Mar 06

The Color Orange

I was never big on the color myself, 
but he liked it, 
he liked light orange, 
like creamsicles,
You know the gross sticky mess on a stick, 
losing someone is like a creamsicle, 
It melts all over your hand and makes a mess, 
and when you wipe it on your pants and don't wash them, 
It sticks around, 
follows you, 
even after so many times through the washing machine.
it never goes away,
a small spot remains that nobody but you really notices,
a little spot that's stained and collects dust   

Three years ago today. 
I miss him, 
I miss the color he used to talk about during snack breaks,
and after-school activities, 
Picking the orange-flavored gummies,
out of everyone's individual gummies bags. 

I miss the jokes, 
and the games, 
and the way he laughed. 
It's weird.
Everyone always says it gets easier with time, 
I think its harder, 
Dec 14

Rabbit's Foot

Hemingway states: 
"In those days you did not really need anything, 
not even the rabbit's foot, 
but it was good to feel it in your pocket." 
Rabbit's foot, 
What makes something lucky? 
Is it the pen that I wrote this poem with? 
Is it the scrap paper I wrote it on?
Is it the pen sitting in my pocket after?
I wonder what this pen will write next, 
this rabbit's foot that I carry, 
not because I believe it has luck, 
but simply because it feels nice, 
sitting in my pocket, 
writing on paper, 
and tapping against my fingers. 
When this pen runs out, 
I will just have to find a new rabbit's foot, 
because luck is arbitrary, 
but a tool you can rely on is nice to have. 

Dec 01

The Dark

It's getting darker,
It's that time of the year again.

I love the dark,
the way its quiet, 
the way you can sink into it, 

I miss the light though, 
as in the kind of way you only miss something once it's already gone. 
I often miss the sunset because im inside. 
Sunsets are the transition from light to dark, 
from day to night, 
awake to asleep, 
or at least supposed to be asleep. 

My favorite kind of dark is the morning kind, 
when all the people that stay up late have finally gone to bed, 
and the early risers aren't all up yet. 
It is this time when I love darkness the most, 
this is when it is the most quiet. 

I love the dark because it limits my senses, 
making it easier to focus, 
on what's really right in front of me. 

Nov 29


I sit here, 
drinking my six-dollar coffee, 
the one that has just drained my bank account, 
looking at the books that I can't afford, 
but simply looking at them makes me feel better, 
makes me feel productive. 

Being present, 
not for anyone but myself, 
it is times like these, 
in bookstores, 
when I feel most at peace, 
most relaxed.

Watching the people pass, 
everything moves slower here, 
at the pace that time intended. 

Nov 29


I really like coffee, 
I did not use to like it though, 
I wonder what changed. 

What made me change my mind?
Was it just that I am getting older? 
Is it that I need the caffeine? 

Or is it habitual, 
Something I do just because, 
Something I can't explain, 
Something that simply exists, 

I really like coffee, 
But I wonder why, 
Do I need it? 
Why do I need it? 

It's so small and insignificant, 
yet if you asked me to go get coffee, 
I would say yes, 
And I would really like that coffee. 


Jan 24


May 27

Three AM

It was three,
A time of day,
When only the sound of the faint breeze,
Found its way through my open window,
My eyes tired,
My eyelids heavy,
Ready for sleep,
But no matter the length of time that I wait,
No matter the sheep that I count in my head, 
No matter the quiet sound of rain coming from my phone,
I can't sleep.

I have a relationship,
Not the kind that most people have,
The kind that is only awake at three,
I soon give in and put in my earbuds,
Turn on someone else's playlist,
And sink into thought, 
The kind of thoughts that only begin to stir at three,
The ones that wait until you have let your guard down,
The ones that make three turn to six,
The ones that go back to sleep when you get up,
Bags taking their rightful place under your eyes,
The thoughts that will now wait patiently,
Till three tomorrow morning. 
Jan 12
poetry challenge: America

Dear America

Dear America,
I have lived here most of my life,
Watching from the comfort of home,
Listening to you speak over the radio of our old Volvo's stereo, 
Hearing things I wish I had never heard.
When I was younger,
I never paid attention.
I never listened
Or watched
Or read,
Back then I wasn't ashamed of you.
Now I turn away,
Scared to look back,
Scared to turn the radio on.
Why do you not learn,
You are my home.
You are home to 328.2 million,
You are supposed to be a dream,
One that so many seek,
And when they do find it,
You push them down and tear them apart.
When I was young I believed America was an amazing place to be.
But when I see
Innocent lives trampled in the wake of fear,
When I say to you,
When will it be enough?
6 million was enough.
It was way too many.
Covid does exist.
Dont be stupid.
Jan 01

2021, Just Breathe

I thought it would be great,
Like flicking a switch,
But like birthdays,
Like the moment the clock hits midnight,
Just a moment of joy,
Before falling back,
Hitting the brick wall,
realizing that nothing has changed,
That moment that you wish could last forever,
The feeling that you are still alive,
One speck,
Microscopic in the universe, 
The simple refreshing breath of air, 
Though sometimes,
Life will kick you down,
Or force you against a brick wall,
As long as you breath,
Take hold of any moment,
Realize that a breath of air may be all you need,
To bring you back,
And sit against the brick wall,
To collect your thoughts,
Come to think of it,
Today was great,
Because this morning I took a breath,
The year has only begun,
I look forward to the next 364 days,
That I get to just breath.
Dec 02
poetry challenge: Dickinson