Oct 18

Please Don't

Please don't run over that butterfly
I know it's already dead and it's out of its misery and nothing could hurt it now
But please
Don't destroy the beautiful bit of orange lying on this broken dying world 
Don't hurt the butterfly
Please just let it be
Its soul is already shattered and it feels like mine is too and neither can be repaired and we will all suffer because of crimes we didn't commit but please just let the butterfly stay there in peace
Please don't drive over it
Let its wings continue to be a testament of the beauty that was here 
Allow its bent body to stay together

Sep 07

YWP Is...

Young Writers Project is 
A spell
Cast by people 
With beautiful sentences
Shards of paragraphs
Revolving under a chandalier 
Inside their heads
A spell
That lasts 
As long as you want it to

Young Writers Project is
A night sky
Utterly perfected
Sculpted by words
And love 

Love for human mistakes
And potential
Lovely ideas 
And lovely people

Young Writers Project 
Is a miracle 
That we don't always appreciate

Young Writers Project is
You wish you could hold
Like a pet you can cradle
In your arms
Keeping you warm
And listening
Whenever you have something to say

Young Writers Project is



Aug 27

Unraveling Questions Part 2

You are my question
Sometimes you have a clear answer 
Sometimes you have many clea answers but I can never understand them all
Is this all in my head
Maybe you are
I think that sometimes, you know
That you don't exist
That you are just a figment of my overly active imagination

And then you give me a hint about my question
And I know you are real
I because I couldn't confuse myself that badly
That's just not how my mind works

Water runs down your face at strange angles when it rains
It curves down your cheeks and each drop meets another at the bottom of your chin
It makes me want to trace that line with my finger
Over and over
But I don't
Because you would raise your eyebrows and look at me strangely

Why do you have to be so confusing
Life would be easier if you weren't
But questions can go unanswered 

But they don't have to
Aug 27

Unraveling Questions Part 1

What am I supposed to do now
Now that I've figured it out
This great mystery is unraveled
In my bath tub
In the middle of the night
What do I do
There's nothing to do now but wait
For an opportunity
A reason

I figred it out and now I can answer my own question
All my questions
All the questions that swept back and forth
Like the waves I made in my bath tub
But the waves were more even and the questions were sharp and dark grey and irregular
Triangular even

But now
No matter what they looked like
I can answer my questions
And your questions
Because the water wrinkled my finger tips
And unwrinkled my mind

I've always thought more clearly in water
But this time it was because I was thinking about you
Aug 21

The Dumbest Possible Way to Unplug the Iron

You're about to head upstairs
To take a shower, maybe
Perhaps to read a book
But no!
There sits the iron
Much too hot to leave sitting around
Heaven only knows how you plugged it in
There's a floor lamp in the way
And a chair
And a couch
And the ironing board itself

The iron keeps smirking at you,
In a look what you've gotten yourself into now sort of way
You have no choice but to scale the looming mountain of furniture
(God forbid you try to move it out of the way)
So you bravely take the first step
The first of many harrowing steps
Onto the chair
You grab hold of the couch and slowly reach behind it
Towards the dreaded outlet that holds your worst foe
Your fear increases as you imagine the monsters that could be lurking
Right behind you
Or in front

You strain and struggle forward,
Until you brush the lampshade with your bum
Aug 19

The Beginning of a Story

She lived on the edges of a small idyllic town in the country. It was quiet and safe, whre nothing of consequence really happened. Occasionally, one promising student woul win some spelling bee or other, or some rare wildlife would be spotted in someone's back yard. The town was so small that it was impossible to go anywhere without recognizing some aquaintance. Everyone knew who everyone else was. Winters were cold, summers were hot, and everything in between was wet. There was an ice cream stand, which was horribly understaffed, that was the hideaway of all the local teenagers. Friends would often congregate there, or in the park across the street. The ice cream wasn't particularly remarkable, but it was cold and sweet, so that's the place everyone wanted to be on hot August afternoons. Boys and girls and people in between would find themselves there without meaning to, having felt the indisputable pull of the mediocre ice cream stand. 
Aug 18

Stories too beautiful to tell

There are some stories that don't have to be told with words
There are some stories that don't need narration
They can be shown with pictures 
Of smiles
Pretty green eyes that belong to timid foxes
There are some stories that are too beautiful to be told
They're the ones that everyone wants
Ached for

There are some stories encompassed by one scene
Two people
One person 
Three people
A sunset
Or not

A choose your own adventure story that never ends
Aug 18

All the Things I've Never Told You

First of all, you don't know who you are
How could you?
I never told you how I feel

You are so sweet
You know that, right?
You are the sweetest person I have ever met
Of course you don't know that though, because I have never told you

When you speak I have to listen
There's nothing else I would rather do
Your voice is low and smooth and sweet like cocoa
Cocoa being stirred into warm milk on a winter's day

You are so brave and so shy
You tease me and then say the kindest things anyone has ever said to me
You conflict yourself in ways I could never even imagine trying
But obviously you don't know that because I've never told you

When you tangle your fingers with mine my thoughts rush through my head
As if they were late to an important meeting
My stomach melts and melts
And I don't move
For fear that you will let go 
Aug 18


I don't think
That a heartbeat
Should sound so like music

In a crowded room full of people
And joyful exclamations
There is one sound
That I could stand to hear
The rhythm and
The pulse and

Only sometimes do I catch a whiff
Of all that makes the world lovely
A whiff of sound
A whiff of sight

Whispers of feet sliding on soft floor
Follow the rhythm
The beat
The beat that sounds like green
Not bright
Like a forest
And sunshine falling gently through summer leaves
Dewy grass and lemonade
The quiet gossip of old women gathered on wooden porches
Trading wind and stories

I won't forget about all of this

Never have I touched something as soft as the ground beneath our feet
The back of your hand
The smile I never want to leave
Aug 17

The Glass Castle Part 7

After a season of Sherlock was watched, the Indian Food ravenously consumed, and 1.5 pints of ice cream slowly savored, Cleo and Death had what could, in some other galaxy, be considered a conversation. "Death?" Cleo would periodically say. "What is your opinion on cantaloupe?" Death's reply would always be some variant of "yes." Then they realized that they weren't doing anything productive, so they eventually slogged upstairs and to their respective bedrooms. Cleo slept. Death replayed the moment when Cleo rested her head on his shoulder over and over in his mind. He couldn't quite figure out what was going on in his head, but he had a strange, terrifying inkling of what was going on in his metaphorical heart.