Writing

Star spangled

light speckled

bright flecks against dark

red

our blood

white

the favored color of our skin

blue

our limbs

our bruises

Why does it feel

Like happy poems

Are harder to write than

Sad ones?

Like when you're feeling good

The inspiration

Feels minimal

And harder to express

What do you think?

Big feathered wings 

Almost alone

In the middle of the ocean

Soaring through the sky

Or maybe swimming through the waves

When I grow up,

I want my own house.

Not to big, not to small,

But enough for me and a roommate.

When I grow up, 

fallen ashes, soot-covered letters
little bullets fly through
stained missing pieces
 
slices through
throat tightens
swirling, racing, losing hope
 
gently, seeds fold into the ground
peace lilies blooming

I finger a rich, dark green leaf, dappled with sunlight. Running my fingers over the rough bark of an oak tree, I lift my head towards the sunlight. The sun warms me down to my toes, and I scoop up handfuls of dirt.