I have an itch to dance
To shake my body to the music playing from my phone in my mint green bedroom.
To bend and fantasize in my living room with music blasting from the speakers.
I have an itch to dance.

I have an itch to sing.
To belt out the words to my favorite song ever.
To feel the music in my body.
To listen to the country songs on the radio.
I have an itch to sing.

I have an itch to laugh.
To snort over things middle scholars say.
To belly laugh in charades with my family.
I have an itch to laugh.

I have an itch to draw.
To scribble on the page in agony, wondering how life got this way.
To work for days and days with my pencil clutched in my hand, and finally look at the finished whatever-it-is.
I have an itch to draw.

I have an itch to read.
To curl up on my couch and dive into Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.

    Come, little bird, come to me. I can use you.

    Come to me, little bird. Come. I will keep you safe.

    Come! I need you! I will keep you safe, in a nice cage.

    I will keep you as safe as I can. We will be friends. You will be free.

    Free birds are nothing. Birds in captivity are useful. You can be useful!

    I will treat you as an equal. Your wings will be valued.

    Wings are only what makes you a bird. Does it really matter?

    Everything about you matters. You are a bird.

    Bah! And what use is a bird if it is not in captivity?

    You don’t have to be useful. Just be my friend.

    Imagine if you had to be someone’s friend. How awful would that be?

    Please, bird?

I want to remember 
Home.
Frozen at 10 and a half
I want to remember.
I want to remember my orange, crisp sheets.
I want to remember my sister’s piano melody floating around the house.
I want to remember how there is always something baking in the oven
Something yummy.
I want to remember my dad’s flannel shirts
And his hat as he rides our lawn mower.
I want to remember lolling in the grass by the hammock by the magnolia tree
Talking with my sister.
I want to remember laughter and card games before bed.
I want to remember four people and a dog and a big white house.
I want to remember the movies we watched
How we used to always watch the animated ‘Cinderella’
But then we evolved
We grew.
I want to remember the first time I watched the first Harry Potter movie
On the brown couch that my parents say is green
Squeezed in with my mother.

Don’t be afraid if your writing isn’t good enough.
It is.
Write like you know that someone is about to publish it.
Write like you know that someone important is about to read it.
Write like you know that someone is about to read the words aloud on national television,
And everyone is calling in to say how amazing it is.
Please keep writing.
I know a lot of people who would love to read your work,
And know that poems and stories are being carried on in this world.
If not for me,
Write for your grandchildren.
Write for your grandmother.
Write for yourself.
Keep writing.
 

Fog drifted sleepily around the neighborhood.
The girl was sleepy, too.
But she had dragged herself off of her bed in the adoption center
To see what was going to happen.
A ghostly lamplight glowed from high above
Making our girl shiver.
She was so young,
So scared
And the morning was drifting around her
Settling onto her shoulders like a pet snake
That could strike at any moment.
Towering buildings grew from the streets below.
They were protective
And fierce.
Finally,
The girl looked up.
After waiting for nearly an hour,
The sun,
Like a great big golden beach ball,
Was rising over the tops of the city skyscrapers.
The lamplight flickered out.
Our girl was in awe
Of the beauty around her.
"Finally," she thought.
"Finally, 
My time has come."
 

Sometimes I feel that
My glasses are my protection from the world.
Without them
I would be scared
Lost
Out of place.
When I'm staring from behind them
I feel like the world is fake
And everything is just an illusion.
It's not something real that I can touch.
It's just a stupid reality T.V. show where the characters are way to dramatic about their love lives.
I'm just watching
Waiting.
Waiting for my part in the world
To open up.
So that I can make a difference
Even with my protective goggles on.
So that suddenly,
My world isn't T.V. anymore.
It's real life.
 

I pull on a warm sweater
And soft, flannel pants.
Running downstairs,
I pull on my brown leather boots
And creak open the metal door
And dash outside,
Slipping a little on the cold stone steps.
It's pouring rain outside,
But it doesn't feel bad.
I splash around the yard,
Feeling delirious.
The light from the house is glowing,
Framing the whole white, familiar, building.
A tall pine tree towers from behind,
Protecting us.
Huge puddles from where there used to be ice are lying around,
And I gleefully splash water on my clothes and boots.
I turn my face up to the heavens,
Grinning.
Water pelts on my glasses, agreeing with me.
When I run inside, I kick off my boots
And grab a cupcake from the platter my mom is frosting.
I shove the whole thing in my mouth happily,
Then run upstairs,
Wiping frosting off my lip,
Water dripping down my back.
In my room,

Being innocent isn't so hard
Right?
Wrong
I won't be a kid forever.
I'll have to go to high school
Then college
Then have a job
Then retire
Then die.
I try to savor what time I have left
But then I realize what I actually should be doing
Not that.
Because if I'm thinking about savoring and how it won't last forever,
Then I'm not really in the moment.
I try to forget. 
But it's hard.
Then I try
To have fun.
Which is even harder
But I have so many people in my life who I love
And who support me
That I couldn't name them all.
So I'd rather think about them
Than me.
They're more important to me.
I wish them the best.
Always.

 

On this website
I'm myself 
And so is everyone else
And we all collaborate and support each other
And I wonder:
If I ever saw any of you
Would I recognize any of you?
Would we be like
"Hey!"
"I know you!"
"You wrote that cool poem!"
Or would we pass each other in the street
Like strangers?
The funny thing is 
I don't think we ever will be strangers
To each other.
 

I wonder what other people see
When they look into my eyes.
Galaxies burnt into my pupils?
A fire 
Waiting to burn?
Ice
That has frozen my eyes until there's nothing left but anger?
I see
My same 
Dark brown pupils
And I see them when I look at my sister.
But I think
Mine are different
Darker maybe
Always laughing.
Or possibly always ready 
To pounce.
My eyes
Have seen things no one else has seen.
Because they are
MY eyes.
I like to think
That they tell a different story
Hidden behind the plates of glass
That are my tortoishell glasses
Peering at the world
Judging everything.
When they get fogged up
I imagine that I can't see the world at all.
It is blocked from me.
Gone.
When I am looking at my world
I feel like a silent watcher
As if I am reading a book
And I will never see the ending.
So for now