Please no sun I'm still asleep It's only (looks at clock) nine thirty Five more minutes Whyyyyyy do I have to get up I have no plans for the day Ugh fine I'm up.
So do I get dressed? Or is it a pajama day Ok, mental Rock Paper Scissors Hahaha yesssss Never getting out of my PJs Do I get up, or stay in bed? Ummm, no question Cause what do I have to get up for anyway?
i feel like i’ve been given this ginormous responsibility to be alive in the world- i’m forced by gravity and nature to be true to who i am
but i don’t know what that means.
who am i as a human, who am i as a teenager, who am i as a student? who am i when the moonlight refuses to shine on my window and my lamp dims out, leaving me in absolute darkness with faint scratches from the staticky radio?
i don’t know who i am.
sometimes i sit and wait, and wait, and look out at the birds on the lawn, and wait, and cross my fingers behind my back, thinking that maybe i’ll have an epiphany and suddenly i’ll know exactly who i am.
i’m never the same person. i’m constantly growing and evolving and there shouldn’t be a paper box surrounding me, telling me my name,
i’m trying to write in three dimensions so that every word is echoed in your ear- every syllable is resting on your tongue, every metaphor is tugging on your sleeve i’m trying to write because i feel so desperate to make this poem heard- i feel like i’m trying to take out all my organs at once so that you know i’m not trying to conceal anything. i’ve been in your place before. i’ve sat slightly beyond your shoulder and cringed as you read my title wrong, left the audience feeling shaky and unsettled, skipped right over my metaphors and final words, made me feel homesick for a better time when you didn’t maul my poem into being yours, when my poetry was just my poetry and i didn’t feel like i was walking in reverse at every open mic and letting the stiff plastic chairs have more presence than me. i remember a time when i didn’t call poetry
i don’t want to disappoint myself. feeling all this weight pushing down on me, resistance and tension billowing from my shoulders like a cape. i don’t care if you think i should have done something differently, if you think i was wrong to move too quickly in the speediest direction, it wasn’t what i intended but that’s how i turned out origins are messy and they don’t make sense if you’re reading upside down. the walls are only closing in when my eyes are open and the gauze has been removed- there’s nothing beyond the shadows that will comfort me, only hidden creatures from my imagination that watch and linger long after midnight. but here i am, the last one standing, or the only one who ever stood, and i don’t know what to do next. i feel like i’m trying to stay on two icebergs that are breaking apart;
Open your eyes and see what is good, what people have done just because they could. In a time of chaos and sickness and fear, there are some that remind us they are always here. Think of the nurses that are working so hard, they help and they heal the folks that are scarred. There are businesses donating the supplies that they can, compassionate people lending a hand. The media focuses on all that is bad, but what if they talked about what made people glad. The flowers are blooming the sunshine is bright, and I think this world will be alright. Good deeds are everywhere, and they aren't in disguise, all you must do is open your eyes.
I took this picture up at my camp in New York. I love hummingbirds and was really excited to get this shot! I learned a lot about shutter speed and how to take a picture of subjects that move very fast. I waited a LONG time to get this picture!
the spiders spin you webs to veil your eyes and afford you silk dresses and a throne of silver you thought you were their queen but don't you know spiders? my darling, they will crown you with a diadem of venom a prisoner in her own throne close your eyes they whisper sweetly as they suck your youth from your cherry blossom cheeks and eat your dumpling soft skin mouth dancing with savoury strawberries look at your fine silk gown can't you see it's your chains? think of their saccharine words can't you see it's the guillotine poised over your regal neck? look at you, my sweet they will vanquish your ever lasting beauty you are stuck in their web of lies if only you would simply open your eyes
You make me laugh. Wait. No. Made. That's what past tense is: "is to was to I can't remember anymore". Now you're just a shadow, splitting through my room in the morning, a contrast. Or maybe you're a moonbeam, slicing through my memory, planting flowers wherever there is pain. And hey. It hurts that you're gone. Really hurts. Because all I can remember is the way you scowled at me when I accidentaly hurt you and I swear it was an accident but you didn't care, you said I wasn't thinking. It hurts becasue you were so, so right every dang time. But most of all, it hurts because I spent hours plucking the petals off a daisy, wondering if I'd ever get to call you darling.
open your eyes I'm here in the room with you we're hanging out no masks no six feet apart just laughing like we did before you're talking about flowers I'm listening you have the twinkle in your eye than isn't the same through the phone I can't believe we're really here no phone no screen just me any you siting in my bed room talking your so real i think if I reach out and touch your hand I'll feel warm living flesh then I open my eyes and its me in my room no one else
I just sit all day in alternate reality bored out of my mind all I do is read and thats not enough I havn't seen my best friend in four months and I see her tommorrow the only thing I do is sit I'm so bored-
And yet about 540 thousand people have died of COVID19 some have died in protests and yet
words are hard i try to make them right the ones that make sense the ones that sound pretty and fall off my tounge with a smile but how i feel doesn't turn into words its not smooth or clear like the shattered glass of the window i taped back together with my imagination and pretended wasn't scattered across my green carpet green like your eyes on a grey cloud day how i feel is rugged and spiky like the cactus on the windowsill dirt mixed with glass bits destruction i don't recall only the cuts on my fist remember the feeling that was felt as they broke through the delicate, and pretty, but in the end pointless glass words exposing the ones made of hardened tears and the jagged part of love that can only be found after you think its gone words are hard a reflection of the uncertainty and undoubted insanity