Nov 03


I found my former self
in an abandoned alley
in the back of my brain.
She was sitting against the graffiti,
bandaged knees tucked to her beating heart,
trying to fade into herself.
I shouted her name
hoping for any sign of recognition
but all she did
was slowly look up.
With blinking honey-colored eyes,
thick lashes sticking together
like shadows to a person.
I saw the confusion
as it settled onto her face
and knew what my answer was
before she even asked.
"Who are you?" She said.
"I'm you," I responded.
"After you let go
of all the nasty weighted things
that you tend to hold
so close to your heart.

"I'm you," I said.
​​"After you let go."
Jul 10

over the summit


i straighten my mask
the one of pleasantries
and polite remarks
the one that has an illuminous smile
and i turn my back
fight against the roaring current
that tries
to pull me over the summit


the others 
they run to my side
they see i need help
they see i need aid
but yet
they too
turn against my current
the one that threatens again and again
to pull me over

it leaves me bait
promises of happily-ever-afters
but i say to it
"how can i fly if i'm bound in your chains?"


i turn away
and i replace the mask
that was almost but not quite sliding off
the one of pleasantries
Jul 10


for saba

Days pass on like sunsets:
Few drenched and dripping
In beauty,
Most of them cloudy and blank.

Memories fade like jackets:
Details falling and being replaced
Like chipped buttons,
Stitched into something new.

People enter like guest stars on a TV show:
Their presence swept away with disregard
Until they exit stage right, leaving behind whispers of goodbye
And all is normal, as if they never appeared at all.

Food piles up like an avalanche:
Meatloaves and casseroles and cherry pies
As if they are supposed to be miracles, 
And cure.

Prayers are recited like waterfalls:
Each syllable falling over the last
Competing in a hurried dash to reach your ears
And numbly recite verses of angels being lifted to Heaven.

Death watches from behind the bushes:
Mar 28

Old Words

The sound of my typewriter
Clicking and clacking and buzzing
Keys pressing down
To create the stories
I guard in my mind.

The sound of my typewriter
Drowing out all other noise
Paper shifting and gliding across the top
The smell of fresh ink
Staining white paper.

The sound of my typewriter
Old and filled with a thousand
Words, a thousand people, a thousand lives
Bought for a fraction of its worth
Enveloping me in its click, clack, click, clack. 
Mar 28

"did you want to see me broken?"

*inspired by Maya Angelou's Still I Rise, and the line, "Did you want to see me broken?"

Hey, can I sit with 
you guys?
No, the loser table is
that way. Sorry.

do you 
like to know
that after i've 
walked away
after my smile
has been seen
after my head
has been held high
my grin starts
to fade and 
my shoulders
start to droop
and my eyes
to the floor
as tears cascade
i can't take 
this anymore

what makes
you feel like royalty
the 'friends' that
your selfies
the admirers wistfully 
eyeing you as if they'd 
to be 
in that empty
chair next to you
feeling just as powerful
instead of hiding 
like me

when you're all
do you feel 
Mar 28


Hate does not
make flowers bloom
their purpleredpinkorange 
petals (delicate 
as lace) 
do not touch the sky.

Hate does not
make children smile
their mouths (hungry, 
sometimes unfed)
do not stretch wide
with happiness.

Hate does not
make you stronger
those ugly poisonous
words(aimed toward the
do not make the world
a brighter place.

Hate does not 
make us look different
our eyes are 
still bluegreenbrown
but our thoughts 
(once used for a greater 
purpose, meaning)
are filled with 
bitter dislike.

Hate does not
make problems go away
in fact, it creates more
a domino train
(taking on and letting 
off passengers routinely)
so much now, heaps
the illuminated world.

Hate does not 
make us unite
our hands, all shades
Mar 28

Ode To Writing

Oh, writing,
How I love you!
With your eyes that I can
Fall and disappear into,
And your safe arms 
I wrap myself up in. 
Whether I'm reading
Or creating stories of my own
You're always my friend,
My love, even. 
When I'm sad or
Stressed or tired of the world
I fold myself into your pages
And with a sprinkle of 
Literary dust-
Away my problems go.
Writing, you are my love
And I hope we shall never be apart.
You let me release 
The haphazard thoughts
Travelling around in my mind.
You let me read your words
Soaking them in like water.
Your pages are my paradise.
Please, let us be apart no longer.
Each moment without you
Is dotted with tears.
Where do I put my stress and fears?
But then you reappear
And I love you once more.
If we shall be apart any longer-
Oh! I might die at the thought. 
Mar 28


All alone in the world
My hesitant footsteps echoing infinitely
I check to see if anyone's following
But no one seems to see me at all.

Daybreak opens the clouds like gates
Will the sun see me?
Ah, nevermind. Silly thoughts for someone
Who's all alone in the world.

Snowflakes fall down like cliff-jumpers
They risk melting so we can see
Their iridescent, ominous beauty
Still, I am all alone in the world.

Night comes behind me like a thief
I'm surrounded in darkness
But I feel like the light-
The only one in the world.

Everyone's asleep, snoring in their beds
Even the moon has slumbered off,
Behind the wicked clouds.

And still, 
Still I am all alone in the world
As my hesitant footsteps echo infinitely. 
Mar 28

What Being A Teenager Is Really Like

I am a broken traveller.
My compass fell long ago
Now it's leading another lost soul. 
I left my map
Somwhere in the maze
Now it's finding its own way home.
I dropped my backpack
Trying to climb over a fallen tree.
Now all my food is decomposing in the ground.
I am a broken traveller.
My shoes were abandoned
They never helped me anyway.
Now they're worthless litter that once were mine.
I forgot about my jacket
While dodging a ruthless bear.
Now all he has is ripped up nylon.
I don't have a compass
A map, a backpack, shoes, a jacket.
I lost them all
In the dense forest
Of growing up.
I am a broken traveller. 
Feb 15



The nicest thing a stranger has done for me is when I was in the mall. A man walking by was talking to someone on his phone, and glanced back over his shoulder at me. 
"You're beautiful," he said. 
Awestruck, I didn't know what to say. "Thank you," I replied. 
I couldn't believe it. He was probably running late somewhere, on his phone, in a crowded mall, yet still stopped to look me in the eyes and tell me I was beautiful? My eyes were wide in shock.