"granola" poems - Hello Poetry

"granola" poems

Purple, blue, pink, and green, Waves of color fill the room. Crisp cold air, We hide beneath the walls of blankets. Words spoken twice, Spastic moments. Hilarious pictures pinned to boards, giggles shatter late night silence. Tanks with treasure spilling over, Fish swimming back and forth. Cereal, and sometimes milk, Wait to be eaten. Movie nights, and roommate dinners, Granola hostages, and hidden peanut butter. All these things define who we are, Roommates.

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Nov 9, 2012

Nov 9, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC

Purple, blue, pink, and green, Waves of color fill the room. Crisp cold air, We hide beneath the walls of blankets. Words spoken twice, Spastic moments. Hilarious pictures pinned to boards, giggles shatter late night silence. Tanks with treasure spilling over, Fish swimming back and forth. Cereal, and sometimes milk, Wait to be eaten. Movie nights, and roommate dinners, Granola hostages, and hidden peanut butter. All these things define who we are, Roommates.

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It was the winter of 2009, 14 inches of snow had fallen overnight. It was the most I had seen in years, since when I was 3 years old living in Kalama. My siblings and I as soon as we saw the snow rushed into our heavy winter coats and overall snow pants with mittens and caps to cover the gaps. Then we raced outside moving like marshmellows with our golden labrador with us. Determined. we laid the first angels of the snow and created the first snowman of the season. The snow man didn't have buttons for eyes or a carrot nose. He had stones for eyes and a smile and ears made of granola bars and peanut butter pinecones for hair. Our mom named it the birdfeeder snowman. But our fat old goldfinch labrador ate him before the birds could ever get to snack.

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Dec 17, 2012

Dec 17, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC

The Goldfinch Labrador

It was the winter of 2009, 14 inches of snow had fallen overnight. It was the most I had seen in years, since when I was 3 years old living in Kalama. My siblings and I as soon as we saw the snow rushed into our heavy winter coats and overall snow pants with mittens and caps to cover the gaps. Then we raced outside moving like marshmellows with our golden labrador with us. Determined. we laid the first angels of the snow and created the first snowman of the season. The snow man didn't have buttons for eyes or a carrot nose. He had stones for eyes and a smile and ears made of granola bars and peanut butter pinecones for hair. Our mom named it the birdfeeder snowman. But our fat old goldfinch labrador ate him before the birds could ever get to snack.

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A generation navigating illusionment: I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking a plastic basket. Round - and channel mouths spout a wire crosshatch. I Tap Against My palm. Fine flour lands on the counter and In my head I listen to the same songs because I already know the words. I look for a truth outside my mind because on weekdays I tell myself I’m not worth knowing. How do you stop hating yourself When you hate yourself because You hate yourself? When I slide my hand across the counter, White flour mist puffs and I listen: Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s surviving on ***** almonds, and granola bars. Grasped in some five fingers A thin red handle.

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Apr 10, 2020

Apr 10, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC

A generation navigating illusionment: I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking a plastic basket. Round - and channel mouths spout a wire crosshatch. I Tap Against My palm. Fine flour lands on the counter and In my head I listen to the same songs because I already know the words. I look for a truth outside my mind because on weekdays I tell myself I’m not worth knowing. How do you stop hating yourself When you hate yourself because You hate yourself? When I slide my hand across the counter, White flour mist puffs and I listen: Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s surviving on ***** almonds, and granola bars. Grasped in some five fingers A thin red handle.

Continue reading...

when I was seven years old my family started going to a Christian church and all I thought about was how the pews that we sat in would have done more for God as trees and they said to love our neighbors because God wanted us to love our neighbors but I love my neighbor because his windows are lit up at 4 AM a time when only the miserable are concious and yet he always smiles at the postman when I was thirteen years old I visited a Buddhist temple with my friend she showed me how to meditate but sitting so still made my skin crawl and she told me about karma but I wasn't sure what it was that my little sister did to get bad enough karma to die at nine years old she only ever left out granola bar wrappers and sometimes forgot to say "thank you" but karma sent her a drunk driver I never understood religion the only temple I ever felt at home in was the hand of my lover and I never felt the presence of God but I felt the anguish of my postman as my neighbor began to lose that light in his eyes and I may have never read the bible but I've run my fingers across a thousand trees and they guide me when I am lost I never beleived in a higher power but I believe in my sister who used to pick at threads on her church dress and to my mothers dismay ruffled up her perfectly curly hair no God would **** her

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Jan 15, 2014

Jan 15, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC

The Postman Came To Her Funeral

when I was seven years old my family started going to a Christian church and all I thought about was how the pews that we sat in would have done more for God as trees and they said to love our neighbors because God wanted us to love our neighbors but I love my neighbor because his windows are lit up at 4 AM a time when only the miserable are concious and yet he always smiles at the postman when I was thirteen years old I visited a Buddhist temple with my friend she showed me how to meditate but sitting so still made my skin crawl and she told me about karma but I wasn't sure what it was that my little sister did to get bad enough karma to die at nine years old she only ever left out granola bar wrappers and sometimes forgot to say "thank you" but karma sent her a drunk driver I never understood religion the only temple I ever felt at home in was the hand of my lover and I never felt the presence of God but I felt the anguish of my postman as my neighbor began to lose that light in his eyes and I may have never read the bible but I've run my fingers across a thousand trees and they guide me when I am lost I never beleived in a higher power but I believe in my sister who used to pick at threads on her church dress and to my mothers dismay ruffled up her perfectly curly hair no God would **** her

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A large red elephant jumped on the trampoline. Somewhere in the distance a blue eyed babe cried. Rednecks clad in Paul Bunyan shirts inhaled the fumes of their barbecues. Moving gracefully, a trapeze dancer tip-toed across the river. My wife slumbered on our couch, And wind blew a kite out of my hands. I fed a goat nectar from my hands. A crowd encircled the trampoline. My family purchased a new couch, And later that day we helplessly cried. Our wailing could not be heard across the river, Where rednecks continued to inhale the fumes of their barbecues. Neighbors massed to celebrate barbecues. I looked down at my blood stained hands, Then joined the beautiful trapeze dancer across the river. My red elephant broke the trampoline And we were surrounded by infinite crying. Nobody sat on the new couch. Many problems arrived with the new couch; There weren’t any more barbecues, And my teeth crunched on granola as we cried. Silky fabric embraced my hands. Ingrid, my wife, dies on the trampoline. She was buried across the river. Some guy drank all the water from the river, And started living on our couch. Who would have thought I met lily on the trampoline, And who would have thought I took up barbecues. Now I felt warmth on the back of my hand And I no longer cried. Only the winter wind cried, Howling over Ingrid’s grave across the river. I slapped an elephant carcass with my hand, Proceeding to cook it with salt and pepper on the couch. I bored my wife with barbecues So she went to jump on they trampoline. Lily died on the trampoline; I always cried. No longer did I host barbecues, the wind continued to howl across the river. I gutted the couch, and killed myself with the back of my hand.

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Dec 17, 2013

Dec 17, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC

claudia-shaldervan

A large red elephant jumped on the trampoline. Somewhere in the distance a blue eyed babe cried. Rednecks clad in Paul Bunyan shirts inhaled the fumes of their barbecues. Moving gracefully, a trapeze dancer tip-toed across the river. My wife slumbered on our couch, And wind blew a kite out of my hands. I fed a goat nectar from my hands. A crowd encircled the trampoline. My family purchased a new couch, And later that day we helplessly cried. Our wailing could not be heard across the river, Where rednecks continued to inhale the fumes of their barbecues. Neighbors massed to celebrate barbecues. I looked down at my blood stained hands, Then joined the beautiful trapeze dancer across the river. My red elephant broke the trampoline And we were surrounded by infinite crying. Nobody sat on the new couch. Many problems arrived with the new couch; There weren’t any more barbecues, And my teeth crunched on granola as we cried. Silky fabric embraced my hands. Ingrid, my wife, dies on the trampoline. She was buried across the river. Some guy drank all the water from the river, And started living on our couch. Who would have thought I met lily on the trampoline, And who would have thought I took up barbecues. Now I felt warmth on the back of my hand And I no longer cried. Only the winter wind cried, Howling over Ingrid’s grave across the river. I slapped an elephant carcass with my hand, Proceeding to cook it with salt and pepper on the couch. I bored my wife with barbecues So she went to jump on they trampoline. Lily died on the trampoline; I always cried. No longer did I host barbecues, the wind continued to howl across the river. I gutted the couch, and killed myself with the back of my hand.

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Granola pattering between my teeth. Rain crunching beneath my feet. Wait a minute... Was that what it ought to be?

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Oct 2, 2018

Oct 2, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC

Granola pattering between my teeth. Rain crunching beneath my feet. Wait a minute... Was that what it ought to be?

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The officer said it was illegal but I've never been punished thusfar. I knew it was wrong, but desire consumed me. I grabbed the man and dragged him into my van. He screamed and I laughed. Brutal company. It was going to hurt, of that I was certain. His lack of consent did not stop me. I was on a mission, and James Bond always thrives. I got in and drove as fast and as far as I could. Speed bumps bring my daughter joy. She giggles, I smile, he writhes in pain. My smile grows. A pain bubbles in my clavicle but I digress. But, I don't digress because it HURT. I locked the angels in my closet for safe keeping. My mother is proud. Blood is my favorite accessory. Hashtag period. My friend always said I was cunning but I never believed her father was a good man. After all, a good man would never commit such acts. I threw the empty toilet paper roll at his grave then shouted at his wife's cat. Meow. Meow, meow. Meow. It sings the song of the hummingbird so I put it in a collar and walk it to the pound. The pound sings the song of death, my song. My student tool box is full of unfortunate goodies, and yes, my English teacher approves. But I would rather she not. This is my journey, not one I shall share. I aggressively slap the keys of life, hoping yogurt will seep from the cracks of destiny. It never does, and I starve. My granola is friendless. Life is bitter, like the skin of a plum. Fierce as a seahorse. But again, I digress.

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Nov 13, 2013

Nov 13, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC

The Saucy Platter of Faith

The officer said it was illegal but I've never been punished thusfar. I knew it was wrong, but desire consumed me. I grabbed the man and dragged him into my van. He screamed and I laughed. Brutal company. It was going to hurt, of that I was certain. His lack of consent did not stop me. I was on a mission, and James Bond always thrives. I got in and drove as fast and as far as I could. Speed bumps bring my daughter joy. She giggles, I smile, he writhes in pain. My smile grows. A pain bubbles in my clavicle but I digress. But, I don't digress because it HURT. I locked the angels in my closet for safe keeping. My mother is proud. Blood is my favorite accessory. Hashtag period. My friend always said I was cunning but I never believed her father was a good man. After all, a good man would never commit such acts. I threw the empty toilet paper roll at his grave then shouted at his wife's cat. Meow. Meow, meow. Meow. It sings the song of the hummingbird so I put it in a collar and walk it to the pound. The pound sings the song of death, my song. My student tool box is full of unfortunate goodies, and yes, my English teacher approves. But I would rather she not. This is my journey, not one I shall share. I aggressively slap the keys of life, hoping yogurt will seep from the cracks of destiny. It never does, and I starve. My granola is friendless. Life is bitter, like the skin of a plum. Fierce as a seahorse. But again, I digress.

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The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise) Summoned for to break the fast of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last, As the clock to noon draws nigh, I happily paddle off to the cabinet Where the cereals that I CHOSE, Since I am now a grownup, faithfully await, calm and in repose. The refrigerator, in nearby proximity, sources a Stony-field yogurt,, A yogurt that I CHOSE, light and sweet with processed fruit, due to the miracle of Aspartame. Distracted, back to the kitchen for Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast, Which I prefer dry (no butter) and ready for anointing with oils of Strawberry jelly. To the table return ready to sound The horn of plenty, When I see the **** Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again! Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher* The nefarious fairies guard my health tho nobody asked them too! My Crispix, with its malty sweetness, And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins," has been smothered neath layers of Granola, with cranberries and nuts, Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon. My processed yogurt, vanished, without a trace, replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace, which is in Greece, who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses, Even when littered with blueberries, Nothing can replace the taste of my Artificial Sweetener! Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath A tribute of fattening butter, rationalized by a commonality, "Everything is better with butter..." The last indignity is that my coffee, Not the light brown I cherish When kissed by whole milk, Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named, Cause they skim off all the taste. Because they are fairies, With fluttering wings, Hasty retreat they beat, But I know where they hide. The next time it be for the morning meal, I will eat it in bed, far from their kitchen hiding places, And celebrate my heroics with original Frosted Flakes and milk, And extra sugar just for spite! The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow, Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter, Won't get nary a bite, Until they they return the poems they stole From my midnight dreams.

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Jun 1, 2013

Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC

The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)

The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise) Summoned for to break the fast of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last, As the clock to noon draws nigh, I happily paddle off to the cabinet Where the cereals that I CHOSE, Since I am now a grownup, faithfully await, calm and in repose. The refrigerator, in nearby proximity, sources a Stony-field yogurt,, A yogurt that I CHOSE, light and sweet with processed fruit, due to the miracle of Aspartame. Distracted, back to the kitchen for Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast, Which I prefer dry (no butter) and ready for anointing with oils of Strawberry jelly. To the table return ready to sound The horn of plenty, When I see the **** Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again! Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher* The nefarious fairies guard my health tho nobody asked them too! My Crispix, with its malty sweetness, And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins," has been smothered neath layers of Granola, with cranberries and nuts, Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon. My processed yogurt, vanished, without a trace, replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace, which is in Greece, who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses, Even when littered with blueberries, Nothing can replace the taste of my Artificial Sweetener! Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath A tribute of fattening butter, rationalized by a commonality, "Everything is better with butter..." The last indignity is that my coffee, Not the light brown I cherish When kissed by whole milk, Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named, Cause they skim off all the taste. Because they are fairies, With fluttering wings, Hasty retreat they beat, But I know where they hide. The next time it be for the morning meal, I will eat it in bed, far from their kitchen hiding places, And celebrate my heroics with original Frosted Flakes and milk, And extra sugar just for spite! The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow, Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter, Won't get nary a bite, Until they they return the poems they stole From my midnight dreams.

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there in the wilderness all things go to live and all things go to die. she stole my shirt and hatchet and took to the woods. hacked out the heart. traded one wilderness for another. city into trees. she needed to breathe and wring wet socks, relax, and study the mycelium songs underfoot. she she she, like a marvelous new love. the grass and green stuff woven. canteen replete with wheat nectar or half-batch whiskey. needs nutrient, the seed so new. needs space, the daughter as she grew. what tempest breaks the trees and old heads of mother timber? perhaps deep-winter, to test the fiber of a florescent forest fleek. she built a chikee from fallen arms of a sprucewood soul, drank water from a clay-thrown bowl and granola to heat her bones. new fish. the river is cold on glacier blood. new day, driven beyond the random access roads & cobalt blast-holes stretching gulches bloomed in chaparral. up they crawl along monumental spine and shoulder, giants sleeping. she she she, live a marvelous new love. the wonder is seen. the wilderness lived and remembered by girl or elk bugling their high-decibel poems when ready.

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Mar 1, 2015

Mar 1, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC

there in the wilderness all things go to live and all things go to die. she stole my shirt and hatchet and took to the woods. hacked out the heart. traded one wilderness for another. city into trees. she needed to breathe and wring wet socks, relax, and study the mycelium songs underfoot. she she she, like a marvelous new love. the grass and green stuff woven. canteen replete with wheat nectar or half-batch whiskey. needs nutrient, the seed so new. needs space, the daughter as she grew. what tempest breaks the trees and old heads of mother timber? perhaps deep-winter, to test the fiber of a florescent forest fleek. she built a chikee from fallen arms of a sprucewood soul, drank water from a clay-thrown bowl and granola to heat her bones. new fish. the river is cold on glacier blood. new day, driven beyond the random access roads & cobalt blast-holes stretching gulches bloomed in chaparral. up they crawl along monumental spine and shoulder, giants sleeping. she she she, live a marvelous new love. the wonder is seen. the wilderness lived and remembered by girl or elk bugling their high-decibel poems when ready.

Continue reading...

Each night she pretends a wholesome guy will shuffle alongside on the sidewalk and gently bump her shoulder. Wholesome guys are good in the morning like high-fiber granola, and easy on the eyes with rumpled curls resting against eyes void of blood lines. A wholesome fellow knows what he wants − her. Her wholesome guy is adorned with blue denim and passion spilling from his crotch. Her wholesome lover lights candles on her birthday; burns his way into her heart. As they grow old together she becomes his memory, while his memories are sprinkled with images of her beauty.

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Dec 31, 2013

Dec 31, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC

william-a-poppen

A Wholesome Guy

Each night she pretends a wholesome guy will shuffle alongside on the sidewalk and gently bump her shoulder. Wholesome guys are good in the morning like high-fiber granola, and easy on the eyes with rumpled curls resting against eyes void of blood lines. A wholesome fellow knows what he wants − her. Her wholesome guy is adorned with blue denim and passion spilling from his crotch. Her wholesome lover lights candles on her birthday; burns his way into her heart. As they grow old together she becomes his memory, while his memories are sprinkled with images of her beauty.

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I can't imagine how this looks Me, face of clay Silent windchime mouth Aquariam glass eyeballs Snowglobe life Swimming in glitter Tsunami at your hands Plastic toes stuck Until I lunge Eyes flare heat Stove top face Coiled brain Orange is the color I saw in you Finger painted pianos Mole rat grass You took my monocle Smashed glass in the garden Next to tulip bulbs That will grow in as your teeth Fingers on mice Like your genes Granola girls take paths I am glued, plastic feet You walk around me

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Jul 13, 2017

Jul 13, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC

I can't imagine how this looks Me, face of clay Silent windchime mouth Aquariam glass eyeballs Snowglobe life Swimming in glitter Tsunami at your hands Plastic toes stuck Until I lunge Eyes flare heat Stove top face Coiled brain Orange is the color I saw in you Finger painted pianos Mole rat grass You took my monocle Smashed glass in the garden Next to tulip bulbs That will grow in as your teeth Fingers on mice Like your genes Granola girls take paths I am glued, plastic feet You walk around me

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She is cottage cheese, not yet aged her mad lover, I am ready to go great lengths in any which way that suits to enhance her taste, making her variously pleasing to the palate . I'll be fruit and sugar or else salt and pepper, all I want is to blend and bond completely with her, if she is good with granola and cinnamon, why not? have no doubt, I am that in a minute, an all weather partner.

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Mar 17, 2016

Mar 17, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC

If she is cottage cheese....

She is cottage cheese, not yet aged her mad lover, I am ready to go great lengths in any which way that suits to enhance her taste, making her variously pleasing to the palate . I'll be fruit and sugar or else salt and pepper, all I want is to blend and bond completely with her, if she is good with granola and cinnamon, why not? have no doubt, I am that in a minute, an all weather partner.

Continue reading...

Morning the alarm goes off I wake up I turn it off I go back to sleep My mom or dad comes in they wake me back up I lie in bed for 10 more minutes then I get up I go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror I sigh... I pretend to wash my face I go back to my room I stare at my closet and decide what I'm going to wear I get dressed I go down stairs I eat one of the following items: oat meal -Chocolate chip -Maple brown sugar -apple cinnamon Whole wheat bagel with almond butter, peanut butter, cinnamon, and/or jam cereal if there are any good options -Peanut butter bumpers -GOOD granola -organic chocolate ***** with coconut milk toast with the same things as bagels I say good morning to parents I argue with my sister I drink my orange juice eat my vitamins bring my stuff up to the sink go up stairs I lie on my bed I go into the bathroom I brush my teeth I go downstairs I pack my backpack I pick out some shoes I yawn I go to school School I go to advisory We play cake(a game) First class I space out I draw pictures unless that class is of the following: PE Writing lab (if it's not about grammer or spelling) Art Music(Because all the string instruments make it impossible) I go to math I get too confused to know what the hell is going on I go to writing lab we write and then teacher goes into some speech about commas I go to french I have no idea what the teachers talking about I go to PE If we aren't playing soccer, basketball, dodgeball, batmitten, capture the flag, or volleyball than I **** Lunch Yay! I eat I talk I chill More classes Art I tell my teacher how much I love her outfit I read the board and I make art Music UGHHHH THE TEACHER IS SUCH A GRUMP!!! I listen to her yell at people I play my instrument Study Almost done with school I finish a bit of homework Going home (Or going nordic skiing) I get a snack I do homework I have dinner with the family I do more homework I get ready for bed I read I go to bed Every day is the same the weekend is just a bunch of chores hanging with friends some times and stay up late watching my favorite shows: Bones Glee CSI NY CONAN SNL Ugh I need a change.

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Jan 13, 2011

Jan 13, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC

Morning the alarm goes off I wake up I turn it off I go back to sleep My mom or dad comes in they wake me back up I lie in bed for 10 more minutes then I get up I go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror I sigh... I pretend to wash my face I go back to my room I stare at my closet and decide what I'm going to wear I get dressed I go down stairs I eat one of the following items: oat meal -Chocolate chip -Maple brown sugar -apple cinnamon Whole wheat bagel with almond butter, peanut butter, cinnamon, and/or jam cereal if there are any good options -Peanut butter bumpers -GOOD granola -organic chocolate ***** with coconut milk toast with the same things as bagels I say good morning to parents I argue with my sister I drink my orange juice eat my vitamins bring my stuff up to the sink go up stairs I lie on my bed I go into the bathroom I brush my teeth I go downstairs I pack my backpack I pick out some shoes I yawn I go to school School I go to advisory We play cake(a game) First class I space out I draw pictures unless that class is of the following: PE Writing lab (if it's not about grammer or spelling) Art Music(Because all the string instruments make it impossible) I go to math I get too confused to know what the hell is going on I go to writing lab we write and then teacher goes into some speech about commas I go to french I have no idea what the teachers talking about I go to PE If we aren't playing soccer, basketball, dodgeball, batmitten, capture the flag, or volleyball than I **** Lunch Yay! I eat I talk I chill More classes Art I tell my teacher how much I love her outfit I read the board and I make art Music UGHHHH THE TEACHER IS SUCH A GRUMP!!! I listen to her yell at people I play my instrument Study Almost done with school I finish a bit of homework Going home (Or going nordic skiing) I get a snack I do homework I have dinner with the family I do more homework I get ready for bed I read I go to bed Every day is the same the weekend is just a bunch of chores hanging with friends some times and stay up late watching my favorite shows: Bones Glee CSI NY CONAN SNL Ugh I need a change.

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The top of my head is open My scalp lays on the floor beside me It is open to the world Every germ and every human (if they are any different) But the gods drilled the holes in the tops of my skill To sip from my moods and my thoughts as they went on tropical vacations They cut me open to find me empty And to fill me again They shaved out the insides of my skull So they could sprinkle it onto their yogurt with granola And they left me to dry But I awoke with an ache of ruin in the back of my neck I went about my daily life I bought groceries I met with friends I chatted about politics But I couldnt help but feel a bit empty I took Advil to calm the pounding of my head It could not be avoided Until the day I looked up My brain was gone And the top of my head was left open And all I had now was the rest of the world filling it in. I did not need a brain.

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Jul 27, 2013

Jul 27, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC

Put the Lime in the Coconut

The top of my head is open My scalp lays on the floor beside me It is open to the world Every germ and every human (if they are any different) But the gods drilled the holes in the tops of my skill To sip from my moods and my thoughts as they went on tropical vacations They cut me open to find me empty And to fill me again They shaved out the insides of my skull So they could sprinkle it onto their yogurt with granola And they left me to dry But I awoke with an ache of ruin in the back of my neck I went about my daily life I bought groceries I met with friends I chatted about politics But I couldnt help but feel a bit empty I took Advil to calm the pounding of my head It could not be avoided Until the day I looked up My brain was gone And the top of my head was left open And all I had now was the rest of the world filling it in. I did not need a brain.

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Bonnie squeals as the cart soars past various boxes of cereals and granola bars. She glances at her brother, Clyde, expecting him to share her fright, but is bewildered to see that he is thrashing about in a fit of giggles, enjoying the thrill of the ride. Knuckles white as snow, Bonnie's frail little fingers grasp the side of the red cart with all of their might as her eyes clamp shut. Her heart beats faster than the speed of light, and she questions her motives for agreeing to Clyde's devilish ways. She reminisces on their earlier arrival at the Local Target. They had come with their mother, planning to do a little grocery shopping and then be on their way. Of course, Clyde had schemed up a way to stray from his mother's side unnoticed. Bonnie still can't fathom how he managed to drag her down with him. Cautiously, wind whipping through her hair, Bonnie peaks one eye open and instantly regrets it. She let's out an ear - piercing howl as the cart thrusts into a mountain of PopTart boxes large enough to be deemed the Empire State Building's father. She crawls out of the heap only to be met by an eruption of heartfelt laughter spewing from her brother's mocking lips. "You should have seen your face!" Clyde teases as Bonnie sends daggers through his skull. The two troublemakers step out of the cart and attempt to retrace the way back to their mother. Devastated, they come to the conclusion that the aisles now resemble a maze. As they confidently take on this new challenge and make their way through the unknown, their spirits quickly take a downward spiral upon realizing that they have ended up back where they began. Tired and desperately longing to go home, the two siblings reach a clearing past the aisles and are overjoyed to spy their mother waiting patiently in line at a register with a new cart in hand. Bonnie and Clyde casually lazy on over to their mother's side and make light conversation as if they had never left.

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Jun 15, 2015

Jun 15, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC

Bonnie and Clyde

Bonnie squeals as the cart soars past various boxes of cereals and granola bars. She glances at her brother, Clyde, expecting him to share her fright, but is bewildered to see that he is thrashing about in a fit of giggles, enjoying the thrill of the ride. Knuckles white as snow, Bonnie's frail little fingers grasp the side of the red cart with all of their might as her eyes clamp shut. Her heart beats faster than the speed of light, and she questions her motives for agreeing to Clyde's devilish ways. She reminisces on their earlier arrival at the Local Target. They had come with their mother, planning to do a little grocery shopping and then be on their way. Of course, Clyde had schemed up a way to stray from his mother's side unnoticed. Bonnie still can't fathom how he managed to drag her down with him. Cautiously, wind whipping through her hair, Bonnie peaks one eye open and instantly regrets it. She let's out an ear - piercing howl as the cart thrusts into a mountain of PopTart boxes large enough to be deemed the Empire State Building's father. She crawls out of the heap only to be met by an eruption of heartfelt laughter spewing from her brother's mocking lips. "You should have seen your face!" Clyde teases as Bonnie sends daggers through his skull. The two troublemakers step out of the cart and attempt to retrace the way back to their mother. Devastated, they come to the conclusion that the aisles now resemble a maze. As they confidently take on this new challenge and make their way through the unknown, their spirits quickly take a downward spiral upon realizing that they have ended up back where they began. Tired and desperately longing to go home, the two siblings reach a clearing past the aisles and are overjoyed to spy their mother waiting patiently in line at a register with a new cart in hand. Bonnie and Clyde casually lazy on over to their mother's side and make light conversation as if they had never left.

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This glass surface shows myself It shows how I look, how I twitch It shows my kinks and flaws I see how big I am, over run with fat I see how I wish I looked Eat an apple go on a run Eat fruits and veggies This glass surface shows myself It shows my face, my slight collar bone It shows my pale skin and dull hair I see I've gotten bigger, wider than before I see how I wish I looked Eat some granola maybe some water Skip a meal maybe two This glass surface shows myself It shows my ribs and my hips It shows my sullen face and jutting bones I see I'm still big, as fat as before I see how I wish I looked Fast today, Fast tomorrow Drink some water and have a ******* This glass surface shows myself It shows a skeleton with skin It shows my brown eyes, void of light I'm bigger than I'd ever thought was possible I no longer see how I wish I looked, just fat Fast today, Fast tomorrow Fast the next week and the week after Stop consuming stop the fat If you don't eat you can't gain Most people don't know this but only 1 out of 5 guys will be diagnosed with anorexia and 2 out of 3 girls will be diagnosed with anorexia. People think guys can't have it. Well truth be told they can and they do diagnose or not. People really do this, they hate them selves because a piece of glass said to. Society just fuels it. I'll be honest and say that this is true for me. ~<>~Jinxx~<>~

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Nov 29, 2014

Nov 29, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC

This glass surface shows myself It shows how I look, how I twitch It shows my kinks and flaws I see how big I am, over run with fat I see how I wish I looked Eat an apple go on a run Eat fruits and veggies This glass surface shows myself It shows my face, my slight collar bone It shows my pale skin and dull hair I see I've gotten bigger, wider than before I see how I wish I looked Eat some granola maybe some water Skip a meal maybe two This glass surface shows myself It shows my ribs and my hips It shows my sullen face and jutting bones I see I'm still big, as fat as before I see how I wish I looked Fast today, Fast tomorrow Drink some water and have a ******* This glass surface shows myself It shows a skeleton with skin It shows my brown eyes, void of light I'm bigger than I'd ever thought was possible I no longer see how I wish I looked, just fat Fast today, Fast tomorrow Fast the next week and the week after Stop consuming stop the fat If you don't eat you can't gain Most people don't know this but only 1 out of 5 guys will be diagnosed with anorexia and 2 out of 3 girls will be diagnosed with anorexia. People think guys can't have it. Well truth be told they can and they do diagnose or not. People really do this, they hate them selves because a piece of glass said to. Society just fuels it. I'll be honest and say that this is true for me. ~<>~Jinxx~<>~

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Twenty-somethings, homeless, but with perfect fashion, in muted greys and translucent lilacs sit outside Union Square. They have the coolest tattoos and the coolest carboard signs, all more transcendental and valuable than the sidewalk they sleep on. Some are tweaking, some are sleep, some lean and have spit dribbling from their burned lips as they drift into a coma, like war heroes. I want to give them a bowl of my homemade vegan chili. They can have cheese and sour cream, depending how righteous they are. I want to speak sweetly with their mothers while they prune geraniums along the cracked and faded sidewalk. I wont smoke in their parent's garage like an outcast uncle, or have more than one beer with dinner. The next day I’ll go back to the storefront to explain everything I've learned, over instant coffee and Entenmanns. This time it's their turn to share wisdom as 13th Street muscles from slumber, achy under the weight of lost bodegas and barbershops. I’ve been told every homeless person needs a sign, no matter what variation or breed. Some write a new message every day, some stick to one, but only a few don’t write anything at all. “Not even gonna lie: need money for bud.” The pulse behind the sign renders words irrelevant. The 500 year old Chinese woman captures the room like a drunk teenager. The oily scarecrow with a leather hat dances, rattling his tin can. Only occasionally will an assertive hungry hobo be satisfied with a granola bar in place of anything less than Jackson. “This is what it sounds like, when the doves cry.” Southern church bells ringing through dive bars filled with sinners.

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Oct 20, 2011

Oct 20, 2011 at 12:28 AM UTC

There's Always Someone Cooler Than You

Twenty-somethings, homeless, but with perfect fashion, in muted greys and translucent lilacs sit outside Union Square. They have the coolest tattoos and the coolest carboard signs, all more transcendental and valuable than the sidewalk they sleep on. Some are tweaking, some are sleep, some lean and have spit dribbling from their burned lips as they drift into a coma, like war heroes. I want to give them a bowl of my homemade vegan chili. They can have cheese and sour cream, depending how righteous they are. I want to speak sweetly with their mothers while they prune geraniums along the cracked and faded sidewalk. I wont smoke in their parent's garage like an outcast uncle, or have more than one beer with dinner. The next day I’ll go back to the storefront to explain everything I've learned, over instant coffee and Entenmanns. This time it's their turn to share wisdom as 13th Street muscles from slumber, achy under the weight of lost bodegas and barbershops. I’ve been told every homeless person needs a sign, no matter what variation or breed. Some write a new message every day, some stick to one, but only a few don’t write anything at all. “Not even gonna lie: need money for bud.” The pulse behind the sign renders words irrelevant. The 500 year old Chinese woman captures the room like a drunk teenager. The oily scarecrow with a leather hat dances, rattling his tin can. Only occasionally will an assertive hungry hobo be satisfied with a granola bar in place of anything less than Jackson. “This is what it sounds like, when the doves cry.” Southern church bells ringing through dive bars filled with sinners.

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Years. What does a year mean, when there seem to be so many? We read about them, cast them aside like old photos Nobody cares to see And you've already uploaded them so why does it matter? Occasionally we'll select a year and savor its memory, And it is the sweet, deep taste of 1997. Or was it '98...? Sometimes it's hard to tell, sometimes it doesn't matter. Years can be like lakes, small on a map but to the hapless swimmer, Boundless. We struggle to rationalize, to quantify, to measure But how do you really measure a year? How about love? Yeah but after we saw Rent together you didn't talk to me for a week, And when you did, It was to say that your mother was dying. It is with all this in mind That I see you from across the Deli section, head bowed, Trying to make the all-important decision Between one low-fat, sodium-free organic granola And another. I wonder what the years have done to you, How they've kept you company, Who they've dropped on your doorstep. My imagination fills in what occasional party encounters And awkward facebook birthday messages cannot. I pause for a moment- you've chosen your granola and moved on- And wonder if I should do the same. I do not know if you saw me, Or even if you would recognize me, But something keeps me from going up to you. It is the weight of years, and how they have put a silent barrier between us Deeper and wider than the biggest lake. And all those years, in forgotten photographs and smudged journal entries, Each one becomes a story of the people it changed, Of a woman in a grocery store And the man she used to love.

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Jan 14, 2011

Jan 14, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC

Years, Granola and Meditations on Memory

Years. What does a year mean, when there seem to be so many? We read about them, cast them aside like old photos Nobody cares to see And you've already uploaded them so why does it matter? Occasionally we'll select a year and savor its memory, And it is the sweet, deep taste of 1997. Or was it '98...? Sometimes it's hard to tell, sometimes it doesn't matter. Years can be like lakes, small on a map but to the hapless swimmer, Boundless. We struggle to rationalize, to quantify, to measure But how do you really measure a year? How about love? Yeah but after we saw Rent together you didn't talk to me for a week, And when you did, It was to say that your mother was dying. It is with all this in mind That I see you from across the Deli section, head bowed, Trying to make the all-important decision Between one low-fat, sodium-free organic granola And another. I wonder what the years have done to you, How they've kept you company, Who they've dropped on your doorstep. My imagination fills in what occasional party encounters And awkward facebook birthday messages cannot. I pause for a moment- you've chosen your granola and moved on- And wonder if I should do the same. I do not know if you saw me, Or even if you would recognize me, But something keeps me from going up to you. It is the weight of years, and how they have put a silent barrier between us Deeper and wider than the biggest lake. And all those years, in forgotten photographs and smudged journal entries, Each one becomes a story of the people it changed, Of a woman in a grocery store And the man she used to love.

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Randy was a roach Of the american cockroach variety He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine To his wings and antennae And he studied both of us From a perch in our suitcase In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment In the early hours of a sunday morning **** it! Get it out of the suitcase!" My girlfriend yelled Flailing her arms As Randy reclined on our valuables His antennae twitching As in most crisis I hesitated And Randy burrowed into the suitcase Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen I dug in a frenzy Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan And scattering clothes about All in the name of meaningless destruction But I couldn't find Randy "He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes" My girlfriend speculated And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence But I never found him And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean We speculated about Randy's Most likely devious activities "I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis" "I bet there is more than one in there" "Maybe he's dead?" "I bet he's laying eggs" We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin When we got to the room Past all the tin shacks and open air bars Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs Staring at the tourist shuttles That carted pale skin behind tinted windows To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans We opened the bag to see if Randy Had surfaced, died, or multiplied But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn But he never presented himself And we saw none of his foul brood We even unzipped the lining But Randy had simply vanished Evaporating into the humid, tropical air I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still That he has impregnated or has been impregnated That he spends his days under the intense sun And cottony wisps of clouds Sipping Presidente Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways Just like we were

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Jun 19, 2016

Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC

Randy was a roach Of the american cockroach variety He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine To his wings and antennae And he studied both of us From a perch in our suitcase In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment In the early hours of a sunday morning **** it! Get it out of the suitcase!" My girlfriend yelled Flailing her arms As Randy reclined on our valuables His antennae twitching As in most crisis I hesitated And Randy burrowed into the suitcase Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen I dug in a frenzy Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan And scattering clothes about All in the name of meaningless destruction But I couldn't find Randy "He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes" My girlfriend speculated And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence But I never found him And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean We speculated about Randy's Most likely devious activities "I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis" "I bet there is more than one in there" "Maybe he's dead?" "I bet he's laying eggs" We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin When we got to the room Past all the tin shacks and open air bars Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs Staring at the tourist shuttles That carted pale skin behind tinted windows To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans We opened the bag to see if Randy Had surfaced, died, or multiplied But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn But he never presented himself And we saw none of his foul brood We even unzipped the lining But Randy had simply vanished Evaporating into the humid, tropical air I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still That he has impregnated or has been impregnated That he spends his days under the intense sun And cottony wisps of clouds Sipping Presidente Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways Just like we were

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The dead often come to visit me. My favorite corpse a delightful copy of Something it used to be. He comes to my door and I embrace him He smells like aged formaldehyde under a coat Of strawberries and mints His front teeth are still spaced evenly Sed for one Hanging like a faulty Christmas tree light Right over his holiday red bottom lip If I could still kiss them I would tell him As sweetly as I ever did, “your lips are as soft as whale blubber.” The way they used to move around and in between mine Makes me think your mouth could have danced on Broadway And the crowd could have thrown up at its beloved star roses Only the petals would rub your lips too rough I would tell him, “baby I miss you.” And “I’m sorry I never returned your favorite book.” But in all fairness I think you have never returned anything of mine Not my favorite blouse, my grandmother’s portrait Not my heart. Not yet For it is little and porous and too dead to give to Someone one who is still alive I bet you keep it there in your back pocket Riddled with granola crumbs and sticky excrements of gum And maybe every other haunting you take it out Before sitting on it and you dust it off And kiss it. There is something sad about that. Having your lips touch things I can’t feel You might as well have ****** on my liver I wouldn’t feel that either. Come to me when you cannot rest in peace With pen and paper and too much coffee And in between cigarette puffs kiss the outside Parts of me I can feel.

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Oct 17, 2012

Oct 17, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC

hayley-neininger

The dead often come to visit me. My favorite corpse a delightful copy of Something it used to be. He comes to my door and I embrace him He smells like aged formaldehyde under a coat Of strawberries and mints His front teeth are still spaced evenly Sed for one Hanging like a faulty Christmas tree light Right over his holiday red bottom lip If I could still kiss them I would tell him As sweetly as I ever did, “your lips are as soft as whale blubber.” The way they used to move around and in between mine Makes me think your mouth could have danced on Broadway And the crowd could have thrown up at its beloved star roses Only the petals would rub your lips too rough I would tell him, “baby I miss you.” And “I’m sorry I never returned your favorite book.” But in all fairness I think you have never returned anything of mine Not my favorite blouse, my grandmother’s portrait Not my heart. Not yet For it is little and porous and too dead to give to Someone one who is still alive I bet you keep it there in your back pocket Riddled with granola crumbs and sticky excrements of gum And maybe every other haunting you take it out Before sitting on it and you dust it off And kiss it. There is something sad about that. Having your lips touch things I can’t feel You might as well have ****** on my liver I wouldn’t feel that either. Come to me when you cannot rest in peace With pen and paper and too much coffee And in between cigarette puffs kiss the outside Parts of me I can feel.

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I thought about you this morning & wondered about so many things. Did you sleep well or spin in between your sheets, dream of anything special, mind draw a blank, drink strong coffee, spiced-tea or have neither? Perhaps you’re a juicer, do you fancy carrots or strawberries or both? Enjoy two Eggs Benedict or three scrambled, have whole wheat toast or rye, some nutritious granola crunch with a bit of soy milk? Did you partake in a quick steamy-shower or draw a soothing hot bath with lit candles & soft-jazz? I’m wondering if you wore your hair up in a bun or let it fall down, all round your pretty angel face? Did you apply make-up or go Au Naturel, frown putting on lipstick & smile getting dialed in for the start of a brand new day? Did you dress to the nines or go business-like, perhaps a trip to the gym for a spot of yoga? Did you drive your earthy VW-bug or rev up the sporty Saab, take the trolley, ride the moped, or hop on a bike? Where you late to your work or did you get there early enough so you’d have plenty of time to think about me? I think about that too.

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Jan 18, 2014

Jan 18, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC

I Thought About You This Morning (Did You Think About Me?)

I thought about you this morning & wondered about so many things. Did you sleep well or spin in between your sheets, dream of anything special, mind draw a blank, drink strong coffee, spiced-tea or have neither? Perhaps you’re a juicer, do you fancy carrots or strawberries or both? Enjoy two Eggs Benedict or three scrambled, have whole wheat toast or rye, some nutritious granola crunch with a bit of soy milk? Did you partake in a quick steamy-shower or draw a soothing hot bath with lit candles & soft-jazz? I’m wondering if you wore your hair up in a bun or let it fall down, all round your pretty angel face? Did you apply make-up or go Au Naturel, frown putting on lipstick & smile getting dialed in for the start of a brand new day? Did you dress to the nines or go business-like, perhaps a trip to the gym for a spot of yoga? Did you drive your earthy VW-bug or rev up the sporty Saab, take the trolley, ride the moped, or hop on a bike? Where you late to your work or did you get there early enough so you’d have plenty of time to think about me? I think about that too.

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The truth about my recovery? I lied I told the truth I was better. So much better a different person truly, really, not the me that was dying to die a year previous. for six years the monsters consumed me It starts so subtle. She’s skinnier. ‘No I’m on a diet’ ‘I’m a size 0’ your best friend skips lunches. slowly, surely, the monster slips into your head. your nightmares are living compulsions start. too young. don’t eat in front of people. one granola bar will get you through practice until home. and all the comments egging you on. ‘you aren’t skinny enough for that..’ ‘but if you eat salad all summer’ Soon you can’t look at yourself. Soon the Monster of self hatred turns you to more because the diets aren’t enough so spring break after a bowl of corn chips you close the bathroom door and the porcelain becomes your ally. friends may know. but you can be sneaky. after all, how else would you manage your size? Eventually it isn’t enough, you want quicker results. And the monsters of self hatred are eating you up. you’ve grown now of course. pushed away friends who knew who wanted you to get help. Because this Monster, This darkness in your mind, your only friend. No more food. leave crumbs and a buttered kife. anything eaten, behind the bathroom door. And very soon The blades come out to play. So intriguing how easy it is. and how simple to hide. What an easy release. 17 and 110 lbs, covered in scars on her hips. I did get help. I went to therapy. I loved it. I didn’t just change these acts I changed myself. But I wasn’t better, I was anxious to be done with it to be set free. So I stopped going. when I wasn't totally ready. I thought I was happy.. But is that why I relapsed? It was only once. But is that why I still find myself depressed? Sometimes suicidal? Is it my fault? It’s usually my fault so I can see how it would be. I lied. That’s the truth. And *I Don’t Know.* But I do know this recovery is a continuous fight. And I just wonder Where am I now?

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Oct 18, 2014

Oct 18, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC

SmileNowSunshine

The truth about my recovery? I lied I told the truth I was better. So much better a different person truly, really, not the me that was dying to die a year previous. for six years the monsters consumed me It starts so subtle. She’s skinnier. ‘No I’m on a diet’ ‘I’m a size 0’ your best friend skips lunches. slowly, surely, the monster slips into your head. your nightmares are living compulsions start. too young. don’t eat in front of people. one granola bar will get you through practice until home. and all the comments egging you on. ‘you aren’t skinny enough for that..’ ‘but if you eat salad all summer’ Soon you can’t look at yourself. Soon the Monster of self hatred turns you to more because the diets aren’t enough so spring break after a bowl of corn chips you close the bathroom door and the porcelain becomes your ally. friends may know. but you can be sneaky. after all, how else would you manage your size? Eventually it isn’t enough, you want quicker results. And the monsters of self hatred are eating you up. you’ve grown now of course. pushed away friends who knew who wanted you to get help. Because this Monster, This darkness in your mind, your only friend. No more food. leave crumbs and a buttered kife. anything eaten, behind the bathroom door. And very soon The blades come out to play. So intriguing how easy it is. and how simple to hide. What an easy release. 17 and 110 lbs, covered in scars on her hips. I did get help. I went to therapy. I loved it. I didn’t just change these acts I changed myself. But I wasn’t better, I was anxious to be done with it to be set free. So I stopped going. when I wasn't totally ready. I thought I was happy.. But is that why I relapsed? It was only once. But is that why I still find myself depressed? Sometimes suicidal? Is it my fault? It’s usually my fault so I can see how it would be. I lied. That’s the truth. And *I Don’t Know.* But I do know this recovery is a continuous fight. And I just wonder Where am I now?

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Everyone I've only been home for about 4 weeks and already I feel myself failing. I am trying everyday, I try and I try. But I feel my will slowly fading It's different being back here where I have no support meetings and daily check ups It's different, and I ******* hate this all of it I want to give up but I know, I know I just can't Not for anyone else, but for myself. I miss me. I miss Emma, and I'm scared that she'll never come back. That she'll never be the same Today I ate a slice of pizza, some granola, and filled up on water. Even then I wanted to ***** I wanted to let it all go, the pain, the suffering, the fear. I don't want to be so negative but it's a ******* disease, bulimia is one hell of a sickness. One that I might just rot away in I want to be held and loved. I want to be happy and free. I want my life back everyone

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Nov 17, 2013

Nov 17, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC

Everyone I've only been home for about 4 weeks and already I feel myself failing. I am trying everyday, I try and I try. But I feel my will slowly fading It's different being back here where I have no support meetings and daily check ups It's different, and I ******* hate this all of it I want to give up but I know, I know I just can't Not for anyone else, but for myself. I miss me. I miss Emma, and I'm scared that she'll never come back. That she'll never be the same Today I ate a slice of pizza, some granola, and filled up on water. Even then I wanted to ***** I wanted to let it all go, the pain, the suffering, the fear. I don't want to be so negative but it's a ******* disease, bulimia is one hell of a sickness. One that I might just rot away in I want to be held and loved. I want to be happy and free. I want my life back everyone

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I thought of you today when I noticed the dirt underneath my fingernails And when I felt the wind in my hair as I flew down a hill on my bike And when I stared at the Hocking River again as it gently swirled downstream. When I realized I’d be going to bed early and When I thought about sleeping alone, As I do almost every night. When I decided to go the long way home. When I sat down on a bench, ate a granola bar, and sipped away the rest of my water. When I threw my shovel aside and dug with my hands. When I wiped the sweat from my brow. When I looked at my Aloe Vera plant and realized I hadn’t watered it in a while. When I watered my Aloe Vera plant. When I left the dinner table before the rest of my friends to call my grandma Who once told me that you and I should get married. When I laughed at my own thoughts And when Ani DiFranco came on my Spotify. I don’t exactly know what I mean When I say I thought of you. I don’t know anything exactly, I mean What if the universe jumps erratically through temporal space, And each moment only seems continuous cuz we only remember what came “before” it, as we say? When I say that, when I think about that, I guess I’d call that thinking about you. I thought about you when I thought about Getting ice cream And when I thought I got a splinter, Neither of which Actually happened.

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Apr 5, 2015

Apr 5, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC

Splinters & Ice Cream

I thought of you today when I noticed the dirt underneath my fingernails And when I felt the wind in my hair as I flew down a hill on my bike And when I stared at the Hocking River again as it gently swirled downstream. When I realized I’d be going to bed early and When I thought about sleeping alone, As I do almost every night. When I decided to go the long way home. When I sat down on a bench, ate a granola bar, and sipped away the rest of my water. When I threw my shovel aside and dug with my hands. When I wiped the sweat from my brow. When I looked at my Aloe Vera plant and realized I hadn’t watered it in a while. When I watered my Aloe Vera plant. When I left the dinner table before the rest of my friends to call my grandma Who once told me that you and I should get married. When I laughed at my own thoughts And when Ani DiFranco came on my Spotify. I don’t exactly know what I mean When I say I thought of you. I don’t know anything exactly, I mean What if the universe jumps erratically through temporal space, And each moment only seems continuous cuz we only remember what came “before” it, as we say? When I say that, when I think about that, I guess I’d call that thinking about you. I thought about you when I thought about Getting ice cream And when I thought I got a splinter, Neither of which Actually happened.

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Nothing matters because this is all too transient Facebook smiling photos granola girls with hair flying up Faces red from drinking and being pressed by their boyfriends surprise birthday parties Oh The boy you once loved happily smiling from campsites You knew he was different when he told you I like computers not ***** dueling not drinks Sense not sexuality And yet he’s there, grinning without you, happy until you are finally Ashamed Of what did not happen between you Ashamed Because his friends surely know of your shame, his numerous friends who are not your own because of some Accident of your narrow birth That did not bless you with his indifference, his casual, easy way of holding on to people Ashamed Because you’re staring at a world that doesn’t really exist And you know, you just know, that you still care what It thinks.

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Aug 27, 2012

Aug 27, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC

The Social Network

Nothing matters because this is all too transient Facebook smiling photos granola girls with hair flying up Faces red from drinking and being pressed by their boyfriends surprise birthday parties Oh The boy you once loved happily smiling from campsites You knew he was different when he told you I like computers not ***** dueling not drinks Sense not sexuality And yet he’s there, grinning without you, happy until you are finally Ashamed Of what did not happen between you Ashamed Because his friends surely know of your shame, his numerous friends who are not your own because of some Accident of your narrow birth That did not bless you with his indifference, his casual, easy way of holding on to people Ashamed Because you’re staring at a world that doesn’t really exist And you know, you just know, that you still care what It thinks.

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