1. How do the thousands of spiders that
crawl up and down my cells appear
so fast? The weight, every voice
becomes another creature of a
hysteria based affliction. Even in the
dark, like a twig you didn’t snap,
whiplash from the shock but even a
soothing voice feels just like a lie.

2. What does it feel like to hold long
and fast a sound mind. To grip the bouy
through even the worst monsoons, shake
yourself off, wag your tail, and do it again.
I still get up with all teeth showing but
my sockets are empty and face gaunt
and white, waterlogged with salt pouring
from my wounds.

3. How can the spring not lift you high,
everyone shines around you pink with
the new pearly moon and you still sit,
sectioned off with winter still on your
shoulders, sucking yourself in afraid of
the inevitable absence of light, it’s still
months away.

My older brother, my rock. The athletic one, the businessman, the strong, and smart one. Tall and skinny, an envy to many, he walks through life with the just the right amount of confidence. In many ways, I have looked up to him for my whole life. He is witty, a people person. A magician with words. He pulls ideas out of his head and spins them like a web. He works his way around a mess with such ease and grace, you’d think that he's a dancer. He lives in the eye of a hurricane. Disaster and chaos twirling around him, but where he goes, a calmness follows. When he leaves, and before he arrives, is when the rain hits, the wind starts beating against your skin, bringing tears to your face with the harshness of the truth when he reveals it to you. He is a closed book, lock thrown away, and not to be searched for. With questions, come no answers when he is involved. I see my mother's hair turning grey, and her eyes growing old as she sits, waits, tries to be a part of his life.

Today I got lost in my head.

And while I was lost, I realized that not only was I lost

but I was trapped too.

In every direction all that I saw

were metal bars and infinite paths,

each more winding than the next.

Every step I took, just took me
 
one step backward from where I wanted to be.

And every turn I made had me dizzy

and soon disoriented.

With every move I made I heard a rushing

in my ears grows louder.

That rushing was the pound of feet,

the scrape of claws on stone,

the shrieks of wild beasts held dormant too long.

As I tried to run from these creatures--

those with many heads,

and staring eyes,

and jaws that glint with rows of teeth--

I found that my legs had been cut.

And the faster I tried to go,

the closer the beasts came,

It was something the Sandhill Crane said. At a great harvest party, his silver fringed feathers shining in the firelight. We were all gathered round, munching on the last rinds of zucchini and acorn squash; the Leopard Tortoise, the Bay Cat, the Java Sparrow, even the Groundhog was invited that day. Their faces showed no signs of disturbance in the honeyed, flickering glow, but I have been unable to shake his words since they left that sharp golden beak of his the very evening. 
He was commenting on one of Mrs. Sparrow's messy homemade scarves. She was rather beside herself this time, for it had come out poorly once again with a great big bite taken out of the silken blue thread. But the Crane, in attempts to console her, said: "Everything happens for a reason Mrs. Sparrow; everything happens for a reason."

          Long before man walked the earth, there were two beings: one of light and warmth, and one of dark and solace. We call these beings the Sun and the Moon. The Sun and the Moon were watched by the spiteful, mean-spirited Stars. The Stars liked it quiet and dark, much like the Moon. The Sun and the Moon wandered the bleak landscape of earth separately for what seemed like an eternity, and the Stars happily watched their misery, until one day, the Sun met the Moon, and together they danced across the Earth in a joyous bliss, spreading light and love to the four corners of their world.

There's that girl again.
She has short brown hair, which hovers in between straight and curly.
She has soft green eyes, which she hides behind big tortoiseshell glasses.
She has fidgety hands, with fingernails that have been bitten many times.
She wears jeggings and solid color t-shirts.
She hides behind a book, a different one every day.
She keeps to herself, staying quiet and inconspicuous.
She doodles on her classwork and taps her fingers on her desk.
She loves art, and has pages full of drawings.
She wants to be a writer, and spends hours working on her books.
She daydreams about magic, imagining a world full of it.
She is afraid of feedback, and hides her work.
She loves to sing, but tells herself she's not good enough. 
She tries her hand at acting, but is scared to be on stage. 
She looks at herself in the mirror and tells herself she doesn't look good.
She wonders if she'll ever be enough.

The wind will howl, 
The night will fall, 
Can you hear the raven's call?

Outside your window
The moon does crawl,
Can you hear the raven's call?

Trees will shake,
And leaves will fall,
Can you hear the raven's call?

In dead of night
When shadows stand tall,
Listen to the raven's call.
 

I won't write about
sunsets painted on tree canopies
or how the horizon is aglow with flames,
I won't write about the spiced apple cidar
and the cinnamon of my childhood.
Autumn is not those sensations,
not those memories,
not to me at least.

Autumn was the start of a school year,
eagerly awaiting my friends
and the joy they brought me daily.
It was the community
and the unity
that made it my favorite time.
It was morning walks
with my nose turning red
and the sky still dark,
but everything was still bright and fun
with laughter and conversation.
It was leaving school late after rehearsals,
throats raw
and knees red.

It was squishing into the same booth
at the same restauraunt
and debating about what appetizers to get.
It was not having enough money in my bank account,
but not caring
because spending time with friends was priceless.

Some things, thought to long about, find
themselves lost along weary worn trails.
Dove in droves down a hole, but I do not mind

the constant relapse of existential crisis. Tied
down is not in my dictionary, don’t sweat the details,
somethings are thought to long about. Find

a too bright star burning the sky behind
you, stare endlessly and let it fill your sails
to dive in droves down a hole, do not mind

the gap. I could not stand to be blind,
trapped behind black to watch the constant wails
of somethings thought to long about. I find

I fear the abyss, the constant grind
of the unknown at work, it prevails.
She dove in droves down a hole but, I do not mind,

she was crazy anyway, always she eyed
the stars but tripped head over tails.
Somethings thought to long about find
they dive in droves down a hole, but I do not mind.