My favorite earring
Metal bicycles dangling 
More like tangling in my long hair
Little blue beads surrounding the rim
Encasing the empty tire like a fountain
My worn down Vans
Patterned like an atlas map
With blues and greens and reds all swirled together into continents
My old hoodies worn fuzzy
So comfortable
A little loose
My hair dark brown 
Like a forest 
Intertwining branches
Spiraling past my waist
Framing my face
And my smile
Big dimples 
Short white teeth
My chestnut eyes creasing
Rose dust tinted lips ever turned up
I wish I could show this side more often
Instead of hiding behind a screen
Hiding behind a mask

[Written during the Clowning Conundrums worskhop with Alex Muck and Rueben Jackson which was such a fun event, as always! :)]

I witness injustices often now. How come when we learned about the thirteenth ammendment they just "forgot" to mention how it turned the prison system into slavery? Or why are there so many more Native Americans and African Americans in jail than white people, even though white people make up most of the population? Why do we never talk about racism in our classroom? Or politics? Are these not important pieces in becoming a citizen? Why are we told that when we are bullied we should ignore, walk away, tell them to stop, and tell an adult, when the school does nothing? Why do BLM protesters get tear gassed and harmed during peaceful protests, while violent pro trump rioters are just let free? Why? I ask, but no one ever answers.

I want to never move on
And yet I want change.
I want to see my friends again 
So time must pass
But I do not want my time to pass.
I turn thirteen 
In a week.
I do not want to forever be labeled "teenager" or "adult."
I am a child.
I still cry at movies and books.
I still run up to dogs on the street and pet them.
I still play childish games.
Does this make me a child?
I no longer go to bed at 8.
I no longer have "playdates."
I no longer want to play pretend or go to the playground.
Does this make me a teenager?
I hope not.
I want to remain in my childhood
But time has passed too quickly,
Much of it taken,
Less of it spent.
Why do I have to go?
Forced into this state of being
Where I have to pretend I don't want to go play tag with the kids in the yard,
Where I have to pretend I want to listen to the adults' dull chatter,

You sit in front of my window
Roots ever searching the earth 
Intertangling with others
Every one spiraling into another
Twisting like locks of uncut hair
Growing for years 
Caked with soil and warmth
You absorb water from the earth
You breathe with me
Your mighty roots blend and swirl
Perfect for a painting
They embrace eachother 
Then strive for the surface
Intermixing 
You create a strong trunk
Dried out and greyed
An old trunk
Coated scarcely with browns and greys of bark
And reds 
Knobs jutting out unevenly
Not organized
But they look as if they are part of the trees pattern
Your trunk can't contain itself
The roots are jittery
So they flourish out
Into branches
First thick
They become thinner
And thinner
Until the cut into the air
Ever spiraling 
To the sky
Yet rooted in place
 

My beautiful tree
So different from the rest on our street
The rest bloom white
So boring
So plain
You are beautiful
Your flowers bloom pink
A cherry blossom
The petals twist out from the bud
Slowly spiraling up
And then unraveling from their shell
The thin branches that hold up the flowers
Shrouded by your delicate blossoms
Your center is a star
Gleaming sunset orange
With fairy dust kept inside
Your petals are paper
Painted with blushes
And smiles from passersbys
Your trunk
It is my favorite part about you
So strong and yet
So thin
It wraps and twists itself
So it can hang over the street
Its clusters falling
Into the wind
And being carried up
To the heavens
To be made again
Into a magnificent bloom next year
Breathtaking
You stare down the street
At your neighbors
And you think
Ahh

Repetition
Without you I surely would be lost
In waves of new
They would crash down on me 
Breaking everything inside
Shattering my mind
Like it was merely glass
And newness was a bulldozer
My poetry would not be the same
My life meaningless without you
Routines
I need those to
How would I function without being told to do work?
To get out of the house?
To read or write poetry?
Not told by others but by myself 
Out of routine
Back to repetition
I would surely be lost without you
In waves of new
Newness
I need it as well
Adventure welling up in this little cave 
My soul made for it
I long for the adventures we used to have
Climbing cliffs
Or jumping off waterfalls
Photographing a wild elephant
Or squishing sand between my toes
Ahh
My repetition
My routine
Has already come down
And my purpose

I feel like a tumbleweed
Rolling, hitting things
Smashing into harsh, harmful obstacles
Just repeating over and over
The same motion
No matter how much space I roll over I can’t seem to stop 
No matter the difficulties I roll ahead
Over hurt
Over pain
Over death
Waiting
Just waiting for the day
When I can go back to being a flower
I remember those days
Barely
I remember laughing along to the radio
As we drive along
Going wherever
Nobody cares what's going on outside of the space
Now if I were to try to tumble into that car
I would just roll under the tires
And be forgotten
I would glance at my screen for a moment and go tumbling through the pixels
Once again lost
I would page through a book for a millisecond
And get warped within it’s pages and words, words, so many words
I would pet my dog for a heartbeat

I am a princess,
Not across some faraway sea.
I am here at home
With no one to rule.
Yet I am a princess.

I bounce around the house with ease,
Careful not to catch the disease
That spreads so fast.
Yes, Corona.

I do my royal duties
Such as school and walking the dog,
Then I text some friends in boredom
And write poetry for my blog.

I sit and watch the television,
Awestruck by the news,
Then I go back to my bedroom,
Overtaken by terrible blues.

I pet my royal puppy
Asleep on her royal throne.
I hum along to the radio
As my family surf their phones.

I really can't help it.
Maybe someone else was better fit for the throne than me,
Someone in a Third World country,
Someone far away across the sea.

I was hurt and broken,
Full of pure dismay,
When terrorists were let go.
They just walked away.

We walk through the mountain forest
Following the winding trail
Tripping over pebbles
Clambering over fallen trees
We stop for water
And take a breath
Something hits us
We smell it through our salty sweat
Butterscotch!
We ask our mom if she brought candy
Or fudge from that place in town
No
She says
But what is that smell?
My sister turns
And looks up at me
Eyes wide and hopeful
Is it the trees?
She asks me
No way!
I walk up to the nearest
It is a reddish brown
Like rust
Pieces of bark jutting out oddly
Beautifully
I put my hands up to the tree
And lean
I take such deep breaths
I feel lightheaded
And she is right
It was the trees
They smell of butterscotch!
Yum!
I rack my brain
Trying to remember the tree types we learned in the nature class
White oak?
Dogwood?
No
........
Hmmmm