Sep 18
poem challenge: School

In hopes of clinging to Monday

Sitting alone, typing away, at 7 p.m. 
This is the most perfect way
to spend a Sunday night. 
The air outside grows colder,
whipping away,
whispering,
howling
to me. 
The wind tells me to write,
the wind tells me
not to feel down,
on the day leading me,
leaving me,
to Monday. 
Monday, 
the start of everything,
the start of a trek
from one side of the globe
to the other. 
From one side of life,
perhaps,
to the other. 
So many things
can happen
starting on Monday.
But when I finally,
finally make my way to Friday,
dragging feet and twitching eyes,
I look back and I wonder,
what happened to Monday?
I thought it was behind me
all this time. 
The days start to mix,
and a week,
eventually,
seems to me as just one day. 
Where has all the time gone?
And so I sit here, alone,
Jul 04
poem challenge: Roe v. Wade

What you erased

I am young.
I am still a teenager.
I still have time to make choices.
I still have time to figure out my future.
I still have time to do what I want to do.
But there are now things that have been taken away from me,
rights
that have been taken away from me,
that impact my youth,
my life,
​just like many others'. 
I used to be able to live anywhere in this country,
anywhere I want,
and be able to make mistakes
without being punished for them,
without being met with consequence.
As if writing with a pencil,
I could erase if I wanted to,
if I needed to.
Now,
as the right to have an abortion has been taken away
in many places,
that pencil has been rid of its eraser. 
Now, 
that pencil can only write.
Now, 
whoever writes with that pencil,
whoever was born a female,
cannot make mistakes,
cannot change decisions. 
Now,
Jun 22

Everything and Nothing

Days are endless,
they are endless
pieces of time
that are organized 
into hours,
minutes,
seconds.
Most wake up 
in the morning,
we eat at noon,
we go to sleep
when the sky
is dark. 
We have a schedule,
for school,
for work.
But what happens 
when there is no
schedule anymore?
For a student,
what happens when 
summer arrives?
Do we manage our time,
our actions?
Do we wait 
for something
different to happen?
Or do the days become 
one day,
do the colors of each defining hour,
each defining minute,
blend?
In summer,
we don't know when it's time to sleep,
we don't know what the date is without a calendar,
we don't know what
to do
when there is nothing 
to
do. 
Each hour passes by at differing paces,
sometimes leaving you waiting and waiting,
while other times,
Jun 06

Just a Name

My eyes,
they hold my experiences.
My lips,
they hold my words.
My ears,
they hold the sounds that have helped,
and the ones that have harmed.
My fingertips,
they contain the slight callouses 
built up by the hours of violin.
My feet,
torn and blistered,
dancing for me. 
And my mind,
consisting of memories,
consisting of knowledge,
consisting of everything that makes me
me. 
I have a name,
but that is not what defines me.
My name is not what my friends 
choose to laugh with.
My name is not what my family 
chooses to love. 
My name is not who I am,
although it can be a part of me,
and it is. 
But it is not all of me. 

 
Apr 22

Broken

A sculptor
stands at a 
work table,
staring at 
his masterpiece.
A face 
of an unknown
stranger,
sits on an armature,
staring back at him.
And, 
as he takes his last look,
turns away,
he bumps the table's corner.
Down
falls the stranger,
down to the floor.
'Crash',
sounds the stranger,
as it collides with tile.
Gone,
goes the stranger,
for the only remnants of 
its face,
are shattered shards 
of the dried clay
that once made it
to be.
The sculptor watches,
listens,
and sees his weeks of work
become fallen,
broken.
Down
sinks the sculptor,
down to his knees.
'Sob',
sounds the sculptor,
as his tears fall aimlessly.
Gone,
go his dreams
of presenting this piece,
this stranger,
as his work of art. 
But after a moment,
his tears stop falling.
After a moment, 
Apr 11

Behind This Mask

A mask,
like a heavy coat
of snow,
like a sweater
on an autumn
Sunday morning,
can hide many things.
It hides one's
thoughts,
it hides one's
opinions,
it hides one's
self.
At some point,
we all walk around 
with a mask,
while our face is still
completely revealed,
while it appears with a smile,
while it appears with a grin,
while it appears with a pair of
laughing lips.
We discover secrets,
our insides burn,
but we keep our skin cool.
We inherit disappointment,
the lines between our eyebrows
deepening,
but immediately fading away.
We become stressed,
we lose sleep,
letting any weight that burdens us fall
into our eyes,
where we forever conceal it,
keeping the dark circles,
the heavy bags,
only to ourselves. 
But at some point,
this weight becomes too much to carry.
Feb 18
poem challenge: Lifeline

With Every Breath

With every breath we take,
with every inch we travel,
our planet becomes
sicker. 
If our planet is so hurt,
how is everything still here,
how are we still here?
We are still here,
because of the trees.
These trees,
the ones that 
make life on Earth
possible,
are the most important 
things on our planet.
Not bees,
not flowers,
not us,
but trees.
They swallow our breath,
they consume the Co2 that leaves our lips,
and they produce what we need to survive,
what everyone,
everything,
needs to survive.
The oxygen,
the air we breathe.
Without trees,
these life-saving trees,
the chain would break. 
It would simply shatter,
leaving us with nothing.
Trees are our flowers.
They produce the pollen,
and we,
the bees,
the insects,
we use the pollen to carry out 
jobs,
things that must get done 
Feb 17

Stepping on Ice

As her eyes
skim the
silent ground,
the icy ground,
she waits for fear.
And from her cracking lips
escapes a
suffocating breath,
while her heart beats on steadily. 
She waits.
She waits for the 
voice in her head,
telling her to stop.
Telling her to be careful,
to be cautious.
But as of this moment,
this frozen,
quiet moment,
nothing is speaking of such to her.
Not the gossiping trees,
not the whispering wind,
not even the birds
that are shivering from the chill
of the biting frost. 
It is time for her mind to move,
time for her limbs to move.
And as she steps onto the ice,
her breath catches. 
This pause in reality,
this moment in which
her mind questions everything,
is the moment that makes her foot slide.
As she steps onto the ice,
she's wondering what will happen.
As she steps onto the ice,
she's afraid.
Feb 06

The Thing About Hope

As I dance 
across the floor,
I know it is the
dance I love,
to the music I love.
I want this part 
so deeply in my heart,
that I dream of 
practicing it,
of improving upon it,
of performing it in the spring.
And in my mind,
I can see myself 
dancing to this music,
floating across the stage,
smiling. 
But,
is this part meant for me?
Is it possible for this wish to truly come to life?
This feeling, 
of some part of you
knowing,
while another part of you 
doubts,
is called hope. 
Hope isn't 
the act of being sure,
it is the act of wanting 
something so bad,
and the feeling,
even if it is the smallest 
of feelings,
that this dream 
could become real.
Hope pushes you to 
do as much as you can do,
but occasionally,
there can be too much.
Occasionally,
your hopes may fly
too high.
Jan 19

History is History

I walk down
the busy streets,
and I spot
many different people,
many different things,
many different lives.
I see sister-in-laws
gossiping,
brothers arguing,
parents holding their 
children close. 
And I see history,
in every one of them.
Whether it's a history
of joy,
of sadness,
hope,
grief,
there is always history. 
Without someone's past,
there is no present,
no future. 
Without someone's mistakes,
there are no goals.
And though your past may 
create you,
define you,
it can't be
looked back upon constantly,
no matter how momentous
or weighted the events 
that lie there may be. 
Your history creates 
the blueprints for your future,
but you can do so much more than 
let your past become your future,
your life. 
You can mix things up a bit,
you can change,
you can get better,

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