Poetry

Empty as a glass

Thoughts? Nothing left to sip now

Just the ullage left. 

I could ramble on all day about the ethics of all the things our country’s done. 

But I won’t. 

Instead I’ll say this one thing: it’s going to happen again. 

Pain is a sign 

That something is not right

Just because I have 

A high pain tolerance

Does not mean

That I have to ignore it.

there's a jar on my nightstand;

it used to be my grandmother's

but i recycled her memory 

into a pandora's box full of happiness.

the slips of paper are periwinkle

with dark purple penned messily,

Sometimes I imagine 

That my life is a movie 

Each scene belongs to a song 

Each song to a scene 

Sometimes I let myself 

Just float in the music 

My little notebooks, 

with lined paper so blue like the sea, 

With words of my thoughts upon its pages that have gotten me through so much hardship.

it stretches my face apart 

not unlike the plates 

we learn about in science class. 

pulling at my jaw, 

cheeks, 

lips, 

until finally 

my whole demeanor 

hope is a thing with feathers, you say.

i met it, once.

it's repulsive.

grotesque.

hideous.

it sings too, apparently.

cawing loudly,

off-key,

at 3 o'clock in the morning.

i break lines like a maniac 

obsessed with meter, st 

opping thoughts before they begin 

: a psy 

                 chotic insomniac frankenstein's 

it feels weird 

walking past you like strangers 

knowing i still remember 

everything about you 

from your favorite color 

You can do everything in the world to prove yourself, 

but sometimes you might not have to.

You just have to find the right people. 

this night 

the light is a milky, silvery blue 

cascading down from the sky

in rays that look like liquid silk

dripping off tree branches 

and coating the world in a cool, heavenly glow