Poetry

As much as you want it to be, It's not my fault.

Its not my fault you don't think I'm good enough for you.

It's not my fault you aren't together anymore.

It's not my fault she my mother.

a black cat crossed the street

as i was speeding down it,

i came to a halt, 

but it was already gone. 

i guess that it's lucky:

i didn't kill the cat,

but as i stepped out to look where it stood,

You can't rule with an imaginary crown,

we left the real ones on the shelf in Great Britain,

hundreds of years ago.

We left to be free,

we the people would love to be free.

There's a person in my class. He's mean to me, yet he is bullied by others. You're not good enough and no one likes you echoes through my head, his voice pounding in my ears. Agreeing with my bad thoughts.

a fresh white blanket covers the hill.

i press my palms down into the layers.

flakes fall onto my face.

they melt fast but the feeling stays.

well 

it’s November already

how does the time pass so quickly?

just a month ago, i was in a toxic relationship

now i have the girl of my dreams

just a month ago, i was screaming and crying to the wind

hushed murmurs, a squeaking chair

low mmms and ahhhs and snaps

and a poet standing dead center to begin dissection —the act of pulling out an intestine to test the color for ink

I saw a photo

Of you when you still had hair

Brown, nothing

Special, that hair was.

I forgot what you looked like

With hair that didn’t come off when you traded it

For a hat.

Black threads interlaced. 

Buttery seams–

The feel of dreams.

Baggy enough,

enough to be fitted.

Sprawled on the marley floor,

Each pulse of my heart 

tugs a string of my soul,

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,