Mar 06

I don't care

I don't care!
she laughs, when people 
criticize her appearance
and she turns away.

I don't care!
she says when the grade turns up
less than expected 
and everyone stares.

I don't care!
she says when people ignore me
and write over what 
she has to say.

I do care.
she whispers as she looks
at herself in the mirror
wondering why they 
don't like her.

I do care.
she whispers to herself when
the grades turn up less 
than expected and she spends
long nights studying,

I do care.
she whispers to herself
when other write over 
what she has to say,
so long struggling over a voice
to have it trampled.

I don't care
I do care.

I don't
I do.
Mar 04


They call him a hero.
He marches across the battlefield,
decimating our enemy,
his armour shining 
in the light.

They call him a hero.
He and his army run through country sides 
killling all movement 
the blood on his armour a crimson red
against shining gold.

They call him a hero, 
his army ransacks and pillages,
killing mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters.
The souls of the fallen,
the innocent,
are etched onto his sword.

They call him a hero.

I don't believe them.

Hear me

I can't be heard,
whispers amond blasts.

I don't have a voice.
I speak in my mind.

I can't stand up 
when others refuse 
to stand.
I will stay seated among the masses.

I might be heard
sill talking in the midst of yells.

I'm finding my voice,
I speak.

I'm scared to stand up
when others refuse to stand.
I do not want to be shunned
or stand out.

I can be heard,
I scream and shout.

I have a voice,
I speak out loud.

I will stand up when others
refuse to stand,
I will lead them to 
a better future.

Mar 01

Risen yet fallen

I try to see you 
but every time you slip away 
to a place beyond my 

I try to read the faces
but they are all masks, 
a wolf
in sheeps clothing.

I try to figure out 
what is wrong with me 
because I can't see 
the bones against 
my skin.

I try to sing,
to talk but there is a void
where my voice used to be
now a whisper in the clamors 
of galaxies.

I try to cry,
to give form to the destruction
that there is inside 
but they gather in a ball 
in my throat.

I will not love,
because of the disasters 
that I fear 

I will not pray,
because every time I ask
and I get let down
a piece of me breaks

I will not fall,
because every time I do,
it feels harder to get up,
the bruises and cuts
staying until

I will not rest,
Feb 25

The girl who loved monsters

In the fairytales,
there is always a dragon who must be defeated,
a maiden in need of saving,
and a knight in shining armour, 
come to save the maiden and slay the dragon.

She would always read these tales
and in every book she would always 
stroke the drawings of the dragon,
green scales and glowing eyes.

She grew up, and in every book,
she would still be attracted to the monsters,
the whispering creatures of the night
that were always portrayed as the evil
who had glinting eyes and long sharp claws.

She scavenged hungrily to find more
of these monsters in brightly colored ancient books
that described ancient monsters and creatures
that they feared roamed the night.

She studied them and looked into their past,
her love growing with every second, 
immersing herself in mystical facts and cultures
in hopes that she could see them someday,
Feb 21

A fountain of tears

"When the children act like leaders
and the leaders act like children,
you know there's something wrong"

Their tears drip into 
a fountain that 
was built after 
the first shooting.

It is marble,
the names of the dead 
carved onto the white marble
by their souls.

There are so many.
Too many.

Their blood
stains your hands 
because you might not 
have pulled the trigger,
but you allowed it 
to be pulled.

I can see the red 
soaked deep into 
the flesh and blood of 
the country.

There is so much blood.
Too much blood.

Their screams ring out
but you try to drown them out
with futile rebuttals 
and long talks about nothing,
but talking does not mean 

I can hear the screams
so loudly they
echo in my ears
Feb 14

School Shootings

How many more 
have to die of gun
in classrooms

When will we learn that
guns will not 

When will we stop trying 
to protect the people
that try to kill
the innocent

When will polaticians 
try to understand 
that guns will not
solve all our problems,
the second amendment
gives us 

When will we 
decide that we 
have had enough

Feb 14

Wheelchairs and Imagination

Dum du dum dum dum
She hums as she
taps her fingers on
the table,  
closing her eyes.

Da rarara dum darum.
tips her head back and
sings a tune nobody knows.

La lalal dum di dum
strange tunes whisper
and weave through
the air and to  
a strangers ears.

the tunes gain discernible
words and melody.
but the others stare
as they walk by.

Maybe one day….

she sings, wheeling around
and imagines
dancing to the beat
of her own melody.

Maybe someday…
she sings, sadly
looking at her legs,
wishing for one more chance

To run

And jump

And twirl

And kick.

Dum da dum dum….
she hums again,
in her imagination,

forever dancing.

Feb 11

Rose petals and moonlight

Midnight is not a person.
Midnight is the dew on a 
rose when the sun has not 
yet risen.

Midnight is a butterfly in 
full blooms before the harsh 
rays of the sun burns the wings.

Midnight is the secret breaths 
in the dark, free for a few hours
before the world traps you again.

Midnight is warm tears on 
cold air when you need to let 
it out the most.

Midnight is oceans lapping
against a shore, 
glowing with creatures 
that use the dark to shine 
in the light.

Midnight is delicate flower petals 
unfolding into the soft light of a moon
and hummingbirds that glow silver.

Midnight is in the garden of day and night
growing the vines that choke so thickly 
the gates.

Midnight is hidden emotions that 
are let loose in the safety of the darkness
and the silent screams that 
never reach the light of day.
Feb 08

The girl behind a nightheart

brown eyes 
lead to long eyelashes
and long eyebrows.

Her entire family has
brown eyes,
they are ok,
she thinks.
not particulary unique,
more like mud.

long eyebrows 
lead to acne scarred
olive skin

She likes her eyebrows,
but not her skin. 
She hates the acne that comes,
she feels insecure of it.
she cut her hair into bangs to keep people from seeing them,
they're gone, thank goodness.

olive skin
leads to full lips 
and a nose

She doesn't really like her nose
it's too big, 
a classic trait from her mother and father.
It's a stereotype, really,

a typical Iranian nose
that keeps her from drinking in champagne flutes because

her nose gets stuck in them.

on the other side it leads 
to black-brown curls