Jun 05

I Think I Am Dead

The sky is made of molasses.
The fear spread like fire.
They came in enormous masses,
buzzing together in a choir.
Their eyes are white and glowing.
Their bodies are like shadows
and they move without you knowing.
The smoke is up to my elbows.
I can hear them coming.
Their heavy steps are above my head.
My throat is numbing
from the awful stench and dying dread.
I think I am dead.
I think I am dead.
Jun 03
poem 2 comments challenge: Junk

My Old Wood Castle

They’re going to tear it down,
the old barn in our backyard,
because it’s too old
and it’s falling apart.
They’re not entirely wrong,
it is falling apart
and it is old,
but it never lost its beauty.
You can still jump from the window
and land on your feet.
You can still put your bike
in one of the little storage rooms.
You can still pull down the ladder
and climb to the second floor.
You can still watch the birds
as they build their nests.
You could still breathe the dust
and feel the wood.
They’ll never tear down
my memories of that beautiful,
wondrous castle
with my baby swing,
my bike and jump ropes,
my hula-hoops and stickers,
and my little old rocking chair.
They’ll never erase my handwriting,
written in colored chalk.
All they see is a junkyard
and all I see is a castle.
Jun 03

Smells Like Dirt

Preschool smelled like Spaghetti-O's.
No joke.
The entire school smelled like that,
the cafeteria especially
because there was always one teacher
who brought them in
for that one kid without a lunch.
I got to have some too.
Kindergarten never really had a scent.
I guess it was because kids talked
more than they ever ate.
It probably smelled like hot breath
and a bit of grass from recess.
First and second grade were the same,
except it also smelled like carpet
because we often had lunch in the classroom
and we'd sit and play games.
I remember the fifth-grade cafeteria
because it was the worst place in the world.
It smelled like desperation.
Everyone wanted to be like the cute girls,
the ones with baby soft hair and booty shorts.
It smelled like a friendless chamber
and I was trapped in it, flailing like bait.
That's what it smelled like,
May 30

It's So Beautiful To Exist

I heard a voice yesterday.
I can't say it was yours
because it was muffled
through my bedroom wall.
All I know is your memory.
All I know is how to cry.
I don't want you to see me
because I'm embarrassed.
When I want to go out,
I forget that you're stuck there
in those walls,
trapped like an animal,
but you never howl.
You just stand silently
in my dark bedroom window,
waving a jealous good-bye.
It's not right at all.
Why do I always leave?
You're more gone than ever
and nobody knows who you were
besides me.
They'd never understand it.
They're not ghosts
and the more I look at you,
the more apparent it becomes
that you're just an empty space
where a whole life should be.
The more I try to touch you,
the farther away you become
and now I'm looking outside
at the world out there
and I can't stay forever.
May 29

8 Minutes To Write Whatever I Want

I have eight minutes to write this piece.
Where do I start?
I make a few lines,
blah blah blah,
but does it mean something?
Where am I going?
Ah! Too many thoughts!
Seven minutes now.
Tick tock, tick tock.
My mind is a blank slate
and I have the tools to paint,
but there's no color yet.
I need to mix them together.
Stir, stir.
It smells like paint in here now.
Six minutes.
I'm starting to broaden my mind.
It expands like Tao,
inward and outward,
birthing everything in the universe.
Is that where ideas come from?
The eternal fluctuation of nothing?
Five minutes.
I'm typing fast. So many thoughts.
So many ideas flowing through
my skull, cracking its membrane.
Four minutes.
Wow, it took me that long?
Only four minutes to write it all?
Who says that's all of it, though?
Who says I'm done here?
This is looking a bit lengthy,
May 21

You Always Let Him Touch You

You always wanted to be a pirate.
The scrapes on your knees
from falling off of your bike
are worse now than ever.
You always raised the flag higher.
It's flapping in the garden
where you used to play,
but it's been worn out.
You always kept your head up.
The dirt stains streaked
across your rosy cheeks
irritate your dry eyes.
You always saw the good in me.
Your strong and pale hands
have now fallen to your sides,
limp, cut, and broken.
You always let him hurt you.
Your smile that shined
is quivering in self-pity
and veils a dread.
Why did you let him do it, pirate?
Take off your eyepatch.
The bruise hurts to touch,
so why do you let him
touch you?
 
May 15

Dreaming of a house in the woods

I want to be surrounded by the woods,
a cool summer breeze flowing through my hair,
caressing my bare cheeks,
a bluejay somewhere in the branches,
a book laying open on the couch
across from the fireplace where I sit
and read and type away at my keyboard,
a rug beneath the coffee table,
a cat curled up beside me,
a dog resting his head by my feet,
my boots by the open door,
the hardwood floor creaking as I step,
candles in the windows,
curtains pulled back to avoid the flame,
a kettle on a hot stove,
a bench beneath the trees
where I sit with my tea
that overlooks the mountains and lake,
and her bare feet walking through grass,
her hair caught in the wind,
and her voice, so sweet and lovely,
calling to me from behind the house.
Our paintings on the walls
drip with passionate warmth
and the butterflies flutter their wings
as the first cricket awakens
May 09

Too Young To Know Anything

Run like a hound on the hunt,
you stupid little thing.
It's a big wide world out there
and you're weak.
You'll never make it out alive
with those heels.
Paint your face with the blood
of your child body.
Skin the wolf and drain him
as tradition goes.
You can't ride until you're tall.
No children here.
Walk on the path of gravel,
hear it crunch below,
and crush those that block it.
Hang them up.
They'll suffer long and well.
No mercy killing.
You'll never have a voice.
You're not capable.
You're dreaming too big.
Dream too small
and it all just might come true.
You're one of many.
You're too young to understand.
The murder of innocence
is no different than the murder
of a breathing child.
I've heard it all too many times,
so enlighten me.
Tell me what I'm too stupid to know.
I've learned things
May 08

I Love You To Death

Eyes like daggers,
you wish you hadn't fazed her.
They're flaring red
and you'll wince at them over
and over again.
She's a sorceress wielding
and you're trapped.
She'll cast a spell on you.
Now you're hexed.
You'll need more than salt
and white candles
to cleanse your mind now.
Her black thistle-down
hair with hungry snakes
will cover you
and grab you with a hiss.
She bites hard
and claws so mercilessly
you'll never feel
the blood in your wounds.
She'll lick them clean.
She'll take your soul tonight
and you'll forget
ever living all by yourself.
She'll tell lies
and worry you to death
and she'll dare
to challenge your desire.
A pretty little thing,
a devilish little heir of hell,
and you're gone.
She'll be at your funeral march
with a sly grin
and touch her cold dead lips
to your own.
May 06

Do You Ever Feel Like A Flower In The Sun?

Do you ever feel like a flower in the sun?
You’re sitting in water, your leaves soaked,
your face is to the sky, and your petals stretch.
You feel it on your face like a warm kiss
and let it hit you like rain falling from a cloud.
Does it ever occur to you that there’s dust
sitting on your desk back at home?
Did you ever realize that the paint is chipped?
Does it bother you that life is a hole
that keeps going further and further
and darker and darker
until you hit the bottom?
Did you ever notice that the bottom,
that unbreakable, cold, and dark ground,
is not the end of everything?
While you may be tempted to look down
and scratch at the bottom like a cat
scratching at the front door for a welcoming,
your life is up there waiting for you
and there’s always a rope around you,
leading you back up,
keeping you steady,
and all you have to do is give it a tug,

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