Take me awake into the wind
Hold my hand tight and
Do not leave me behind.
Let’s run away into the fields and
Climb together to the tops of trees.
Let’s go to the loneliest street and make it full of hope,
We live without worries.
Let’s peer into the expected puddles and
And splash them into the unexpected.
We will have each other's backs,
So don’t worry if your branch breaks,
I will be there for you to lean on.
Though I am not perfect, I will try to be,
I will be
Your perfectly imperfect friend.

 

A cold, hard, grudgingly wet winter day
And you find me
On a walk
Not the most perfect choice for such a dreary afternoon
But when you've finished your homework
(There wasn't much)
And are totally unsure of what you're doing
Then a walk seems the most likely choice
So here we are
On this walk
You have spotted me,
And are unsure what I am doing
And I have spotted you
And are unsure what you are doing
However
Here we both are
On this not very well planned walk
And we have found each other.

The ink from my pen spilled
Making the sheet of paper filled with black clouds.
There is no ink left so
I guess I will just have to tell you in words.
Mouth open, ready to speak,
Nothing comes out,
Only the fog from my breath.
It hangs there frozen,
The words just sit there,
In my mind of course.
I fiddle with my pen
Then try again.
Pen hits paper,
The ink streaming out like rivers.
Writing better then any words spoken.
Each letter strung together creating a story
One that I would read over and over again.
Thanks to ink and paper.

 

Pavement chalk
Melted by rain
Many colors mixed together on the faded concrete.

Grass 
Brown and limp
Dried by the sun
Long and uncut.

A faded brick building
Moss and ivy all around.
Roof sagging into itself.

A single swing
Rusty with age.
Blue plastic bright against the gray sky.

A woman
Black sunglasses covering her eyes
Hair pulled up in a tight bun.
Her daughter sucking a lollipop 
Holding mother’s hand.

 “Mommy!” 
The little girl whines.
 “Why are we here?”

 “This was my school.”
The woman says stiffly
Gazing around at the tomb of her childhood

 “Huh. This doesn’t look like a fun school.”

 “Oh, it was.”

 “Can we go now?”

 “Yes.”

And in the last light of the dying sun
They turned and walked back to their car.
The woman’s sunglasses hiding her tears.

Long delicate fingers dart across the black and white keys.
I like to watch,
The way they move seemingly effortlesly to carry out a melody.
There's an old man on the corner of our street.
I can always hear him playing the piano from an upstairs window,
So I sit on the sidewalk and listen.
Some of the neighbors don't like it,
They say his hands should be still for once,
But he doesn't stop.
He didn't stop.
Now when I go by his house it's empty.
I was the only one who stopped to listen,
who heard the long delicate fingers dart across the black and white keys.
I like to watch
To listen
When I hear the piano, I look towards his window.
But it's someone else.

 

                        I hate meaningless weather.
Frigid days, no snow.
Dark clouds, no rain.
Sunny moments, no heat.

                        I hate these empty promises, these white lies.
Like a raised middle finger from mother nature in the most glorious fashion. 
Nature's nasty tricks suck.
   
But,

                       I love emotional weather.
Passionate blizzards making one's vision whiter than a Starbucks on a lazy Sunday, clashing with a heartless cold that elicits the primordial id of our long departed ice age ancestors.  
Cloth drenching rain that prompts Gene Kelly to sing and dance from the grave with fierce claps of thunder, rivaled only by the broken-hearted cries of a wanting soul.
Days of brilliant sunshine that fills the far too often bleak landscape with loving warmth that brings forth memories of your lover’s soft kiss and tender touch.

the caged bird in my heart
is begging.
begging to sing
begging to be heard
over the many voices
churning the world
shaping it
shaping us.
at last
I have my chance
YWP
it helps me 
it helps us
everyone reading this.
YWP has the key
to unlock the cage
so that the golden
bird
that is my heart
can be free at last
soaring
above the plumes
of fluffy white clouds
its imagination 
flowing without 
cease. 
forever.
so I thank you
YWP
I thank you 
for the key

This poem does not articulate my opinions on this specific issue. It is from the perspective of a mother whose son was killed in a school shooting, talking to the mother of the shooter. It raises an important question: whose fault is it? 

Six Things I Loved About Thomas:
1. He was never afraid to be honest. Sometimes, I mean it was brutal.
Thomas do you like my dress? No mom you look fat. 
Well okay then. No dinner for you. Or me.
2. He liked to paint his nails.
When he turned five, he picked out my dark purple nail polish.
That didn’t surprise me- he was never afraid to be himself.
What did surprise me- when he came home with a girlfriend at 15.
Key word: girl. That didn’t last long.
He was out of the closet by 16.
In drag by 17.
3. He was never ashamed to have me as a mother.
I had him when I was just 16.
I was scared for myself
But mostly scared for him