Soft rains and sunshine
white clouds and blue skies

green leaves
shaking trees

pretty birds
close suburbs

tall mountains
low plains

people
places

our pretty Earth is filled with many things.

How do we determine what is remembered of us?
How do we make it seem like we're kind?
How do we let our ghost linger for our loved ones?
How do we express ourselves on our tombstones?
How do we tell people new things we see?
How do you feel?
How is the rain going to sound and taste?
How do you let them move on without you?
How do we determine what is remembered of us?

I have not written in quite some time.
I have not jotted down my thoughts or committed to a rhyme.
But I think of poems each day,
of words spun with careful concentration.
I believe in the mind and its prowess,
and of the power I possess.
While I have taken a break,
I refuse to sit and stop,
for I am not done writing.

listening to music with my friend Liam is cathartic.
I write poetry and he edits photos.
What the artistic pair we are.

We sing and laugh as we talk of hues of different edits.
We chill with my dog and we dance to the beat.
We sway and sway as the minute's pass, almost like they faded too fast.
We sing to popular songs, old songs,
love songs, getting over you songs.
The genre's as colorful as the sky in a midwestern state.
R&B
Pop
Indie
Oldies
Alternative,
you name it, we listen to it.
I think we should all learn to  see the beauty in all genres of music and to realize
"It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over".

It's the third day of my junior year and I am filled with an unchecked anxiety.
I feel the fire from my brain licking at my hands, so much so that they must fiddle with something.
I thought it had gotten better, but I am so afraid.
All the time.

But don't misunderstand,
I love school, very much.

But I still cannot get over the fear of the worst happening.
Thoughts eating away at my heart, intrusive as ever.  

Your hand holding mine calms me.
However, I cannot keep you with me all day.
Thoughts of you help,
how you called me pretty and how if I can just make it through this period,
I can see you after.

I hate being so dependent on someone,
it is so scary to think that you might change your mind and that you might not want my hand holding yours, but someone else's instead.
I push these fears deep down because I don't want to scare you with how crazy I really am.

When did I become like this?
Where all I can think about is what you would do or say?
I'm afraid, so very afraid.

Being through the screen without you is hard.
I want to hold you and see you smile in front of me.
I want to brush your hair away from your face, even if you like it that way.
Your eyes are just so beautiful,
and I get lost in them so, so easily.
Even if you're not mine.
Still, almost 5 months later.
Looking through the screen and wanting you is the hardest thing I do.

Here it is,
one final day left of my peaceful, expectation-less existence.
Don´t get me wrong, dear reader, I´m quite excited for a new school year to begin.
However, I cannot help but to reflect on the time spent away from school in hopes of ending the pandemic.
My peers and I grew significantly during this time.
We faced being alone, like so many of us fear.
We sat and had tea with our demons in the dark.
We dressed like we wanted to and said what we thought.
And we became the children of quarantine.
And while we hated every minute of it, we knew it was necessary and we took the precautions some of our parents wouldn´t even take.
We defied the government,
we spoke up and decided we were done being bullied by those who demand our respect due to age.
We painted and sang and didn't care if it sounded atrocious to others, because it was ours
and ours alone.
I reflect on our final day,
and am a bit saddened by our loss of freedom and I do hope we don´t revert back to the facades that we put forth during school.
I have hope, however.
We are done hiding,
I believe in us.

I am starting to feel a little bit misled.
I wrote you a paragraph of how much we share and how much you mean to me and you only said you too.
You flirt with me and say all these pretty words about how I´m beautiful and I´m different.
But how does that compare to the heartbreak I feel when you didn´t say anything but those two words.
I pour my soul on words meant for you only to receive the most unenthusiastic response.
You asked me on a date yesterday after talking in quarantine for two months.
Does that mean you like me?
Or does it mean that you expect more from me than I am willing to give,
even when I told you I wanted that to be for someone special.
Is it different for you?
I know you've already given that to someone else, but do you expect to be mine?
And is that the only reason you're here?
I know I´ll never show you this as I write it close to midnight, but it hurts more than you´ll ever know.
You made me feel something after feeling numb for so long and am I expected to push those away when they´ve made me feel so human?
What should I do now?
With my broken heart and a text left on read?
How do I go about this now and not upset you?
It´s funny how I still don´t want to hurt you even after you've hurt me.
I will try to keep them at bay, but my walls are crumbling again and I just don't know what to do.

Stevie Nicks is known for being a witch.
She simply makes us curious.
Her vocals and lifestyle so rich,
shes truly glorious.

Lana Del Ray is, in fact, all the same.
She reminds us of a stormy coast.
She is an inspiring dame,
who always makes us feel the most.

Amy Winehouse was a true enchantress.
She sang chords of old times and new feelings.
A true soul huntress,
She gave us some great new meanings.

A little bit of witch,
can go a long way.
It can truly make us a devoted kitsch,
So let us begin to be mysterious and try to be our own way.

As I lay, staring at the ceiling dreading the day,
I reflect on how this is ¨normal¨ now.
Two months ago, I would have never guessed that I would be made to stay inside, rather than my usual complacency to stay inside.
I miss the feeling of the sun shining on my friends' faces as we laughed and walked home from school.
From seeing my friends laugh alongside an inside joke in the school cafeteria.
I long for the day of comfort where painting was my escape, and not my excuse from my house.
I feel completely, wholly trapped in a creation of my own.  
I decorated my room to the brim to take some space from the walls and to make my life feel like a fairytale,
now my paintings and drawings and pictures and trinkets suffocate me, and it is my fault alone.
My brother, however, seems to be thriving from this.
He´s always had more online friends, and from this, he has only been allowed to spend even more time with them.
I see him only when we have to do our schoolwork and at meals.
4 times a day, for 30 minutes a piece.
I feel alone in this house.
My only solace my dog and my backyard.
It is true that we are all mad here,
but
some
are
more
mad
than
o
t
h
e
r
s
.

I want you to take me to the river we visited as children.
I want to catch crawfish and play with rolly pollies.
We can talk about our dreams we had and how close we used to be.
If not a river,  what about the creek behind the house I used to live in,
the one where we cried when it was torn down.
I see you in the halls of this empty, full school.
I see you and I know you see me, but not even a nod is exchanged.
I want to go back to the beautiful times of our childhood where we played in the grass and fought over dolls.
I want to go back to when the biggest things on our mind were when we would get to see each other again.
I want to relive the jokes and revive the laughs.
I miss the river when you would take me there.

How I adore the odd ends of time and the weird night hours that accompany them.
In the waking hours of just before sunrise,
and the blissful night quiet.
The things we think, and how we dream.
The odd ends of time are truly, in the purest form,
peculiar.

There are many things I find beautiful:

Boys who love flowers,

children laughing,

flower crowns.

Drawings on wrists,

shimmery eyeshadow,

dainty jewelry,

worn pictures,

hands covered in acrylic paint,

but all the while,
nothing can compare to you, love.
For you, are the greatest beauty of all.

All I can give,
I've already given to you.
But our love isn't storybook, it's friendship, and a platonic one.
I know this may seem as a bit of a surprise and unorthodox,
but it is ours nonetheless.
I gave you my secrets in exchange for yours.
I gave you my ear for a hug.
I gave you my heart as a token of my favor towards you, and you gave the same.
We are each other's best friends, and that is bliss.
And though I may only show you this on your birthday, maybe, and I sit here writing this as you sit next to me in history, I know you feel the same.
I gave you all I could give,
and you gave me all I could ever want.

I love to dance among the wildflowers and hear their voices of beauty.
Their swaying in the wind as they dance alongside me
is quite inviting.
They weave in and out if the wind,
winding down into petals adrift.
I pick a few and feel the weight of a life on Earth taken by my hand.
So, in turn, I weave a crown of flowers, one of many colors.
I place them on my head and call out to the faeries and they Fea.
I hear giggles and feel their presence.
I scream to take me away, and they do.
But only in my mind do they come to me,
and then I open my eyes.
I'm not in a field of wildflowers,
but in a dream all my own.

"I will give you my glory if you promise to give me your heart."
I sang these words to you through fervent texts.
Fingers danced rapidly trying to make you understand the position you put my feelings in.
My fickle feelings are a thing to be hated.
A thing to love nonetheless.
You said you only wanted a good time, nothing more than a silly summer spree.
Nothing more to you, so it shouldn't be more to me.
Oh lover,
This is not my intention but I must lose you,
for my glory is worth more than a knowingly ending bliss of nothing
that would cost everything.

Listening to raindrops is oddly soothing.
The loud claps of thunder through a murky sky a melody from the gods.
Lightning a fast portrait of fire.
While I sit and listen to the lazy rain run to meet the thirsty ground,
I ponder aimlessly in my mindscape.

Thoughts of loved ones long gone and new crushes to caress.
I stare at the drawings on my hands and wrists and wonder if I might become something for art by art.
I write this and feel like I want to be a writer.

Then I fall back into my consciousness, and realize,
I
CAN
BE
EVERY
SINGLE
ONE.
Raindrops brought new radicle and raking thoughts.
I or one, am grateful to the rain for letting me listen in on its raindrops and dewdrops.

Lovely poets are among my favorite types of people.
Truly fascinating, however, is how many reside here.
Warm comments and personal add-ons to all my poems.
They make me feel as if my stories spun have impacts on them,
and a truly wonderous feeling it is.
Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder.
I've beheld beauty of natures unimaginable,
but this,
this,
is truly something to be revered.
Lovely poets
are truly underrated.

I am friends with my demons,
for they know me better than most.
Swirling black masses,
of contempt and understanding.

They know the pain,
and the places it takes me.
For they see,
the disdain.

I am friends with my demons,
for people are scarier.

They called her a witch for she was charming.
She wore black lace and old perfume.
She had a black cat because she knew they didn't cause bad luck.
She listened to Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac.
She had a collection of big hats and feather boas.
She had candles and books galore, filling the empty spaces in her heart with fantastic stories of make-believe places.
She smelled of sandalwood and roses.
Her favorite season was fall, her favorite flavor pumpkin spice.
She was a child of the moon, and she knew it.
She found peace on this website with other children of the stars, one being you.

Roses drawn on hands, on arms, and on cuffs of jeans.
Stars encircle wrists,
like constellations.
Little quotes and lovers' names.
Small remembrances and inside jokes galore.
Vines, plant and meme alike.
But little drawn roses are my favorite.

The letters never sent are the hardest ones to write.
They burn on shelves where or they sit and radiate emotion from drawers.
We fill them with the things left unsaid or to clarify those opinions voiced.
We either cry or smile or feel fear as we pen them,
much like how we write our collective stories in poetry.

As we write, we are taken away.
We may be in a coffee shop,
or our rooms,
or like me, in the middle of school.
But when we display our feelings on paper things, we go into our mind-space.

Our letters never sent dripping in passion.
Saturated with our shared feelings and remembered embraces.
Of the feverish past and the heat-wrenching present.
They can be poetic and charming, but have a sharper edge of a fast mind and slow hand.

Our letters never sent are precious, so I think we should send them.

What does it mean to be truly alive?

Is it the glittering tales of love and its rose-colored glasses?
Or can it be the solitary solidity that we find in special relationships, both platonic and romantic?

What about the stories spun to entrance us into their mystifying glory?
Or is it the memories of those who have so greatly influenced us?

What will it feel like?

Will it be the brush of delicate fingertips between lovers?
Or will it be the sacred, shared smiles of siblings?

What about the tapping away at a keyboard to express our bountiful desires and ambitions?
What about the feel of paper as our eyes dance hurriedly to finish a captivating story?


Even though I am young and have not experienced the world like the wise seniors before me, I believe I have captured in my mind what it means to be truly alive.

I believe it is the stories and the dancing and the singing and the smiles and all the little moments we have so much of but do not think are important.
These little momentous moments are what make us human.
The little pieces of others we collect that harm and heal us.

I believe being truly alive is what makes us human.

A recent, heartbreaking conversation with my father has brought me to realize something.
We are who others perceive us.


If we are wary of the world and its people from our past experiences, we are seen as closed off and rude.
If we have ore friends of the opposite gender, we are flirty.
If we are smart and aiming to help, we are stuck up and a teacher's pet.
If we don't have many friends, we are weird and outcasts.


But these aren't true.
They are mere assumptions based on the superficials seeing's of our "superiors".


If we are wary of the world and its people from our past experiences, we are looking for more genuine people.
If we have ore friends of the opposite gender, we are just making friends with people we are comfortable around.
If we are smart and aiming to help, we are kind and supportive.
If we don't have many friends, we are seeing the truth behind the pretty lies.

We are not what others see us, we are who WE are and who WE want us to be.