Jan 30

Ten things that made me want to cry today

(ode to wednesday mornings)

one
I wake up at
six o’clock
and the sun hits my ceiling
and clings to my
eyelashes
so hard I have to blink it away

two
I stand in the majesty
of the same sun
streaming through the bathroom window
and it is
better, less of a sadness
and more of a heavy appreciation
as I spit foamy mint in the sink
let myself remember
you are in pajamas
the house is quiet
school is hours
away
and you miss your mother


three
an odd feeling of
motherliness
towards little piggy/little simon
and their unfortunately youthful faces
with the milkweed hair of
children
and the impending sense of doom
that surrounds them
reminding me why I hate movies
(lord of the flies)

four
a glowing
reward far off in the distance
the setting sun
of a western movie
Jan 16

I lived in a city once


New York
is a heartbeat;
my heartbeat,
as the electric subway flies
down the tracks
like a silver strike
of lightning.

I have a yellow strand of 
crepe paper
wrapped around my neck, 
a string of sunshine fighting
the glow of Times Square around my shoulders,
free souvenir of
SpongeBob the musical,
a giddy throwback to
age 7,
when I lived in a city.

I never lived in New York,
only Boston,
with its maze of streets,
the corner store walking distance,
ice cream bars in the sticky
heat of summer.
New York is more methodical
than this.

Methodical,
but sleepless,
we eat pasta across from the hotel
minutes before midnight,
I don't understand the language
the patrons at the table
behind us speak,
but it's an odd sense
of peace to not be alone in the restaurant. 

The next morning,
Jan 15

a poem for the friend who drinks coffee in the morning

I am a disposable
plastic cup
and
someone left me lying
on your driveway.
and rain,
well,
it washed away my logo
just a smear of
Green now.
I wish you saw me the way I see me.
Because
every time you slight me
I’m empty/disposable/Green
you don’t bother
to put me out of my misery
(throw me away)
maybe someday
when I run out of mugs
I can put my coffee in the litter on the ground

thought no one, ever.
But I have to believe
I’m some kind of
backup to you,
cuz if I’m not
you don't care/ just left me here to rot
(And in case you were wondering
plastic
doesn’t
rot)

 
Dec 19
poem 0 comments challenge: Wordgame

Give me a word I: "Fog"

I've started a little game where my friends give me a word and I try to write something with it. Up first is "Fog" (thanks Cam). 

Eyes like two cups
of coffee
stirred with cream
and sugar,
warmth and brightness that
barely shield us 
from
the surrounding woods
leaves
crunch
underfoot,
fog hangs heavy in the air
a thick vapor
a wall between her eyes
and whatever lies ahead.
Dec 12

Why I haven't been writing

After the summer, I always get a rather large bout of writer's block. This isn't new to me, it's been happening ever since I became serious about writing. But this year was a little different. I wrote more this summer than I've written any other summer, and I came back to school feeling drained and exhausted, like the river of words that has always run through me ran dry. All my humanities assignments sucked every last bit of writing energy out of me, and my journal and notes app having been filling with dust and cobwebs since September. By November, I felt extremely guilty about not having written for a while. I tried to force whatever poetry I could out of me. I turned to old sources of inspiration, because nothing around me was inspiring anymore. Writing felt like a tedious chore, and I hated that. That's the thing; I can't write if I feel pressured. And I was pressuring myself.
Dec 11

A moment of quiet in the locker room

One shoe off
then the other.

Quiet besides the
rhythmic replacement of clothing
fabric against my skin.
The lights don’t buzz
the sink doesn’t drip
for once
my day is quiet as
nights on Inis Mor
I the only one awake
after
Good Will Hunting was over
and we in our corner room were tucked in.
Me, climbing out of bed
socked feet padding
to the window
and the breeze was
like
Cape Cod
like
my grandmother
my childhood
cookies from boxed mix
and books from eight cousins.

I existed in many places suddenly
in the picture frame on my mantle
in the surf at the bay
in that quiet little room
in my sister’s heart
in the empty locker room after class
in my memories
as I unmade 
and then
made
myself again
taking off one version to
be another. 

One shoe
then the other.
Dec 11

a few skies

Oct 12

responsibilities

You Have To Be A Writer!
Emma said to me
finishing my letter
perfect painted fingernails
sliding creases closed.
She said this and
I remembered 
other things I thought I had to do;
call my mother,
go to sleep before
two,
finish my article;
but I found
I preferred
eating cereal
in a hostel kitchen at 
one am
perched on the 
counter top
spoons delicate to bowls
like cotton on cotton
tears falling
for the home
we were soon to leave behind. 
 
Oct 02

Ireland in July

Oct 02

transformed sunday circles

sunday is for lying
in my pink bed,
staring at the ceiling,
my room
reddened by bouncing rays
of light,
turning the color of autumn leaves,
as the Cranberries sing about
zombies and
dreams and
you and me
into my ears.

sunday is
undone algebra growing
cold as the hours pass
as I lay instead of working and
the sun sets,
anxiety like boiling
water bubbling
under my skin,
unanswered phone calls
understood things that
still sting,
false apologies and 
lies,
eyes squeezed
shut,
world tuned
out.

sunday is the shadow
of the lantern hanging from my window,
moving gently like a
setting moon,
eyes playing childish tricks
bigger
smaller
bigger
glowing
gone,
creamy white ceiling left
untouched.
a transformed
sunday circle
lazily drifting by
as my world
melts.

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