Mar 21

A Better Place Now

When my walls come crashing down,
and the emotions I hide come out,
I find myself thinking of him.

Thinking of the his eyes,
which always shown with the bluest blue,
bluer than the sky on a clear summer day.

Thinking of his laugh,
soft and gentle like a warm jacket
on a cold winter day.

I think about his voice,
always sweet, yet sharp,
like a fresh lemonade.

I think about the hours we spent together,
watching old movies at the drive though,
stargazing by the old willow tree.

I remember the way he talked,
as he pointed out the constellations,
it seemed as if his soul was smiling too.

Sometimes, I think I still see him,
parking his bike by the corner store,
or sitting with his feet dangling at the town docks.

But he’s never there,
it’s only ever a trick of the light,
or a cruel joke of my own imagination.
Feb 18

A Dream of Broken Promises

 They say that when we dream, it’s caused by slow brain waves creating narratives that are a mixture of the days events and our imaginations. That these fancy imagines, designed for mental recovery, are of our own creation. But if that is true, somebody tell me why every time my head falls to it’s pillow and my eyes flutter shut, I see it. And why every time I wake up, my mind is full of memories of something that never was.
 I see an old, run-down, wooden shelter, held together by a few nails and planks of wood, glowing in golden afternoon light. I see long, silky, grass and soaring mountains off in the distance. I am confused, always confused, for this is a place I know not, I have never set foot on the ground here.
Dec 11
fiction 1 comment challenge: Snow

Winter Days

 Our Vermont world is best to be seen, in late January. Where the still ponds have blossomed into angelic frozen displays and the balsa’s exhale the aroma of incense of the season. Notice how the sun’s rays seem to increase in intensity before diving below the horizon; how the sherbert sky reflects upon the blanketed landscape, giving the view a dreamlike aura.
  Let us walk for miles down the wooded roads, feet crunching and eyelashes coated in the bright, cold, cotton like substance. Let us pass the laughing brook and the frozen pond. Let us pass beneath the white coated branches and trunks. Let us enjoy the echoing silence and the sharp, cold air.
 At this time of year our land must seem an artist's vision of paradise. As strong and brutal as a renaissance painting, but as peaceful and delicate, as watercolor.  

Nov 30

Candy Apple Red

When I see you, you're a candy apple red, a bright sensation on my mind.
The faint melody of fair music and the mechanical whirl of carousals seems to admit from you like an aura. I see flashes of kids with sticky cotton candy coated fingers, giant stuffed animals carried in tired arms and bright flashing lights. When I see you, I'm confused. I'm always confused. There are always so many people with so many colors and so many tastes and so many scents and so, so, so many sounds. You never seem to make noise, but I can hear you, I can always hear your color. Your a candy apple red, a bright sensation tingling in my ears, teasing my brain, tricking my mind and my senses. Wrapping my head into a world of your own, subconscious, creation.
Yes, when I see you, you're a candy apple red.
A bright, beautiful, sweet, sensation on my mind. 
A candy apple red.

Oct 18

Creature In The Mirror

Oct 12


"You're a different soul aren't you?"
  I shift my gaze up from the cracked sidewalk to meet the gaze of the man with the guitar. His dark chocolate brown eyes trailing over my face, and body, as if reading into my soul. I nod in response to his question, glancing back down to the ground, watching the crisp autumn leaves swirl around my feet.
  "I thought so" he replied, returning his gaze to his guitar, plucking the strings in a soft melody. I turn my back and begin to walk down the sidewalk, my feet creating a melody of their own, my heart creating the beat. 
  It was true, I was differnt. Maybe it was my beet red hair that implied I was different. Maybe he could tell by that array of freckles that danced across my face. Perhaps it was the way I walk, cautiously. As though avoiding stepping on shards of shattered glass. Which, I suppose in some ways, I was.
Oct 02
fiction 1 comment challenge: Almost

Almost Perfect

  The scene in front of her was almost perfect.


The reflection in the mirror showed a girl, no more than 15, with wide, bright eyes. Her creamy complexion was buried under a wall of foundation and concealer. Her lashes dark and thick, but not her own. Her fizzy caramel colored hair was unnaturally straight, not a hair out of place. Her lips were painted a furious red and her eyelids a dark bronze.
She was perfect.

Wasn’t she?


Perfect would be herself.

Her own lashes,

Her own skin,

Her own hair,

Her own lips,

Yes, that would be perfect.

but this girl,

this creature in the mirror,

It was almost perfect.

Sep 26


And she missed him.

She missed him every second of every minute of everyday. A longing ache in her heart has been ignited and burned furiously like a wildfire should. She missed him like the moon might miss the stars. How the sun might miss sunrises and sunsets. She missed his playful smile, his bright brown eyes. She missed his messy cocoa powder colored hair and the white scar above his pink lips from that time he fell off his skateboard. She missed his dimples and the freckles that mapped out his checks. She missed him. She missed his puns and sarcastic humor. She missed his empathetic demeanor and witty comebacks. She missed the way her hand fit in his, and the way he made her feel on top of the world. She missed the warmth of his skin and the scent of his hoodie, which he had given to her. She missed feeling understood, she missed feeling a smile upon her lips that never seems to fade. She missed him, a lot. She missed him more than she had missed anything ever.
Sep 26

Green Eyes

  Her eyes, her beautiful emerald eyes were flooded with tears. Her ravens black mascara was running down her freckled checks, which once were full and lively, now were sunken and sallow. Her bottom lip trembled and her voice shook, breaking frequently like a radio with a weak signal.

“Nobody understands” she spoke, before fully giving way to shallow whimpers and tears, turning away and disappearing down the path to the waterfront.  She thought nobody understood her, what she was going through, but I did. I always have.
  So I followed her, down the winding path that emerged to a long, wooden dock. I saw her sitting on the edge, her bare feet dangling into the water. I stepped towards her, my feet creaking on the well traveled wood, I knew she could hear me, but she didn’t acknowledge me. So I kept moving until I was with her and she was with me.
Sep 07


Perhaps, in our own ways, We are all super heros.
While not all of us can fly, or swing from buildings,
Some hide behind masks, others in plain sight.
Yes perhaps we are all superheroes.
Some hidden in the shadows,
wrapped up in their own fantasies.
Others stand in bright spotlights,
Projecting to the world in hope to tell them,
Convince them, make them feel something.
Some heros strive around others,
Displaying their strengths,
Glowing in their own success.
Other heros sit alone,
In the back of the classroom,
Or in a quiet corner of a coffee shop.
Scratching pencil marks or typing away,
Creating an escape.
For themselves.
For others.
Yes, in our own ways we are all superheros,