onto a bench,
normal so far until,
i felt my limbs being chained down.
he was on me.
my father ***** me that night.  

i fell emotionless after that.

8 months later,
my baby boy
came earlier than expected.

thomas.
his name was thomas.
my baby thomas.
my thomas.
my son thomas.

i get banished from heaven the next year, leaving my son with my mother
she adored him
i found out i had an older brother

my brothers name is shadow
he’s great,
so caring, loving,
he helped me when i needed

2 years later
i’m 15
i visit my son after 3 years,
it’s his 3rd birthday.
i walk up the stairs to my mother’s
upstairs loft
i reach halfway,
i see my father,
throwing something.

thomas,

he’s throwing my baby
thomas into the fire.

i ran up the stairs, jumping into the fire to save my baby boy.

he’s gone.
ashes
everywhere.

where is my little boy?

i get pulled out.
i heal imedietly due to my “power.”

i’m sobbing.
i feel the kicks and punches hitting me.
i look up,
i’m on the floor, all i can see is red.
my father, standing their with his
blood soaked claws.

i sit myself up, trembling.
my neck, cut deeply
my arms, scratched so severely
my legs, bleeding
my white dress, was required to be worn
as the “princess of heaven/angels,” stained blood red.

i crawl to the edge of the land of heaven, staring down at my home, earth

i suddenly feel a kick.
i’ve been kicked down to earth,
i watch as heaven drifts further away from me.

it’s been 4 years.
i’m 19 now.
i visit my son in hell’s dungeon.
i’ve met my little sister.”

I was broken when we met  
And You became the reason
why I wanted to mend myself
—I really did
Your ways were rubbing off on me
I yearned alteration
A motive for my being  
—But it did not take long
For me to discern  
You were also broken
If not leveled then more than me
—But I am not going to cease
From this path You unleashed
I will break out of my brokenness
Not to show I am stronger than You
—But to aid You in becoming anew
So that even if someday we shall grow apart
You would remember me as someone
—who rubbed off a little something on your magnificent heart
And I would treasure you as my most beautiful fate
Because I was no longer broken after we met

I am made of my brothers twisting grip,
as we grapple on the living room floor.
I am made up of saying uncle,
and laughing so hard at the dinner table that milk comes out of my noise.
I am made up of slobbering dog kisses, loving kitten purrs, and injured strays.
I am made up scrambling through bushes, slipping in dirt, and mudded shoes.
Of wild hair, wild eyes, and a wild grin.

I am made up of road trips and sunny days.
Of pool parties and family gathering where laughter is the only thing that echo’s through you’re ears.

I am made up of countless flues and colds that kept me homesick.
Of ditching school with my best friends to go to Disney land,
Of every Friday night being girl’s night for 3 years.

I am made up of heart break for lost love and lost friends.

I am made up of travel and moving away
I am made of studying in Australia,
Of my Danish and Dutch friends that I chose to make my family.

I am made up of smiling faces as I walk to school,
Of ravens over head, and redwoods straight in front.
I am made of scratched arms and bruised legs
Of callused hands and burning muscles.

I am made of a drive for adventure and new experiences
Of an aggressive spirit
And a curious mind.

I am made of freedom,
Of courage
Hope,
Happiness,
Sorrow,
Loss,
Heartbreak.
Of love
Eccentricity
And a warriors spirit.
I am made up of my memories, of the people I have met, and of the experiences that will never stop.
-ALC February 23, 2019

I like the words they use to tell what a poem is
better than any poetry I've read.
Like: fragments, ghost, allusion.

I like the way my ribs move
when someone talks about storytellers;
It's a pride I taste more than during a story told.

A review says 'intricate' and 'masterful'
So I put the thing on a pedestal of stolen adjectives.
My crown jewel is 'aesthetic' and I own it, lying.

What is a creator without his critic?
Condemnation and commendation
mean more to me than original construction.

But then--poets are just the translation of Creation.
And never has a word of soaring perfection
surpassed the garden, fallen.

Having a crush is like being in the Summer Rain
It's hot outside and you feel no pain
And the ice cream in your hand taste so good
And all the innocent children are riding their bikes down your hood
Laughter fills your lane
And you feel so tamed
The sun shines on you
The sun shines on him
You both smile
With the silent agreement that you feel some chemisty
(And that you want to make history together)  
No clouds
But you feel a sensation of rain
And a single drop appears
That smile fades (maybe he didn't feel the same)
But it still hot outside
Back turned, he runs for shelter
And you stand there in the middle of the pavement unable to move
And the rain pours down on you  
And streams of ice cream sinks through your fingers
But its still hot outside
And your heart which was once filled with so much joy
Is left wet even though its hot outside


- You end up watching something becoming nothing

Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.

I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.

I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.

And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.

Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.

Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.

They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.

A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.

Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.

Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.