Sep 26

who holds the heart up, still?

the heart can be pierced and wounded,
but the blood will still run through.
the blood will still run through, why still?
what holds the heart up, still?
as broken and cracked and punctured
as can be, so should i say instead, whose hand
holds the heart up, still?
when they all fall away into that crimson
gradient of nothing and leave only holes
for this heavy heart to bear,
what holds the heart up, still?
when their bloody weapons split you in two,
shatter you in a thousand, a million,
like glasses, whose hand
holds the heart up, still?
whose tender palm lets this blood and flesh
blanketed in one harsh blizzard of love
balance still, a foundation?
what holds the heart up, still? and
if their hand fell into that gradient alike
there would be no holes, no longer.
a hundred shoulders, but none the same.
when this foundation falls, all else falls,
Sep 23

If you stopped to hear me, I would tell you...

The dust we kicked up on this beaten path, no longer sore against the unsoftened soles of my numb feet, will brush by my beam of bright, the wake of my flashlight, from an old friend's seventh birthday. I'll whisper the words of a song I shouldn't know, a song I only know from the clumsy dance we choreographed before you moved away. Now my feet will tread this path and my lips will morph into the shape of these words, these yells that echo from the s'mores, s'more, some more, from your picnic table. You'll stand on the benches with plastic forks and knives as microphones and karaoke blasting from your friend's phone, and you can only tolerate to hear a few decades of seconds of a song before trashing it for the next one you'll belt, stirring up my nostalgia as I pass through in a haze, disappear on the other side, disappear down the beaten path, away, away, away. Off the beaten path. You won't know I'm gone, to you I was never there anyway.
Sep 20

Some people

These rhymes are pretty bad and this poem uses no technique; I apologize. I'm just getting my thoughts out because this is something that happens very often and is easier to understand if I have it in writing.

Some people just have this way of being
They'll talk to you, smile at you in the halls
Act like you're friends, even say that you're friends
They'll pick you up after all your falls

And then they'll trail off, let other people answer
Your questions, like you don't even exist
And then, just a glance, just a "hi" in the halls
Is like the greatest honor, there's been a shift

An honor that they even noticed you
And I wish I could say that it's their problem
Not mine, like I am suppose to believe
But I can't convince myself, I'll just be solemn

It's my own problem that I trip over my own feet
When I am acknowledged, and I will keep
Sep 20

Clear Waters

in a little green rowboat at dawn
the paddles' whirlpools shiver, gasping,
ripples fresh from the bitter above
if the twists and turns twist us down,
down below, at least we know
the clarity of these clear waters

lashes wear wet, frame our
bright eyes when the sun
bathes our skin, rejoicing in the
in-between of joy reborn, a joy anew
in that sliver of a moment, then
humble back into that worn boat,
the whirlpools of these clear waters
clutch the memory, bright eyes
and joy anew.
Sep 16

Eyes of Fire

Open your eyes, world, and see
I am not the silent one.

I am the thunder in your scream
I am the lightning in your tears
I am the tear in your masterpiece
I am the blade in your spite

I am the strong one.

I am the falter in your words
I am the break in your voice
I am the pain in your secrets
I am the rage in your reality

I am the wise one.

I am the breath in your pain
I am the smile in your grief
I am the crack in your praise
I am the fire in your eyes

I am the loving one.

Open your eyes, world, and see
I am not the silent one.
Sep 16

Things My Dance Teacher Told Me When I Messed Up

I took a makeup class with the older kids yesterday
because I'd been busy during my normal class,
and of course I messed up a bit,
because the class was a little past my level.

You're lucky to even be here.
You are like the company of a dance.
You don't want to mess up, don't want to stand out.
Your goal is to blend in.
Your goal is to go unheard, unnoticed.

I wanted to tell her,
​Do not tell me to be silent.

"Yes," I told her. I understand.
I was lying.
Sep 14

school, snakes, and time

papers squeeze me tight like a mummy scribbled on
haste of time, time crinkled 'round the edges
too much spilling from the that folded cup.

computer cord coils 'round my ankles i
bend over backwards to wipe the wet from my
puffy eyes lurch over forwards shoved to your

petite hourglasses squeezed into fabric tubes
that cost a thousand bucks and gashed bootie denim
i'll never compare to no matter how many times

i suck my stomach in in the warped reflection
in my bathroom where i scrawl last-minute
algebra notes on the rim of the bath tub

hourglasses and cords and papers coil
'round my ankles like snakes reaching
to the gray ether, put the power out

slip 'round my neck like a beaded choker
and if i fell today i know the last thing
these faded emeralds will see are

hourglasses and cords and papers
coiling 'round,
like snakes.
Sep 12
poem challenge: Happy

what makes you really truly happy?

you asked me one day
(it was a winter day)
a day where the air was crisp and chilly
the sort of crisp and chilly that prickled your skin,
and your bones.
and i said that when i truly had nothing to worry about
(when i truly couldn't think of any qualms)
then i was truly happy.
but i remember your question
and i've been thinking about it for months (and
months) and even though
you're gone now and i don't know when
i'll see you again (and
i doubt you even remember asking me
on that cold winter day) i'll tell you
that i changed my mind.
i'll tell you what makes me truly happy.
because even when nothing is
wrong it doesn't mean i'm happy
(it doesn't mean everything is right).
that's why
i changed my mind.
i am happy when i cry tears of sadness
and i am happy when i cry tears of joy
i am happy when i feel rage at my past
and sadness because i won't see you
Sep 02

Pulling Weeds

You're not wanted here, you never were
You've rounded up in the wrong place, you have
Your long frays of green out lengthen our own weakling of strawberry patches
Your streaks extending out like a blanket over our pristine soil
You will be uprooted in a matter of time
You are a pest and is pulling you we waste our own time
You are wrenched from the dirt and you pull it away
You leave a patch in your wake of cluttered brown
You are shaken by our hands that have soil tucked beneath the nails
Your roots so raw and red are shaken loose like a wet dog drying off
You release the soil that clung to you so tight
Your rawest and realest form is revealed
Your roots are uncovered from the depths of perfection
You are beautiful inside and out
You are beautiful above and below the soil
Your strands drape around you like a shawl
Your roots release the brown like the soft waves of rustled hair