Poetry

Now I am a teen

Thirteen years old

Childhood has been left behind

My story has been told

I don't have too much time left

I think about it every night

So let me share my stories

I’d like to garden

My own heart,

To pull the weeds of sadness

And hate

From the foundation

I sprout from,

To plant seeds of hope

There is an inexplicable rot inside of me that is incapable of removal

The urge to extract it has incessantly bugged me since birth

Our story always ends the same

No matter how many pages I turn

In the end

I’m the friend in need

And you’re the main character, always having to help me

I try to rip the pages out

I Miss The Old You

When we first met

I had no idea

You would become so important to me

But I’m starting to wish

We never met

Now I’m forced to remember you

I always feel singled out of the crowd.

I wonder why they chose me.

I wonder why they don’t pick on anyone else when I am around.

The library is my favorite thing

A book is my favorite listener

A library is a place of freedom

They have everything

Snacks? 

Are you hungry?

There is a vending machine

my heart was ripped apart in seconds

and it only took a few hours to be stitched up again.

those stitches won't stay

just like I know you won't.

you leave the conversations like deer,

i always feel pressured into

being grateful for the biggest things i can

which to me always sounds like i'm shouting for forgiveness

instead of gratitude. i never get to say i'm grateful

The days I wake up

and fall asleep

and move through the world

tired and clumsy,

it is hard to know the truths

of what I am grateful for.

Those days,

I am grateful not for winter,

In the car

After dark

With the headlights shining

On the wet pavement

Like stars on the ground

I curl up in my seat

And the news is on

Voices fill the car

Not my own

Not my dads

The stone wall upon which he sits is crumbling, rough and moss covered, but it is home. 
He stares up at the migrating geese, their honks loud and clear in the crisp air.