Poetry

I've been buried for so long. 

By dead leaves, snow, and the weight of winter's thick, cold air. 

All of it holding me down. 

For months I stayed stagnant. 

Unable to move. 

You wrote a poem about me

It wasn’t very good

You said I made you a tortured poet

Then laughed

And it’s all a blur-

Isn’t it

(I don't mean any offense towards anyone, I swear)

Snow is melting out on the yard

Green grass shows itself to tired eyes

The winter was so long and hard

'Till your warm green powers started to pry.

It isn't fair

The school air

Hurts my arms

Hurts my head

Hurts my body

Hurts my face

Hurts my brain.

School air

Isn't fair.

Thank you Rosa Parks, for the good you did.

Thank you for standing up and fighting back.

Thank you for bringing a country to be proud of.

Though, I fear you wouldn't be happy with the turn we've taken.

A door stands quiet, out of sight, 
Its edges lined with silver light. 
It hums a tune both soft and low, 
Of secret lands the brave may know. 

This is a reflection a boy who bullied me when I was younger. Now, I think I might understand what he was going through.


He scarred me.

Deep.

into my bones.

It feels like

Grief.

Her name was Maria 

My mom's friend Maria 

La mariposa she says 

Soy la mariposa 

Because she spread her wings 

To the land of kings 

America was once known

For its promise

The American promise

That stated everyone was equal

No matter their race

Or gender

Now it’s known

I wish I could go through a breakup.

I want to write sad poems

And listen to sad music

And cry in the dark

And scream into my pillow

I first began in the business of selling people when I sold a strange man in Jerusalem that I did not like for thirty silver pieces. Swaths of people flocked after him down into the precipice of the market.