Sep 16

The Unclear Definition of Me

I am the one who can only find the bad parts of things, 
the one who knows the glass is half full, and half empty, 
    and chooses the empty. 
 
I’m that girl that is quiet, reserved to herself, 
lost in a world inside her head. One day she will write about 
    that world, once she has explored every corner herself.

There is no place that I cannot see
without thinking of the beauty, imagining the colors
    on a piece of paper, hanging on a wall.

To me, the world is too silent, 
the wind in the trees is not enough to cover the sound 
    of buses beeping and car engines sputtering. 
 
And because of that, I take what the world gives me, 
and listen to the Earth’s music, while I add in my own melody, 
Sep 06
poem 0 comments challenge: Risk

The Beginning

Jump in. 
I look at the churning water beneath me, the waves cresting just inches below my toes. 
Jump in.
My mind yells, but my body ignores. Fear runs rampant in my veins, rooting me to the spot. To the rock. To safety. 
But this isn’t safety. 
Speckles of water spray me in the face. My limbs are shaking, from the cold, from the adrenaline. 
I clench my fists and dig my fingernails into my skin. The pain is my anchor, bringing me back to reality.
Jump in.
Taking a deep breath, I fill my lungs with the salty air, hold it, and with the oxygen still trapped inside, I jump
Suspended in the air, in time, in nothing at all except a state of weightlessness and exhilaration. It’s almost like I’m flying. 
I wish I was. 
But then gravity pulls me down, pulls my dream from my head and throws it into the air far above me, letting me watch as I hit the waves and sink.
Sep 03

to hear the trees talk

Hiding beneath a blanket of daylight, 
I hear them. 

They don't know I'm here, 
a human buried in their presence,

listening to them hum their language of old 
twisted tongue and the wind whistling 

between their teeth. 
The sun's rays move around their bodies,

and they titter at the thought of being 
draped in robes of solar power. 

They imagine the bugs crawling 
on their limbs are pets, 

giving them names to dote upon, 
the birds are their friends,

the fox slinking nearby
a stranger. 

The trees entertain
the idea of humans, 

the same way we humor the view of a dog. 
But beneath that, a hint of loathing, 

a whisper of war in their hearts. 
We have killed too many of them, 

their kind cut in half 
as we cut them with axes. 

To be a tree is to be ethereal, 
Jun 20

Where I Went

Jun 03

Talking With an Alien

2200 A.D

So you see, there’s this thing called Earth.

Is it a food?

What? No, no, it’s a planet. In the Milky Way. It’s where I live. 

That is hundreds of galaxies away. Why are you out here?

Why am I out here? I don’t know, to pick flowers? No, you idiot, I’m here to explore. 

Exploration has already been completed in this galaxy. What is so bad about your Earth?

Because Earth is already explored. 

Interesting. I have never heard of this Earth before. What is this planet like?

You really want to know what Earth is like? 

Was my question unclear? I can repeat if it is required. What is this---

Yeah, yeah, I heard you. It’s just---Earth is so boring...Well, actually…

You have stopped talking in the middle of your sentence. Did you fall into slumber?

No, I was just thinking about Earth. 
May 12

Why I Write

I’ve always had trouble with words.

My whole life, they have gotten stuck in my throat,
my mind whispering to shove them back down,
where they get locked in my heart,
never to be heard.

I don’t know why my mind does it,
why it has trained me to think that
no one wants to hear my words,
my thoughts and opinions.

The only time that the lock is opened
is when I write. For whatever reason,
once I have a pencil and a piece of paper,
all those words are set free.

From there, they spill out, dance along the page,
poured from my inner self until they are their
own being. They roam where they wish,
and my heart is finally light once more.

This is my reason for writing.
I cannot speak and be who I am
without my ability to write.
What is your reason?
Apr 16

A Tree's Memories

I.
The darkness is warm and heavy, comforting almost.
I can feel the sunlight upon my tough shell, so unlike how it felt to drift down, spinning and absolutely uncaring for the world, before settling here at my mothers feet, upon the hearty, green moss.
The tough but gentle hands that intricately selected me off the ground carefully peel back my outer coat, leaving me bare against the open air. Then the hands gingerly close around me, again encasing me in blackness.
When the fingers unfurl once again, I am only free for a second before they dump me into a tiny hole in the soil, and cover me with it.
It was there that I took root, there that I was watered and nurtured.
And it was there that I grew.
Feb 03

Angels Without Wings

What is an angel
without its wings?

An angel without wings is a mother,
wrapping her only jacket
around her sleeping daughter’s
bony shoulders,
a tiny shield against the
frigid winter nights.
Her stomach grumbles,
but she doesn’t mind as long
as the resting girl’s remains silent.
Her wings were spent
buying her childs warmth
and life, even as her own ebbs away
with the fading sun.

An angel without wings is a man,
shifting through the trash
to find the half-full water bottle,
murky and brown as it might be,
and gives it to the lame boy
leaning on the heap of trash.
His tongue was dry, but if
he could talk, he would
say thank you.
His wings were spent
by the cuts on his
hands and feet, after moving
sharp pieces of trash.

An angel without wings is an old man,
pushing his way through knee-high,
raging flood waters,
Nov 14

Once More

“Yes, I will say hi to Mom for you, don’t worry,”
I tell my sister, squeezing her hand in assurance.
The nurse smiles sadly from the doorway.
“Don’t forget to tell her I miss her a lot, okay? It isn’t the same without her.”
A raspy breath rattles my dry lungs.
“What...what isn’t the same?” I cough.
She scrunches her face in thought.
“Everything, Sissy. She isn’t here to kiss me goodnight, to give Lucky a bath, to---”
A searing, burning pain slices through my stomach. The world tilts a little bit.
“Sissy! Are you okay? You’re okay, you’re okay…” she tries to convince me.
Slowly, the pain trickles away. I open my eyes to her small, rotund face above mine.
The corners of my mouth tug up weakly for her sake.
“You can give Lucky his baths now.” A pause to catch my breath. “You’re a big girl.”
She takes my sweaty palm in her own again. “I’m not a big girl, not like you. I wish… I wish I was like you.”
Oct 25

I Want To Die

The title got you, didn't it?
It is such a depressing phrase, 
and yet it is used quite a lot these days,
especially from my generation, from what I've noticed.
How sad is it that kids' lives are so horrible that they 
want to be rid of them forever?
You might brush it off, call us weak,
"just suck it up, your life isn't that bad".
You have no idea of what is going on in their life.
If you believe that you get the 
right to say things like that,
about someone else's life,
then you should put on their shoes
and really see what they are going through.
These days, stress is getting piled on teenagers
about college, homework, jobs, debt, life in general.
And sometimes, it becomes too much,
so they take the only way out they can think of. 
The problem with this world is that we have normalized
the wanting of death, to get away from here and all this stress.

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