Poetry

She told me the song on the radio had made her cry 

She calls it stupid how a few chords 

could trigger such feelings. 

I see her as a bluejay, 

i found a binder full of photos from my preschool years,

lined paper covered in neat cursive

signed by my teachers, women who i remember the names of

and not much else. their voices were warm and the house

i still hold you in my heart, 

where it's safe, 

and you have your place, 

but every once and a while, 

i feel you come out, 

We sit alone together 

Pretending to be something we wish we were

Not liking the something we are

Because, maybe pretending to be something  we're not

Will fix all our issues

I like to think I smile more when autumn comes

I caught myself grinning out the window

Trees back home don’t look like that, so full

A tree skirt has a Christmas connotation

But the middle of October brings its own

I am so creative

So flowing

Expressive

And yet so literal

Precise

Logical

I am a walking 80's cliche

A walking contradiction

I stare at the blank, grey wall.

A metaphor on the tip of my tongue

"Shoot, writer's block."

I sit in front of this screen, fingers resting on the keyboard.

Again and again, I think I've run out of words.

The season changed and so did you

Growing cold and flicking me away

As if I was just a fly that flew 

Too close to your nose

And as golden leaves fall to the ground, 

Sometimes I feel like I did too

I remember back in those days

When kids were friends just because they wanted to be

Before trivial things designed social boundaries

Body nested in the damp grass, 
the sky gazes over my skin. 
Feet pulled by the still stars 
while the earth keeps racing. 

Create

writing

medium or genre

poetry

body

this is my routine;

come home from school

open to this the first chance I get

write.

Write 

write 

write