This is what I want
A little house with an a frame top
And giant colored strands of lights in every window
With a huge tree , too big most definitely for the room
And a ridiculous mixture of old and new just covering the walls

I want wallpaper
Peeling from the walls
As though it almost hurts it to remain stuck on so hard
And I want it so be intricately ugly and old an’ discolored
In a cozy way

I want to live on a street of little houses
With potluck suppers
Small gardens that are improperly tended
Maybe with some oregano spread throughout

I want a little cozy life
With a tall cozy boy
We can pick our oregano and our turnips
Cook us a stew
Peel the onions
Like the wallpaper from our little walls

I want a Polaroid camera
So I can take instant pictures that I cannot regret
That I can keep in a tin beneath my bed
Forever they will stay etched

I want to ride trains everywhere
Sitting in my seat
Glaring out at the window at the little houses
With A-frame tops
Yellowing lights
Covered in that glinting snow

Today the snowflakes looked like real flakes
Like the ones you cut out of paper
And hang on the wall of your dorm
To cover up the stains and cracks
In the yellowing paint
As is peels from the wall
Like my dream wallpaper

The wind in Buffalo makes me cry
From my right eye
My wrong one just sits and wonders
“What makes the right one so weak?
It is just a little storm,
Why can’t the right ones just hang in there?
Without drowning us in their sorrows…

I have been given
The eyes that
See the world so
Differently than others.
But not blessed
The tongue to
Describe how I experience.
It's almost as if
I see things
Through a lense,
Almost seems as
If life is a beautiful film.
Maybe there is a glitch
In my head.
I see beauty in
The simplest things.
I can see the beauty in
Earth's most
Magnificent creations,
To the point
Where it's almost
Spiritual.
I can feel magic
When my skin
Touches the earth
And the breeze blows
Gently against my body,
Flowing through every
Strand of hair.
I feel extreme bliss
When the sun warms
The surface and
Rain cools it.
When I feel
Mud
Sand
Grass
Moss
Stone
Under my feet,
I feel complete.
I can feel magic
When I'm dancing
In creeks
And
Swimming in natural water.
Swimming.
Beautiful swimming.
When I'm emerged in the water,
I feel free.
The closest I'll ever get to flying.
I can even feel
The magic through my eyes,
As though my eyes
Drink up sights and
Relish in them.
This is a blessing I know,
For I find joy
I've never felt before
When I'm with nature.
This is also a curse,
For I cannot share
It with anyone.
Maybe someone feels
A similar way,
But I don't think anyone truly experiences the same as me.
No one can feel the
Extreme pleasure of
The world the same way I can.
I can't even explain
Well enough for
Anyone to understand.
And this brings me deep sadness.

The mind of that girl is a pain sanctuary
whose aching decreases due to a world that's imaginary.

From home she goes out to get away,
and all those nights in stranges she relies.

The soft morning breeze
tenderly dries the tears in her cheeks,
and childishly it peeks
through her bloodshot eyes looking for a trace of peace.

Nobody could really tell
if she, bones and flesh, is still alive
or if she's just a wanderer ghost.
Probably the only one of her kind.

The dark circles under her eyes
are a proof of the restless crying nights.

The tangled auburn messed up hair
tells she didn't sleep at home, but no one cares.

Picking up flowers on the way back home,
humming songs that once made her feel whole.
She rests for a few hours and once awake she grabs a pen,
she writes down a poem before she gets drunk again.

Somehow she finds calm
in the simple things of life,
and she tries not to think
about the coldness in her eyes.

Barely getting through, day by day,
trying not to be absorbed by all the grey.

Amassing countless heartbeats
to the final point where life she quits.

there are so many of you
that i would love to sit down with;
maybe over a milkshake and a plate of fries;
and just talk.
i want to ask you about the boy that hurt you,
about the anger you feel deep inside
over a father who said he’d come back...
and then didn’t.
i want to run with you through pages of words and say
“oh that’s right, what a lovely metaphor.”
i want to see all your smiling faces and
thank each and every one of you for showing me kindness,
for saving my life.
i want to collaborate on novels of poetry
and laugh with you through the tears of our pasts.
so until we sip those milkshakes and eat those fries...
thank you, to
some of the most beautiful people i have never met.