The spirit
of a mustang,
runs through my soul,
I desire freedom.
I love to just run,
and shed my worries,
that keep me locked in a stall,
looking out the window
to the open range,
where I used to run.
My spirit is a horse,
wild and free.
I fight when my freedom is threatened,
because it is so precious to me.
I protect my herd, my family,
because they are the only stability I need,
I let my creativity flow.
I dream of horses,
dark and light,
and they help me find myself,
they help me grow,
and I connect with them.
They are always there for me,
not in reality,
but in a dream,
and I am one of them
in the depths of my mind.
I am an untamed soul,
as wild and strong as a mustang,
who has learned the tricks of mankind,
who understands,
how freedom is what I truly need,
to survive.
My spirit can not be,
controlled.

Within the confines of the office building
is a dark and dusty stairwell.
Used less and less by those unwilling
to take a trip no longer fulfilling
as the elevator is easier and does not smell
and it moves too quick so one can't dwell
on the feelings that flow like an ocean swell.
But there's a fear a machine is instilling
for if there are a sudden halt and no dinging bell
and one is stuck when the power is killing
itself; would one think of those stairs so very chilling
and what their day would be if they took the stairwell?
Would they even survive to share a tale they can't tell?
Or will the cables break and they'll arrive faster in Hell?
It'd be too late for souls to know they were unwell.

The lack of control is frightfully thrilling.
No one tells them why they fell.

When it's all said and done,
will you tell me who won?
Because i'm not sure,
who to root for anymore.

When this all has to end,
we just cant pretend,
that what we feel,
isn't real.

When we take this break,
will it even make,
a lull in our lives?
Or a sacrifice?

When we start again,
I believe it won't end,
because we'll have nothing to fear,
and we'll look towards this year,
to start again.

In this hou  se I sit
on a chair t  hat has
yet to be m  oved
it takes tim  e to pack
up furnitur  e that
decorated a  home
I trace my f  ingers on
a groove in  the wood
grain of the  kitchen table
a mistake f  rom when
you cut app  les without
a cutting bo  ard for you
were runni  ng late to
work and d  idn't have
time to take   care but
it was okay   what was
one mark on   a wooden
table anyway  ? I was not
angry about i  t perhaps
I should've be  en since
you feel like I  don't feel
anything then  maybe
you wouldn't   be moving
out of my hea  rt without me

To an asthmatic like me,
who feels pain in her chest,
has shortness of breath,
and can't stop wheezing,
when her asthma is triggered.
To puff her inhaler,
begging for the medication to work.
Only to hear two empty puffs.
And just like me,
the inhaler is ******* wind too.

Everything is so tight.
Jeans, leggings, dresses, shirts, skirts, jackets
and summer wear is even worse and more revealing with
crop tops, shorts, and even shorter skirts and dresses.
How are we all able to breathe?
Victorian fashion had corsets
and those made them faint!
So why does the fashion have to be tight?
Don't get me wrong,
I do like skinny jeans, and tight shirts and dresses
I am a girl after all,
we all give in to the status quo of fashion at times.
But, sizes are even smaller now than they were before.
I haven't gained or lost weight,
my waist size hasn't changed,
nothing has.
Except for the clothes.
Are we trying to make women smaller and thinner
by just shrinking the clothes?
It should not be ¨Survival of the fittest¨
in the dressing rooms.
That isn't cool.
Also, why are the pants so short?
I have long legs, okay,
and because my waist size matches someone who is smaller than me
then that must mean that I am short
according to clothes.
Therefore I have difficulty finding pants
that fit my waist
and my legs.
I am not blind to my surroundings.
Every single girl
Goes. Through. This.
We all have shopping woes,
some worse than others.
We all gain uncomfortable experiences
whether it be from something not fitting,
or from the attention on the streets
that we get for wearing it.
Then of course, don't forget the media!
Remember all those pictures of perfect people
being shoved down our throats
strangling us until we accept the fact
that we should be just like them.

Suffocation is the latest fashion,
and we are expected to wear it well.

I wander trails that are shaded by trees
until I reach the first steep rock scramble.
Walking steadily on old, crunchy leaves
I believe it's the mountains' preamble

I scale these rocks with eager hands and feet
my yearning heart pumps blood through my blue veins.
This mountain will not hand me my defeat
muscles strain and the rocks help break my chains.

Sturdy rocks and sacred trees surround me
their presence strengthens my weak, depressed bones.
My muscles burn with effort, but I'm free
to become one with the trees and the stones.

Though there are times where my mind may plummet.
I'll survive the fall, I've reached the summit.

I've forgotten quite a bit of my childhood
The teenage years that is
Spent so many years without sleeping
Anger-bleaching my brain
Who was I,
I hardly knew

But I am so different today
Or perhaps I am who I always was
And back then was just the shell
I did not change then did I?
Does the distinction even matter?
I feel so different today

I create while under the influence
   of my mind's imbalance.
Equilibrium is not found
within me.

Ask me to walk the line you'll find
   I can do it just fine
But on the inside I've fallen off the line,
which was well above the ground.

Touching the clouds I shout
    I'm falling! I'm falling!
Down from the sky my head was in
I've fallen into a garden.

The first thing I see upon waking up
    is a sunflower facing the sun.
The most surreal flower I've ever seen
is what I'm greeted with after a dream.

Sunflowers don't look real to me.

She sat on the edge,
quietly waiting,
for the sun to rise,
and chase away the darkness.

She looked to the east,
calmly calculating,
the amount of time,
till she hears birds sing.

She saw a glimpse of light,
slowly brightening,
with every single second,
the world held its breath.

She watched the light grow,
beautifully round,
and it rose above the hill,
not seeming to stop.

She felt the kind heat,
quietly warming,
her tired body,
till she felt alive again.

She knew why she was here,
calmly understanding,
that fate brought her,
and she could change that.

She sat on the edge,
tensely waiting,
she got up rigidly,
this will not be her last sunrise.

Swallows get caught in your throat
trying to escape the cat.
Feathers are ticklish,
the cat's grip is vicious,
is this how we've come to say that
the cat got your tongue,
the cat got your tongue,
because you thought
you could swallow winged lies.
The hunter inside
always finds its pride
in the throat where the swallow choked.

I like to think I'll find peace for me
resting beneath a sycamore tree.
I can't feel its roots burrow into my body,
sapping me of my strength.
No
    No
No
    No
No
Can't you see?
There is peace beneath this sycamore tree.
Look at how it shelters me
in the shade, so I can't see the sun.
No
    No
No
    No
No
What on earth are you telling me now?
This is just a simple sycamore tree
it is not acting sycophantically.
I'm not held down, it's protecting me.
No
    No
No
    No
No
It wants your death to fertilize its growth.
You're rooted to the sycophantic tree.
Just go, there is nothing here for you.
I'm corrupted, leave without me.

I am nothing but a target to you,
painted red and white
with a bull's eye on my forehead.
Something that you practice on
firing away until you hit the spot
that will end me completely.
But it's okay,
because I don't mind what you say about me.
I don't care that you take out your anger on me
because I know something that you don't.
As you **** your gun and take your aim
glaring me down as I smile,
you pull the trigger
and I don't even flinch,
because the only sound is an empty click
of the gun you fired too many times
and had missed.
So you see,
I don't mind being your target
and it doesn't matter what you fire my way
because you have no bullets
you have absolutely nothing
to attack me with
and I am so sorry if that's not okay... not.

Teach young girls that they can say "No,"
to situations that make them uncomfortable.
Don't force them to hug someone they barely know
even if you know them well.
Teach young girls they can say "Yes,"
to situations that make them curious.
That they don't have to sacrifice their own happiness
for someone else.
Teach young girls that they can say "I'm sorry,"
but only when they actually mean it.
To assert themselves when they've been wronged
and to recognize when they were wrong.
Teach young girls to say "I'm worthy,"
no matter what path they choose in life.
Whether it's to be a doctor, an artist, a scientist, a wife
whatever it may be, let them decide.

Teach young girls to say "No."
And teach little boys to accept it.

Thank you all for your support
I take strength from your words
and from knowing that I was heard
and that means others will be heard as well
So for that
Thank you

“Haven’t you heard the cottage in the clearing-”
“-upon the mountain?”
“-yes it belongs to a demon.”

And I gripped my angel’s arm to keep them from interfering
with the two mothers' conversation.

“My kids tried to enter it one day
they thought it was abandoned; figured it’d be okay.
But it wasn’t empty! The home came alive!
With shifting shadows that let sinister creatures thrive!
It hissed like a serpent preparing to strike
but its shadow was not unlike
a human in form, tall and thin
with claw-like fingers, a pointy-toothed grin,
and slitted eyes that glowed amber in the dark-”
“I’m glad my children know to only play in the park.
No demons to be found on a swingset
Or buried in the sands to upset
children wanting to explore-”
I interject, “Isn’t this just some old folklore?
A tale told to tiny children to make
them more obedient… or perhaps to fear the snake?”

“What are you doing?” My angel asked
But I did not reply.

“Oh I am sure that my kids exaggerated a bit.
Childish imaginations are like a wicked kit
to build extraordinary nightmares from shadows.
A frightened animal becomes a monster which addles
their minds, tells them not to stray.
But it is an 'evil home' they say."

“That is absurd! It’s just an old cottage!”
My angel was incensed.

“And no child should be digging through its remains,
no matter what secrets it contains.
So if there is a demon, I do not care,
As long as it stays there.”
“And besides, a storm is coming, haven’t you heard?
If the cottage survives its assault, that would be absurd!
Leave that evil thing to rot in the weather-”
“Yes, that’d be a splendid thing! I’d tether
my hope to it like a boat to its dock
and wait out the storm. I'd wait out the clock
to see horrors end their own existence.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Good riddance!”

And the mothers walked on, angel pulled my arm
turning me to their pinched face.
“Why do you speak such a way?”
“It got them to leave me be.”
“You could’ve said, ‘I live there and I’m no demon.’”
“That would never work.
I’d rather feed into their fears and keep them away
than gave them a single face to openly hate.”
“You’re absurd!” My angel declared
and then grabbed the collar of my coat,
turning it up to protect me from the sting
of the oncoming wind
And perhaps also from the maelstrom
they feared untied boats would be caught in.
Protect me from the frightened visions of children
completing a dare.
And keep me safe from their mothers
who speak about me without knowing I'm there.
And keep me safe from myself
when I speak of why I should not receive care.

"How are you doing?"
those words pierced through my coat
bypassing the buttons that I didn't notice were open
until he spoke them
How I froze words intended to warm
into a pointed intrusion meant to warn
me of my icy exterior
It jabbed at my heart like icicles
pressed into the wound that throbbed and pulsed
He maintained eye contact when he asked
and my eyes were wide
with weariness I couldn't truly hide
but I could disguise
"I'm doing well and you?"
I replied to the man holding a stop-sign
my voice pleasant like springtime
when the wind rustled green-leafed trees
during the early sunrise
and the morning doves sang a sweet melody
covering up my shivering heart
"I'm doing good," he said
and nodded his head
in response to my quiet 'thank you'
he waited until I crossed the small street
eyes at my back, tracking my slow, steady steps
and when I got to the other side
I paused for my crossing guard said one more thing
"I hope you have a good day!"
and I said with a smile too bright, "You too,"
and went on my way
marching through the bright, winter day
hoping that this road would just take me away
Just take me away

I stand out in the dark
my fear making me a spotlight
where everyone can see
how I'm frozen to the spot
eyes wide, staring at one point
that seems to be masked by the dark.
But I can see it,
it's there, it has to be.
Wait... I think it moved.
I'm gone I'm gone I'm gone
I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead
Sing a little something please
just to calm me
so I can go in peace.
That's all I want.
As my fear lights me up
showing me off to the evil around me.
To the darkness
To the darkness
Here I am for you to take me
Away from the light that makes me
A target.
Stop. No more.
Fear is controlling me
making me shine in places
that I don't want to be.
That thing is moving closer
closer to me.
To me.
To me.
Please leave me be.
I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared
of what is to become of me
if I allow myself to shine
in the wrong way
in the dark.
The dark the dark the dark
Go away please.
These imagined creatures are torturing me.
They're all my eyes can perceive
since my vision is clouded with
fear fear fear
and nothing is
clear clear clear.
I must get out
pull my feet out of the ground
but it is so difficult
as they have become roots
seeking the safety and stability that the soil
provides them.
I still can't move my legs
and now my arms are frozen above my head
and I feel my skin becoming more rough
and I find that I no longer have a mouth.
I can't speak, scream, or fight
my rooted feet had sunk too deep
and the spotlight has gone away
yet I am here to stay
to witness others get lost just like me
and watch their painful transition
into a tree
Whose face is etched in hard lines on the trunk
and whose mind wanders like they used to
But yet nothing is the same anymore
as their feet sunk too deep
since their fear made them take root
in the dark
In the dark
In the dark

A large **** slashed open its side.
A collision with a boat we all think.
Though no boat has claimed its ****.
The wind whipped its scent through the crowd
a saltier tang than usual.
More concentrated; more direct.
Its chest heaved with the rhythm of the waves
as water poured into its lax mouth
expanding its chest
in a mockery of breath
before deflating again like a balloon spent.
Bites from opportunistic feeders
marred the solid gray-blue-white skin
with a pinkish hue
and gaping holes.
Its blood lingered in the dark green waves
a sandy-pink as it flowed with the current.
And people still swam in its wake!
Unperturbed by the dead still bleeding
or the funeral procession watching on
in a half-circle of grief and awe and humor too
as the largest of lives we don't normally see
lay dead on the beach.

The desire to be held
The desire to be left alone
The desire to be loved
The desire to be forgotten
The desire to be alive
The desire to be dead
The desire to be talkative
The desire to be silent
The desire to be home
The desire to be away
The desire for things to change

The desire is what makes me decay
because the desire to fall
is the strongest of them all
and it is just one feeling I can not change

I'm tired of surviving.

Look at the people who survived on islands
abandoned and lost
Look at people who survived car crashes
mangled and broken
But they survived
They are the definitions of survivors

Look at me I went through some ****
but my life isn't in danger anymore
so why do I feel like I'm just surviving?

I don't want to survive anymore.
I want to live.

A run down house
filled with garbage and dirt,
and bugs of all sorts
that I didn't know existed,
is where my dream had taken place.
Well, at least I hope it's a dream,
and not reality.
I walked towards that broken, disgusting house
regretting each step
that took me closer
I'm blind to my surroundings
my only focus is that house,
or what is in that house.
The house seems to get bigger
and it looms over me
threatening to crash and smother me
but even with all this danger
and my head telling me to run
I was compelled to move on
to find the purpose of this horrible house,
this awful house.
The wind picked up
and my vision changed
the house changed,
it was still the same house
but this time it was a quaint little house
it sit perfectly in the country setting
and children ran and played
adults were laughing
everyone was happy
and I found myself laughing with them,
As soon as the vision came,
it disappeared,
leaving my frozen
and hesitant.
I no longer wanted to find out what happened to this house.
The walkway was cracked,
the lawn was overgrown
the trees were snapped in two
and darkness was settling in,
the horrible house it was once more
looming over me.
I started to run,
but not away,
much to my dismay
I ran towards that house,
through the dark gaping doorway
right into the garbage filled living room,
dying room more like it.
Everything was dying,
and I watched,
death filled the living room
like a sickness that can not be cured,
it was oppressing,
and once again I felt smothered.
The room swirled before me,
broken tables and chairs flew around the room,
a tornado of broken things
flew towards me,
broken tables and chairs,
sofas and pictures,
hopes and dreams,
souls.
Broken souls stopped this rampaging tornado
and stared at me,
their colorless eyes huge,
begging me to save them.
I started walking,
up now,
up old stairs that creaked ominously under my feet.
Every step I thought I was going to fall through.
I turned down the hall and into a room,
now there was a broken crib
and destroyed toys,
the only things intact
were a teddy bear,
and a child.
The child was sick with the fever of death,
and I had to get him out of here
those broken souls were screaming out of fear,
"Get Out!"
The house was going to fall.
I grabbed the child and the bear,
and I ran.
Down those perilous stairs
out the gaping door way
and I ran with the child in my arms
far away from that horrible house
and those broken souls.
I finally stopped running
when I was in a field of frost bitten flowers.
When did it become winter?
That child was shivering,
he gripped his bear
the strength of that child filled me with some sort of hope.
I wrapped up the child and ran.
Now it was spring,
the child was older now,
he still stayed with me
as we ran through the living forest,
this child's cheeks were bright red with the joy of running.
Spring fever wrapped him in warm, gentle, arms.
Then we ran into Summer,
how I do not know.
But that child was older,
and I was older,
he had blue eyes and blond hair,
and I never noticed until now.
We ran along the beach,
he splashed in the water
Summer fever took him up in her raging warmth.
Then it was fall,
and that child changed once again,
no longer happy
he walked instead, alone a lot,
without me.
His blue eyes seemed to darken,
and he was paling,
anyone could see that Autumn fever caught him in weakening arms,
and though he was beautiful,
he was dying.
Then winter came once more,
and we were back at that house.
That horrible house,
that now was just a pile of rubble,
and broken souls.
That child walked up to the house,
fell to his knees,
and died.
I ran up to him
winter trying to hold me back with cold winds,
all that was left
was his teddy bear.
Winter fever had crushed him in her cold grip,
and killed him.
I hugged the teddy bear.
I woke up,
disoriented by my dream,
my heart felt raw,
the death of a child,
something I never want to be reality,
ever.

There are a series of drafts
that blow fiercely through the gaps
of the home of creativity.
Cooling the efforts
of the imaginative fire,
so that it no longer grows or glows.
The home's strength is tested
by its own scarecrow,
who should be out with the crops
to discourage other birds,
that can stop new growth.
But the straw-man persists
with his unequal arguments.
Tampering with emotions
inciting the fire to risky proportions.
And so the home of creativity
burns itself down.
Because it's walls are too weak
that some straw-stuffed clown
can overstep it's boundaries
and raze it to the ground.

For the next two weeks he digs a grave.

He deftly wields a shovel
with hands that have forgotten
what it's like to hold the tools of life
He only knows what life is like
when he digs a hole for holy men
who have cheated others into strife
who have hurt their children, brothers, and sisters
who have made damaged wives
So for two weeks, he digs the hole deeper
than regulation states
for men who were mistakes.

The more time he spends digging
The more time the dead spend climbing

And they're always climbing
the ranks to be on top.
Falling again, bones breaking on impact
they just shake it off and start again.

He met one dead man who climbed to the top
with a light glowing where his eyes should be.
The dead man shuddered, bones rattling a song
of all the people he had wronged.
He was more bone than skin
More ghost than human
But he came back with sorrow on dried, discolored lips
and the grave digger wondered if
he could have redemption

For the next two weeks he digs a grave.

"I say it was the butler,"
And so the accusations begin.
They fly through the dining room
with their winged reasons
based on heresay and whims.
"It can't have been him.
He wasn't even there!"
A professor counters with snark.
Pointing out the other was wrong
for their own chance to glow.
"Well then it must've been the maid"
A woman in red counters
Glaring daggers like the ones
That get buried deep into trusting backs.
"Maybe it was one of you!
Looking for monetary gain!"
A man exclaims pointedly
Green overcoat buttoned tightly
as he perused the crowd unkindly.
"Everyone calm down!"
A gentleman speaks soothingly.
"Since we're speaking in clichés
I thought I'd put my two cents in."
the man inspects the body
and with dramatic flair
Announces:
"It was Colonel Mustard, in the dining room, with a rope."
And the fancy dressed group
Cried out in frustration.

But upon further inspection
of the victim dressed
in peacock blues and greens
yielded a braided rope pattern
surrounding her neck.
And it left them all to wonder,

"Who is Colonel Mustard?"

"I'm tired."
Whispered the moon,
her glow seemed to change,
to a ****** red.
"Come back!"
The ocean cried,
but the moon was fading,
and the ocean felt weak.
The wind sighed,
for the weary moon,
and trees bowed their heads.
"What's happening!"
A voice cried,
As the world was bathed
in an eerie red light,
the moon promised,
one little thing,
"I'll be back soon."

Say something witty
Don't lose your mind
Whatever you do
Always say that you're fine
Because people can't know
How you feel when the snow
Piles up too high
Where you can't see the sky
Don't say that word
That was all you heard
As people complained
About the sound of the bird
But now that bird is gone
Just as quick as dawn
And in the meadow full of snow
Lay a sleeping fawn
And everybody knows
How that story goes
When the innocent is left
To the hands of its foes
Without their protector
They are open
To all forms of attacks
That they will rope in
And I hate to see
Just how nature can be
Especially when I'm not speaking of
the nature of animals around me

My friend,
or so I thought.
Something great happened to me,
and she snaps
like im not allowed
to be happy.
What is wrong,
with my circle of friends.
We got rid of one,
that killed us
but now there's another
who just hates me.
Why is that,
I constantly ask.
Nobody believes me,
no one at all
and all of my friends
just love her.
But then I realized,
Why does it matter.
She shouldn't matter,
not at all
shes not happy for me,
so why should I
be happy for her?

I used to think 24 hours was a lot
but then I became sad.
It used to be an hour of sadness
that would blend into a few more.
But I could always get through it,
turn it around,
and enjoy life.

A few years go by
and the sadness took up more time.
A few hours
turned into school hours.
But when I got home
I could turn it around,
and enjoy life.

A year goes by
and the sadness took up more time
School hours
turned into day hours.
When the sun shone
my smile froze
into a sculpture of the real thing.
But when the sun went down
I could turn it around
and enjoy life.

Days go by
and the sadness took up more time.
Day hours
turned into night hours.
I could hardly sleep
as my brain, my chest, it won't let me.
But in that one hour of dawn,
I could turn things around
and enjoy life.

Hours go by
and the sadness takes up more time
24 hours
turn into 48, 72, 96 hours
There is no reprieve.
There is no new day.
Time means nothing to sadness.
It's consuming
and I can't turn it around
to enjoy life
because there is no more time.