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. 

Taking down for now. Revision in progress!!

Click

Click

Click

I push at the eraser

of my mechanical pencil.

Watching the lead peek out to say

“Hello!”

This one today

happens to be yellow.

I turn the pencil around in my hand.

Erase.

Turn it again.

And put it to paper.

Grinding up a stick of lead 

into a grey smear across the page.

The pencil is my voice.

A voice that can say more than words.

It says doodles.

It says little patterns I draw 

in the corners of my books.

More than my still hands.

Less than real doodles.

Stripes, dots, and swirls.

It says the faces I like to draw.

Made accurate 

by the real ones in front of me in class that day. 

Sometimes sad.

Sometimes neutral.

Sometimes joyful.

Always a reflection of my own mood.

It says:

English journal entries,

math problems,

Latin declensions,

Spanish compositions,

and all these things wouldn’t be the same in pen or marker or wooden pencil.

They wouldn’t be mine.

Pens are for grown adults

who don’t make mistakes when they write 

and thus don’t require an eraser.

Erasable pens are for people who think they are 

adults who don’t make mistakes when they write

and thus don’t require an eraser.

Markers are for kids.

Bad for detail.

Colorful and attention seeking.

Wooden pencils are for school kids.

Sometimes very

sharp.

Other times very 

dull.

Replaced often because no one has the energy to keep track of them.

But a mechanical pencil is for me. 

Always sharp.

Or at least most of the time.

Replaceable erasers.

As many as I need.

Colorful, or gray and serious.

And perfect

for standardized tests.

It says everything inside my head and makes it real.

A thought only means something to me.

A spoken word only means something to those who were there to hear it.

But something written down

is forever, if you take care of it.

Who knows?

Maybe my notebook will fossilize 

and humans 

thousands of years in the future 

will read my journal and know all sorts of things I was thinking that day. 

And while that chance is very small

I can guarantee that the thoughts in my head,

on my computer,

spoken aloud,

will certainly not fossilize.

My mechanical pencils 

dump

out

my

brain. 

Make it something that can be picked apart.

Studied.

Examined.

Appreciated.

Like art.

My mind is a work of art.

I am the artist

and mechanical pencils

Click

Click

Click

are my medium of choice.

Hope is often used as a term to wish for something.

But hope is broad.

Vague.

Some people hope to win a sports game.

Or maybe to get something for their birthday.

And some people hope for more than that.

Some people hope for hope

when it’s hard for them to believe.

In anything.

Anyone.

And in today’s world,

hope has a lesser meaning

because it seems like the only thing we can do.

Hope for a better world,

hope for change,

hope as hard as we possibly can.

Hope like it will happen,

because we know it can happen.

We can make it happen.

Wish upon every star,

every time the clock strikes 11:11.

Because we have hope.

Because we believe

in fixing every atrocity

we hoped would never occur.

We hoped for times nothing like these,

but for peace, and 

for unity.

We hoped for a warless earth,

for an end to violence,

end to hate.

But the hope is not what brings us down,

what forms the void in our hearts,

separates our thoughts, angry, confused, sad, and vengeful.

No, it is the world that does these things.

Hope is what keeps the world trembling instead of crumbling

because it is the only thing keeping life alive.

Hope is what prevents those thoughts from 

coming to life,

fusing them into rage that sends tears 

sliding down our faces,

staining it with the sticky, 

burning feeling of despair.

We have hope that this will end,

that the fire will be 

starved.

That the world will become 

known for its hope.

Hope is often used as a term to wish for something.

I hope for hope.

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Does it?

Is our pride in a land of freedom and bravery? 

Because every time I hear a story on the news,

A new death, 

A new shooting,

A new murder,

I can't help but become more hesitant to say I am an American with happiness and pride,

Because how could I be happy to reside,

In a place so filled with hatred, judgement, and disgrace,

And the violence that so many choose to embrace,

We are killing our own kind,

How dare you take the lives of a sister or a brother? 

What will it take for you to look into the eyes of another,

And see them as a living person, 

And nothing else? 

For when God said to love your neighbor,

He did not specify what they would look like,

Or what they would sound like,

Or where they would come from,

He simply said to love them. 

So the star spangled banner may yet wave,

But not over the land of the free,

But a home still learning to be brave.