i really don't get prejudice

i mean just the concept of it

how could you hate someone borne

by the same earth, the same fire

how could you explain someone else's life

as being worth less air than your own

i mean our lungs work the same don't they

we grasp the whole universe 

in our gaze but can't even look at our fellow beings 

and understand them as something other than not our own

i mean just the idea of it makes no sense

after we die,

won't all our skeletons look the same

The United States of America

as seen on the binding documents, on formal things

USA

as said by random people you know

The US

as told by your parents

America

as said by the people who come here for a better future

but what hope is there when our country is nearly as bad as their home?

What's the point of coming here, if only to die and fear and be hated on?

We used to be America

that promising future

but now,

the future cannot promise anything beneficial to us

not as long as our current government terrorizes us

not as long as a delusional man sits upon a throne of blood money

not as long as we are...

this?

I write longhand.

Journal, pencil, print.

Letters melding together in a harmony on the page.

Graphite scratching the paper, pencil sharpening every 5 minutes.

Lined paper, perfect for doodles and random thoughts.

Neat and pretty.

No flowery handwriting, just the necessities.

Thoughts flowing onto the page like water.

Brain humming faster than the pencil can write.

Mistakes fixed later.

Spelling near perfect.

The sound of pencils on paper filling the room.

Clickety clack of keyboards around me.

But I'm perfectly happy with my hands on my pencil and my pencil on the page.

The red bike,

It just sits,

No one ever touches it,

No one ever claimed the bike,

After years in the park,

It lost some of its shine after tons of storms,

The rust comes and covers the beautiful paint,

The weeds begin to wrap around the wheels,

The bike doesn't look as beautiful as it used to,

But now it's a part of people's memories,

Just yesterday an little kid climbed up and pretended it was his own bike,

That's why it was placed there,

 I placed it there, 

All those years,

And after all those memories,

My wish finally came true.

i write poetry on lined paper

in class & only half pay attention, rounded letters

barely containing all i want to say. i use green marker

& stare dreamily into the yellowed margins,

romanticizing, as poets do, the weight of my handwritten words.

i write poetry in a black notebook

sometimes, eking out the line breaks with a nearly dead

V7 blue roller ball pen. it comes slower then, & in starts,

and i can only assume the poems want me to think

in between inspirational bursts.

i write poetry on the notes app on my phone

about the moments i see that don't need

paper or pen, only a line sprung from poetic depths

& recorded in that almost formal sans serif font.

i write poetry

in the create section of YWP, and lose it, often,

when the words spill & tumble out of me & i forget

in my haste to copy it down

somewhere else. probably there are dozens of poems

lost to the abyss, but what is a poet

if not their forgotten lines? their unvoiced stanzas?

what is a poet if not one to write?

We read poems on printed white sheets in english

Cover them with highlights

And words like freedom

Are covered in pink.

And a hundred years ago

People wrote for freedom

That they could taste on the tips of their tongues,

And then they grew up,

And soon they were able to swallow it

And feed it to their children.

I know from venn diagrams

Of walt whitman and langston hughes

That history moves forward,

Some begin singing

And everyone else will fight to get a voice

A place

In the chorus

And someday they will have it.

It’s not supposed to go like this,

We’re already singing,

You can’t take us away.

We’re singing this song

And it’s messy and no one knows the rhythm, 

Like prayers at hanukkah

But you’re not supposed to take us away

Now that we’re here.

The song’s supposed to get louder,

Prouder.

Instead we’re trying to sing as we read headlines in notifications

On our friend’s phone

Who subscribes to the new york times

ICE granted more powers

Minnesotan murdered in the streets.

And we have to remember

The america we’re singing for,

The americans we’re singing for.

love cannot be created or destroyed.

like energy 

it shape shifts

following those filled with passion

and hope

but appearing to leave 

at the slightest touch of pain

guilt

and heartbreak 

this love

first occupies the body of a young girl

when she feels the warmth of the summer sun on her skin

at the beach on the first day of vacation

her eyes light up at the sparkling turquoise water 

of home

it strengthens as she begins to trust 

and care 

for family and friends 

and begins to take new forms

as a glimmer of romance appears in her heart

showing her that love can feel like euphoria 

it fades in and out

flickering like candlelight 

as a boy turns 

from crush

to boyfriend

to someone she used to know

when she's alone, it dims

but never dies

like a silent secret

a beacon of chance

for a dream

that feels like heaven to touch 

tastes like candy on her tongue 

and looks like pure magic 

and some days

it feels as if love has left her completely 

to rot with pity and regret

but love knows when to stay

love doesn't leave someone 

who was born

to love.