Poetry

my walk home.

the 4 p.m. sunset already lighting the shamash on the horizon,

melting the mountains like orange wax.

lunch with my friends, onion rings & coconut yogurt

So Sunday was the first night of Hanukkah 

And there are still cops 

Outside the synagogue 

And there are still people who look at us

With murder in their eyes

And there are still shootings 

I want to get you a gift

for Christmas

because

I want you to know that you're special to me.

And it really is that simple -

but I don't know what to get you

The age-old dilemma

something cute?

sleepover giggles/and the thrill of late night games/when your friend doesn't want to watch your horror movie/and you end up watching Disney/is when you know that your friends/remind you of the frogs you caught with your/cousins at the creek/faile

i once lived in a city so large 
the people you see one day- 
you may never see again. 

when i was thirteen i held a wrapper in my hand
covered in red white and blue lettering 
a tribute to the land you once loved dearly

What inherent flaw?

what celestial wrong?

missing ingredient?

failed experiment?

am I?

how am I so unlovable,

that no one comes to hold,

my sorry hand? 

You are fragile like a wine glass,

when you fall to the floor and shatter into a million pieces,

people will still walk on you,

they will cut their feet and blame you for it,

and although my feet are bleeding,

It's hard

to put yourself out there,

bear, exposed;

it's scary to take off your coat,

remove the mat,

and hang on limb over the edge of a cliff,

Will I fall?

Will the branch break?

the winter makes me so happy
the snow hanging in the trees
the cold biting at you
i love it

I will be someday, 

gone, 

that is. 

When I am, 

I hope the pine needles still grow thick 

covered thick 

with snow. 

Writing for me is like a river of words flowing out of me. 

Sometimes raging other times calm and slow. 

Other times it is as if the otters living in the river have built a dam. 

Blocking the flow,