"ponytails" poems
When I was just a little girl,
And as little girls were taught then,
I played with dolls and a teaset,
Made mudcakes for food,
Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let.
I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was older, a teen
and as teen girls were taught then,
Walk, talk, rock softly
Don’t draw too much attention
Or attempt to explore too much.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want ,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen,
And as sixteen year old girls were taught then,
Don’t wear clothes that show your frame,
That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame.
Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion,
You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career,
I was admonished as many other girls in my time,
It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around,
When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the freedom of pursuing their dreams,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was married, and setting a home, working and raising a family,
I left my work as many other girls in my time,
For my husband to follow his work path,
Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely.
I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl,
When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women,
I questioned my existence.
When many girls and women I know,
Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them
I questioned my existence.
When In the workspace,
Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries,
Or needed to speak louder to be heard,
I questioned my existence.
When the onus of keeping a relationship working was the woman’s responsibility largely,
I questioned my existence.
When a woman got hit by her spouse,
Its she who may have provoked him.
When a man strayed,
Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere.
I questioned my existence.
The atrocities many men are capable of,
The filth many men spread,
**** hate, aggression, manipulation and more
Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors,
Wearing a mask of sophistication outside
Animalistic and entitled beings to the core.
My apologies to men who are not,
And I know some,
But they are but a handful,
Too insignificant in the larger way the world works.
But then I see me,
A harbinger of change,
In my home and around.
Raising my son differently,
Advocating for change purposively,
Actioning resolutely what’s right,
Woman for women with all my might.
I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope,
They don’t sit around and just mope.
And I am glad I am a girl,
And I question no more,
I question no more.
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
my hair is falling out more--
i don't quite understand why.
could it be the food I've been eating--
or lack thereof.
am i pulling too hard on my ponytails--
or yanking too tightly while twisting my braids.
can it be the stress of my final days of school--
or all the assignments still marked in red.
possibly the ache in my heart for him--
or the rage simmering in my chest.
maybe it's simply symptoms of ***
or just my mind pressing buttons at random.
would it be because of my anxiety flowing over--
or the jitters from my morning cup of coffee.
funny if I've been tearing at my scalp in my sleep--
or clawing the demons from my dreams.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 10:39 PM UTC
I want summer like I want you, constantly. I’m tired of cold that snatches my breath and hope. I want the trees to regain their decency and cover their bare limbs. Wearing the greenest fullest blouses. I want the grass to grow. Thunder to roll and rain to fall. I want fat drops to bounce of the pavement, to wash my face and hair.
I want the sun to bath my skin in beauty, making it glow with warmth. I want dresses and shorts and skirts. I want brown legs and flip-flops. I want turquoise pools and florescent swimsuits.
I’m sick of cold fingers and toes. I’m tired of heaters and blankets. I want to roll down the windows. I want sweat on my back and only sheets on my bed. I’d love warm nights, drinking sweet tea, and making love beneath the stars. I wish for glowing street lights and lake nights. I want to sit in the windows of cars at sonic.
I want barbeque sunflower seeds and the fourth of July.
I want field parties with only beer and red bull, and only bonfires to see by. I want fireflies and chigger bites. Lemonade out of mason jars.
I miss cotton, and sandals. I miss volleyball, ***** feet, and ponytails. But what I miss most about summer is freedom. Those summer night driving under an endless sky of stars.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Fay was waiting for me
at the top of Meadow Row
I was on my way home
from school
-I'd walked home
as I’d spent my fare money
on doughnuts that morning-
she looked agitated
her blonde hair
was in two ponytails
her eyes looked red
as if she'd been crying
thought I’d missed your bus
she said
no I walked
I said
what's up?
she took my hand
and we walked down
Meadow Row
walking past
the bomb sites
and the ruins
of other houses
I’ve lost my rosary
she said
I can't find it
what's a rosary?
I asked
a crucifix with beads
I showed you
the other week
O that bead thing
so what's the problem?
can't you buy another?
it was my grandmother's
old one
well buy her another one
I said
I can't she died
last year
well she won't
need it then
will she
I said
she stopped
but Daddy will want
to know why I lost it
and then he'll go off
the deep end
and I know
he'll punish me
and it wasn't my fault
she began to cry
and I didn't know
what to say or do
where do you keep it?
I asked
in my coat pocket
so it's handy
if I want to use it
and it's not there now?
she shook her head
and put her hand
in the pocket
of her coat
is that the coat
you always wear?
she nodded
what about Sundays?
she looked at me
today's Monday
maybe you left it
in your coat you
wear on Sundays
I said
she looked at me
with reddened eyes
of course I forgot
it must be in
my Sunday coat
from yesterday
let's go find out
I said
but what if Daddy's there?
so what?
I said
he doesn't like me
being with you
because you're not
a Catholic
I’ll wait outside
on the balcony
if he is
I said
so we walked up
Meadow row
and crossed over
Rockingham Street
and up the slope
and into the Square
and along to the flats
and up the concrete staircase
to her parent's flat
which was above
where I lived
she knocked and her mother
let her in
and I stood on the balcony
looking into the Square
after 5 minutes or so
she opened the door
smiling and said
it was in my Sunday coat
all the time
and she kissed my cheek
I knew then
I’d not wash
that area of my face
the whole week.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
He runs with unbridled joy
And eats every biscuit that he licks
His eyes light up with every new toy
‘Twas a beautiful world and he was just six.
Learning to make friends at school
Coloring books, catching crooks
Pulling ponytails, breaking rules
Big eyes that mesmerize with every look.
Everything was beautiful bliss
But soon this peace was destroyed
His innocence was robbed starting with an unwanted kiss
And the soul became cold, dark and void.
The evil one dimmed his happy fire
And unsparingly exploited his vulnerability
Used his body for evil desire
Repeatedly ***** him most ruthlessly.
That boy with the spark in his eyes is gone
Salty tears instead of the chocolate ice creams
Blamed god for everything that went wrong
But Alas! No one heard his screams.
He lies down exhausted
Nursing his wounds and scars
Waiting for the train to come around
He was spared to live long and far.
The evil one took everything that he had
But today he fights continuously
To spare others, his fate as a lad
Defiance to the evil one he shows tirelessly.
Because there’s one hope that leads him on
Wounds will heal, scars will fade
Remembering the pain, he cries alone
My son, I’m with you , do not be afraid.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
concrete shades the yellow-lighted symphony.
The peso-heavy take taxis;
security valets motors steaming castle gates.
I ask, which way is the 158?
Indifferent, they say, walk straight neath the freeway —
there is a bus stop two blocks away.
****
****
****
Clocktower hands transpose Cindarella-brick
to embers of electricity,
a factory aside scrawled graffiti;
fingers timidly ricket pitchfork fences.
Palermo is 11 km north.
Where is the north star?
I look straight ahead, repeating what
the travel blogs said like,
Be lost, don’t look lost;
flappy plastic maps scream vulnerability.
Be lost, not rich;
iPhones in gotham alleys are batman signals.
Walk fast.
Don’t pay attention to the eyes that pass.
Careless ponytails and brass hair attract
glances back.
Two blocks deep into the homeless shelter
beneath freeways, blankets
in shopping carts toppled over,
cars screaming away the symphony
into shadowed silence between heels striking.
Tunnel breath emerging on the other side,
gasping past stacked Jenga towers,
wired with antennas and empty clotheslines;
families and crack ****** sleep inside.
Safety’s herd thins as couples dart left down
cobblestone tributaries
that either lead to bus stops or parked cars.
I walk straight ahead with
sleeve-covered hands that swing like sticks
in the wind.
The symphony turns to
heartbeats and footsteps
plucking quickly;
fearing the 180 behind,
to zombies with sunken eyes,
thirsty for a thirty-cent high.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
*chosen child for nature's creativity
tangoing to the sway of twilight trees
such spiritually sensual sensibilities
hypersensitivity heightening passion
life intensified in intellectual interest
love embellished with emotional empathy
oh, to bottle her elusive essence
to drink in her wistful nights
to infuse my tea with her promise
to scent my pillow with her dreams
uncork the atmospheric aroma
of sepia tinged crescents
wafting in celestial patisseries
sweeten the clear blue skies
with mists of crystallized honey
perfuming the divine aether
oh, fill my breath with her ephemeral
synchronize my life's pulse to the
metronome ponytails of skipping girls
followed by the tails of wagging dogs*
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
SUN GIRLS: sun-kissed goddesses, some a little darker than others because the sun loves them just a little bit more, writes poetry sitting outside a local coffee shop, always happy all the time, loves the color yellow, wears mom jeans and tucked in t-shirts all the time, is soft and loves love, long hair, mostly in braids or ponytails.
MOON GIRLS: dark circles under their eyes, parties a lot, drinks to forget their heartbreak, red lipstick and black eyeshadow, sleepless nights accompanied by anxiety, owns over 20 different leather jackets, loves adrenaline, risk-taker, a smoker, strong smell of cigarettes and mint gum, smirks a lot, flirty, secretly likes sun girls
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
What I Wanted to Wear for Halloween
…is not what you wanted me to wear for Halloween.
I wanted to be one of those girls in the comic books,
spinning around in high-heeled boots, high-strung ponytails, and miniskirts.
You convinced me to be Mulan.
It was the 90’s, after all.
And she was pretty cool. I guess.
I loved it more when I realized she had a sword. I planned to cut my hair with it.
But when I asked for her sword, you handed me a fan, told me to have fun with my friends.
My best friend wore a real kimono that year – all thick and purple and bright –
her father brought it back from Japan.
We were both Mulan. I guess.
But she loved her fan and silk and uppy hair up-do.
Mine had already taken a tumble for the worse.
And that is exactly what I see, many years later, as I stare in the mirror – finally in my boots.
I keep them on when I sit at the keyboard and type in her name
M-U-L-A-N
The truth comes after H-U-A
After twelve years of fighting, and dying, and winning, and fighting by her side,
China didn’t even know she was a woman.
They couldn’t have cared less at all.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Wounded knees, mango trees,
Walking down the same old street,
Eight years old, feeling bold,
A **** on the nose and an awful cold,
Chicken pox, knee-high socks,
Folded letters in a black shoe box,
Ponytails, fairy tales,
Choir practice, don't forget to exhale,
Chapter books, nasty looks,
Never had the chance to cook,
Constant smothers, doting mother,
Shamelessly listening to The Jonas Brothers,
Toothy grins, double chin,
Constantly losing bobby pins,
Stupid drama, Oxford Comma,
No DS for Cooking Mama
Cheeks flushed, prep crush,
I still regret that very much,
Detention, pay attention,
Meet everyone's expectations,
Disappointment, good intent
Nothing that I said was meant,
Growing up, just shut up,
Remember it's okay to mess up,
Years went by, I wonder why,
When did my childhood say goodbye?
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC
I am strong…
I endure what you cannot.
I fight what you could not.
depression, regression
pain, tears…
heh, you would run to your mommy if faced with my fears.
I am determined…
to have my dream
without watching it all burst at the seams.
to make people happy
and to show them they are strong,
to teach my future children right from wrong,
to marry the love of my life,
to hear him say he’s happy that I’m his wife,
to not let you get me down,
to smile, when everything is pointing toward a frown.
I am free-spirited…
fun, wild, crazy…
I live out
I laugh loud
I cry hard
I love strong.
**** hott,
sophisticated, or not,
black makeup, blood-red nails,
fishnets, ponytails,
emo, gothic,
it’s obvious I have inner magic.
my thighs move like thunder,
while my wit is like lightening.
my presence is commanding,
comforting, yet frightening.
I am predator…
vampire in bloodlust
trapping you with my eyes
my aura ***** you in, to your demise,
feeding off of your soul
drinking you in until I am sated and whole.
I am unpredictable…
unprecedented
I do the unthinkable
your rules don’t apply to me
I dance to my own rhythm
hum my own tune
walk barefoot in the rain
I do everything you wouldn’t expect
I so most things your average girl wouldn’t do.
you cannot dictate to me
who, what, or where to be.
I am Cocheta:
That You Cannot Imagine.
an anomaly, you cannot tell my origin.
I am:
love, hope
home, trust
power, lust
wind, rain
woman, ethereal
succubus, nocturnal
black, fire
poetry, seduction
color, confidence
shy, innocent
emotion, devotion
different, perfection
I AM ME
a force to be reckoned with.
and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 10:24 PM UTC
she lived alone
by the little glass window
on the 12th floor
always open
seeing every color and stain
of urban life flashing below
across the courtyard
black, white, yellow, brown
and a redhead going down
the block for a ghetto special
4 chicken wings and fries
and fly uncle johnny
in his trench-coat and superslims
running paper slips to the bodega
on the corner of broadway and 5th
and little blues babies in ponytails
doing the double-dutch hustle
a skip and **** away
from motherhood
and radio raheems
peddling mix tapes, joints and conspiracies
to mis-educated teens
flashing silver grills, c's and black stones
under high-top fades and fro's
closing only for hurricanes
and ricochet bullets
permanently when one
caught miss helen in the eye
she lived alone..
~ P
(7/8/2013)
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
Thump Thump.
Butterflies crawl in my chest.
Thoughts swirl around in my head.
I can’t focus or see straight.
This is anxiety.
And it’s not something I
talk about often, though it’s
more common than one might
think, where my heart pounds so
loud and anxious
thoughts threaten to
drown out everything
that makes me,
Me.
You see, my brain sees simple
things incorrectly.
Texts and sometimes the
thought of leaving the
house sends
adrenaline coursing through my
system like
a thousand shots of caffeine
into my bloodstream.
The logical parts of me fled on the
first flight out of town,
leaving me to feel the tremors and
full force tsunami
on the ground.
Anxiety is a lot like love,
but it’s a battle not a dance.
A lifetime, not five minutes.
Unlike love, it’s often violent.
But just like love, it’s quite silent.
Anxiety feels like hunger, but stronger.
Like fear, but it lasts longer.
Writing this poem has quelled the
qualms that anxiety often spells.
I wish that I could be honest
about this part of me. But it's
one of those things you’re trained
not to talk about from a young age.
Because unless you’re depressed,
medicated, or heaven forbid
you’re not seeing a therapist,
then it’s not bad enough to qualify.
It’s not big enough to report.
I’m not suffering enough.
But if you could just feel
my heart beating fast.
If you could interpret the swell
of my tell-tale blush.
If you could whisk your fingers
through all of my thoughts.
If you could only
hear all of the things I’m feeling
but can’t quite express.
Then you would know that my
silence is telling.
I may be smiling, but currently I’m
fighting for sanity in my own mind.
The mind I feel is no longer mine.
I’m walking a dangerous
tightrope slope.
My mind is a minefield of poisonous
butterflies.
They threaten to swallow me alive, so
I tread the violence quietly.
I fear when I expose you to this
side of me, you’ll only see anxiety
or that maybe I’m lying.
But anxiety is not me.
I am more than mixed up brain signals.
The rest of me is cardigans in the summer,
because it’s cold inside.
I am mock converse and ponytails and
words on paper,
thoughts poured out,
slowly.
I just feel anxious
Sometimes.
More than normal, actually.
But I’m dealing with it.
And I’m no less me.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
At the stroke of five o’ clock
The crew begins to trickle in the door for
Josie’s Slumber Party.
Hand cut finger sandwiches adorn
The chestnut coffee table already brimming
With nail polishes and eyeshadows
In hues of peacock blue and bubblegum pink
And temptress scarlet red. The girls
Romp around the room like ballerinas
Dressed in everything from soccer shorts to
Mama’s high heels. Two sizes too big.
Practically ladies as they gloss their lips but
Girlish giggles and squeals reveal their
Youth: Age ten; age eleven; age twelve.
And in the middle of this fine affair
Polished nails are used to pick at teeth;
Makeup adheres to bangs, braids and ponytails.
Bare hands brush through the knotted hair of
Any and All. Beauty – of course – is collective, yet
Dignified.
As if to call the girls over, lure them in so painfully slow,
The sprinklers awaken on the front lawn and spill forth
Waterfalls of childhood memories. Running barefoot
during the searing summer dusk. The girls are under
The Spell. Feather boa and lipstick at hand, they make
A mad dash for the lawn. The squeals are louder, more
Vibrant than before. With grass stains on their gowns
and water re-tangling their freshly styled hair, these
Ladies could not be any more proper.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
The cocktail waitress in the corner
Tonight she skates at Roller City
In polka dots and ponytails
Her lips pursed and polished
For she disapproves of most everything that offers little reflection
No bringing your own music
No pinching the dancers
She moves to a secret sound
Regarding herself as an international spy
In the house of fun
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 5:14 PM UTC
two hits
and I'm gone
holding my high
from dubai to discovery bay
I met John
on his black harley
along the way,
my nowhere man in ponytails
chasing Jesus off the charts
he gave me
his bloodied lens
and a dime
I peered through bullet holes
in his heart
and saw the devil
and the glazed eyes of Mark
frozen in time
like grime and graffiti
on the walls of Attica
he gave me
his smoking gun
and a pen
"Imagine......"
~ P (Pablo)
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
I am thirteen
when the mean girls call
me weird—
I do not shave
I do not wear makeup.
I do wear basketball shorts
and messy ponytails.
I am pressured to be her—
Aria.
I shave relentlessly
for the next two years.
I am fifteen
full of discomfort
and anger
breaking my bones like they
are glass
reckless rage—
all reckless no brave
depraved of a home
inside my own skin.
I am fifteen when I
learn what gender dysphoria is.
I am fifteen when I
realize I am a boy
that I always have and will be
a boy.
I am fifteen—
putting holes in wall and
overdosing on advil
like it is a sport
championing my own self demise.
I am fifteen afraid and closeted—
I write my name as
ALEX
on my school assignments
I always change it back
before I turn them in.
I am fifteen
convinced everyone loves the girl
I am not
and will never love me as the boy
I actually am.
I am sixteen crying on the floor
of a psych ward
this is my fifth hospitalization
in fourteen months.
Pretending to be her is
killing me.
I choke back tears as I tell
my mom that I am
transgender.
She tells me she loves me,
and she saw me writing
ALEX on my papers.
It will take five years
for her to let her daughter go.
I am seventeen when I am shoved
to the floor in a men's bathroom
slammed and slurred across the tile—
It will not be until six months into
Hormone Replacement Therapy
that I use the men's public restroom.
I am eighteen when my moms boyfriend of the
time pulls me aside
and tells me I am making a mistake.
He would wear his mothers dresses and heels,
hiding in her closet
all of this is to say
this is a phase.
When people say that this is a phase—
I am sixteen
sobbing on linoleum floors
covered in cuts
wanting nothing more than death
if I have to pretend to be her
for more than one second longer.
I am nineteen hopeful
and naive.
Voice cracking and hair sprouting
I am coming into my own body.
I have learned that there
are things much worse than needles.
I am twenty out of the
ashes of abuse and trauma
I am finally becoming
the man I have always been
meant to be.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 2:27 AM UTC
I visited her at the hospital ward
smiled my ladybird
baby delivered!
Her two ponytails in red ribbon
not a woman she was
but a girl overgrown!
In her arms lay a little fairy
wasn’t just a baby
but a piece of me!
Beamed its face looking at me
recognized joyously
here was daddy!
She, me, and our baby
we're stuck in that place
ever happily!
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
*he tells me he'll buy me a white house
with a picket fence and i laugh because
it sounds so absurd to me
why would anyone want to live in
this plastic world of despair
i mean, maybe i'm judging it too hard
but i just can't see myself
driving a mini-van with two kids
crying in the backseat complaining
and calling me "mom" as if they their
mother-tongue was not Urdu
i can't do soccer games and ballet lessons
or wait every night at 8PM to have a
family dinner
i am not anyone's wife in an apron
and there is nothing wrong with choosing
the american dream
just that its a nightmare for me
i want to finger paint the house a
million shades of rainbow
i want to tie a braid in my hair
and lie under the sun
let it kiss me until i'm brown
and free.
i want my children to blast
bollywood and dance with me
no choreography, just love
i want a husband who falls in love
with my henna covered hands and
the way i smell of the sea
i can't see myself settling to a world
where everything looks just the same
or a man who loves me in a clean,
innocent way
i know this sounds stupid and i'm not
one for crazy romance but
laughing during *** and screaming during fights
is something that feels more than alright
i like the edge and the stability in knowing
that you're not going anywhere, we're going
everywhere
i want my children to climb on their father's back
and tickle him until he cries
i want them to paint his nails
and tie his hair in little ponytails
i want them to go to the beach and not worry
about getting sand in between their toes
i want them to wake up in the morning
with their messy hair and lopsided smiles
i want them to run around the house
the way their parents did
chasing each other only to fall
into each other's arms.*
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
The sunset girls with warm smiles and sweet laughter. With ice cream, diamond earrings, diaries, romance movies under fluffy blankets, strawberry shortcake, lemonade made slightly too sour with a pink paper straw and perfect ice cubes.
The midnight girls with a wild side and messy hair. With perfect eyeliner, surprising laughs, black sketchbooks, late night ramen runs, stolen oversized sweatshirts, black cherries, fluffy socks under polished black combat boots tied in a neat little bow.
The sunrise girls with addicting voices and perfect high ponytails. With slogan t shirts, velvet scrunchies, red lip gloss, chocolate covered bananas, paintbrushes and easels, early morning hikes, coffee with creamer, foam, and probably too much sugar.
The sunshine girls with bright grins and kind eyes. With light blushes, sweatpants, rainbow sprinkles, nails painted, flower tattoos, peaches and cream, messy bangs, sketchbooks probably covered in stickers and crop tops just short enough to tease, paired with cute bralettes.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
The girl grew up.
Yes, she did.
She grew up to be a gorgeous woman.
That little girl that as a young boy.
You never want around to bother you.
Now is the apple of your eyes, as she stands before you.
Simply, because the girl grew up.
From the ponytails she wore.
To even with the braided hair.
From the things she did to ignore you.
From the time she showed interest in you.
The girl grew up.
To be a beautiful woman with a lovely smile.
You couldn't imagine you would be standing next to her.
You never imagine she would be the one you love.
Although others hinted you both liked one another.
But that was just their opinions.
Cause it was far from both of yours imagination.
Until you grew up to have common interest communication.
Yes, she grew up to claim your love.
Cause the girl grew up.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC
I hear the laughter
I see the cheer
I feel the warmth
From ear to ear
We're all together
We're all the same
We're all playing
The very same game
And all around me
There are grins
Everyone's happy
Everyone wins
From ponytails
To sneaker soles
each of us chases
identical goals
We work and laugh
We're having fun
The road is rough
But we are one.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
i thought feeling good about myself for once would cure everything, but the cure is two steps backwards of where i am today. two tea leaves and a tail’s length from here; hop-skip the finish line like when i was five and didn’t know how big the sky was. pixie stix and a spotted dress that smelled like roses with a purple stain down the front and ***** knees and sweet sticky skin, sweetflesh and goldfish and big black bears roaring about on the roads. inside my head there’s a phoenix fire, burning sand to breath silvery threads into the creature that thrusts its head into my mouth to scream alive.
mi lucha, preciosa, me vuelvo loco aqui. me estan volviendo por fin, eternamente.
dead and alive and spattered in paint that feels like his heartbeat... waking up on the floor with twelve stitches in my arm and a chipped tooth. the one that got away, the one with no name, the one that pretty turned her back on. the one that you hate, the one that is loved, the one that spends one minute thinking what takes them a lifetime. the one that will never be the next-door neighbor with the loud golden retriever and cold fruitcakes on christmas eve, the one that says ponytails are overrated.
the one that is me.
the one that is here
for now.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 1:35 PM UTC