Poetry

Black threads interlaced. 

Buttery seams–

The feel of dreams.

Baggy enough,

enough to be fitted.

Sprawled on the marley floor,

art is love and love pushes through.

A group of girls

in a circle in the shade

talk quietly in the world

their voices rising and falling

a stream of consciousness

pulling from their minds

memories of the day before.

A whistle

a ball

vermont is a half-finished poem with all the lines scratched out.

grandfathers who’ve lived here their whole lives still talk of leaving,

it is november now which is unbelievable

because last night we got blisters on our feet running

house to house in too-small rainboots, our wings

flapping lopsidedly behind us. it rained on and off

Am I doing this right? 
Is there some rule book for college that my mom never made me read?

Was it lost in translation because I was never popular? 
Or maybe because my parents had stricter rules?

MY HEART IS ONLY ABOUT THE SIZE OF MY FIST. I HAVE WEAK ARMS, SO MY FISTS DON'T HIT VERY HARD. MY HEART IS DIFFERENT IN THIS REGARD.

You should stop yelling

The clutter; I’m broken wings

Is peace just that hard?

The promise carved in ink was grand,

Yet some fell out of the bounds of its claims.

Noble words, though finely planned,

Still bent for power, wealth, and name.

it is Halloween morning

and pouring rain.

wake up & look out the window -

When did our country become a monarchy?

When did it become an autocracy?

We vote, yes

But this new ruler

This new president

This new king

He’s broken law after law

Stripped away peoples rights

I look at the sky,

The clouds paint pinks and oranges,

The sun shines yellow into the skyline.

Does the sky care about things humans ignore?

The clouds stream tears of pollution,