For many years,
I didn't own a
television.
I didn't want one.
The news gave me
anxiety, and most of
the movies were
horrible.
Bad actors,
terrible acting
and predictable plots.

I wasn't buying any
of it.

My Dad loved
watching movies.
He often used the word,
contrived
when summarizing them.

I remember watching
The Grapes of Wrath
with him.
After the movie, Dad talked
about leaving in his will,
a list of his ten favorite
movies for his seven kids
to watch sometime.
He wanted us to know
him better.

He forgot about it and died
a few years later.
I always thought Dad had
too much faith in mankind.
But, after watching The Grapes
of Wrath again, maybe he
didn't.
I hope we all live until
we die.

Man craves reassurance,
I am nothing different to that.
We assemble groups of people to agree with us,
That the light doesn't just go out.
As if life were a dying lightbulb,
On an old lamp.
The kind that sits on my grandparents coffee table,
My family doesn't worship a symbol or God,
Will the light go out on them?
I believe in the man named God,
But we do not often talk,
My prayers are crude and unrefined.
Is that enough,
To keep the light on,
For a little long?
I fear not,
We will weep,
Becoming brittle.
People mourning shatter into shards,
For them, death is too far,
For them,
Death is the final friend.

The torn wings of a butterfly,                                                       ­                             
                                   ­                                                                 ­              
never lets them truly
fly,                                                             ­                                             
                   ­                                                                 ­                                
The wind never feels the same
                                                            ­                                                            
  but a different beauty still
  remains                                                       ­                           
                                                                ­                                                  
Lackluster and so fragile,                                                         ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                         
   perhaps a little less
agile                                                            ­                            
                                                                ­                                                        
  I can still see their former
  light,                                                  ­                                
                                                                ­                                                      
  a beautiful butterfly in flight

Our caps flew like confetti.
Thank god I customized mine.
I'll keep it as a memento of all-nighters,
friendships formed in the academic trenches,
dismissive professors and group-project-tortures.

This isn’t another ‘drunk girl’ holiday, despite obvious similarities.
Our parents, sisters, brothers, and grandmothers are here.

We came in doe-eyed, holding overpriced planners,
and enough provisions for two year Mars missions.
We hoped to discover friends, decent Wi-Fi signals
and perhaps our adult selves.

Now we're holding diplomas, those future-proofing talismans.
Mine’s in molecular biophysics and biochemistry.
Which is wry, because when I was in high school,
my sister accused me of not knowing how to boil water.

I've been asked "What’s next?" a thousand times in the last month.
I have plans—but I was dying to shrug and say, “that’s tomorrow’s problem,” like I’ve spent major duckets, degree wise, but remain the ditzy blonde.
The standard graduate answer, I’ve heard, is "I dunno."
(though honestly, it’s a great answer).

Congratulations, all of you graduating overachievers out there—everywhere.
Go forth, be fabulous and find that next big dream.
Can you believe we actually did this?
Argh! I gotta go, someone wants another picture.
.
.
Songs for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Summer Wind by Robert Mosci
Tomorrow by Wings

Is it worth it to drive for five hours to the mountains, and then only stay for five minutes?
Is it worth it to be a genius, and then lose your mind ?
Is it worth it to lock yourself up, to be stronger, and then to feel like you can't feel?
Is it worth it to be trustworthy, just to have more responsibilities?

They call my name
Again.... and
Again and AGAIN
He walks in
And mimics
Their screeches
I don't look up
I say
I'm not sure if
you knew this, but
As of two seconds ago
I'm deaf.
He laughs, says
I've been deaf for years....

The ringing is loud.
I finally tell her
And it's like
Nothing
Happened.
I wonder if
She even
remembers.
(Of course she does)
The ringing is loud.
I was talking
to her the other day
I could hardly
Focus on
What she was
Saying
The ringing is loud
Before I could
Tell her
Every thing
Got
Out of whack
Jaw chattering
Always pacing
my contained
Area.
My contained
Thoughts
Songs and secrets
spinning in my head
The ringing is loud
And all the while
no one notices
Loud is the new
usual

I didn't hide it
But I don't want to find it
I do want to know what's in it
as long as I know how to write
these scribbles
after I read it
I don't want to think of
A book full of rules
When I read poetry