Pluto is a planet to me. It's a small one, but a planet just like the rest.
I relate to pluto more than the average girl. Some people would describe me as "vanilla". Not the first choice, but still a decent flavor. I don't want to be vanilla. I want to be a flavor that's a first pick, not a backup when there are no other flavors.
Pluto is vanilla too. So insignificant that even though it fits in the solar system, you almost forget it's there. I'm so insignificant that even though I fit into social groups, you almost forget I'm there.
Pluto is so unimportant that people truly removed it's title of "planet". But I know what it feels like Pluto. I believe in you.
I love staring at a clear night sky for hours I love to sit on my deck and paint the landscape I love the smell of freshly cut grass and a campfire I love to wander the forest by my house and take pictures from weird angles I love to close my eyes and listen to the birds singing on a hot summer day I love to read books while lounging in my bright orange bean bag chair I love singing at the top of my lungs with music blasting from my speakers I love chasing my dog all around the yard and tackling him I love eating a chocolate lava cake while watching a movie with my sister I love feeling the nerves I get right before acting on stage in front of an audience I love going on a hike and being one with nature I love fishing with my dad at our favorite lake I love designing and creating a haunted house for my town I love the taste of a smoothie any day of the year
The oiled surface of the stand showing each glossy glint, a subtle river dripping infinite varieties of the ways your life could go the ebb and flow of choices but this is only the decor of your life the support the feelings the face you shine to make yourself seem grander than you are. Your heart is the crystal ball but there are no prophecies to be found just the simple glass that you look through and then decide what your future will be.
I remember a time when I thought the world was a beautiful place.
I remember thinking about villains in stories and movies and laughing because everyone nowadays is so nice. How could anybody be that cruel? It didn’t make sense.
I remember history lessons, and the way we learned about war, discrimination, hatred. It seemed so far away, as if they were fairy tales told to scare us. The deaths, the victims, all of that was just numbers to us. An annoyance to fit so many zeros onto that one line we set aside for statistics.
I remember watching the news with my father half-heartedly. I didn’t understand what the person on the screen was talking about, and I didn’t really want to. I just wanted the person to stop talking about whatever he was going on about so we could switch back to Disney Channel.
Daylight swims in puddled rain Milking Sunday afternoons with pain Shattering the weakest segment of chain. Daylight questions dreamers' answers Dogs of hellfire, moonlit dancers Feet pounding the Earthlight into cancer.
We've dug our hands into the dirt Of society, planted our children there, Letting grow into this corporate disease; Is our future of weeds? We've grown ourselves off of so much hurt So will anyone care
I am 237 years old today, the oldest tree in this forest. I am a living measurement of time, a history book in its most natural form. Wizened by decades of observation witness to catastrophes and wonders you will never know but there is one tragedy I will tell you. One of every twelve trees in Vermont are ash trees like me and their wails in the wind warn of imminent death in the form of an emerald beetle. Their larvae grow under our bark, feed on our flesh, blocking our transportation of water and nutrients until our skin becomes brittle and splits, our crowns of foliage fall and we die of thirst and starvation. These invasive aliens won't stop until we've all collapsed, returning to the earth we once arose from. You may be thinking "It's just trees, why should we care?" Our lives are more entwined than you realize. We take your exhales
Pick up a book and start to read close your eyes and let yourself feel let the story take you through it all be encompassed in the bliss of love get lost in the fantasy that is fiction feel as the tears spill down your cheeks smile as butterflies swim through your stomach watch yourself be torn between feelings of love and hate feel the words sinking into your skin let yourself be broken put the book down and pace the room let your thoughts spin you in circles pick up the book again savor each page as it is the last when you reach the final page, smile you have done something great you have let yourself feel all the feelings all the feelings we try to suppress you have done something beautiful beautifully heartbreaking.
One moment One oppertunitity A simple eye connection And secret looks at the ground A bag spilling with coins Bills Faces glaring up at us Screaming take me. But this money comes with a price We both know that. Take the money Pay the price And you're filthy rich. In money anyway. Our hands touch on the bag A thick canvas sack Rough under our fingertips Take the money In that moment our eyes meet A train whistles We stand up and walk away. Our heel clicks fading into the distance, Leaving behind an undesirable canvas sack
They say that He was the water And she was the fire But his riptides overcame her And buried her flame. She was caught in his wild storms And tossed around like a rag doll. She used to be fierce But now she is soggy And flexible like a rubber band. He scattered her ashes Like seed to a starving bird, His dark eyes flashing with a thousand storms. He was the water And she was the fire But then she grabbed hold of the wind And whisked him away.
Happiness is the faded memory of tiny cross country skis next to your father’s tall ones. Of climbing the snowy hill sideways, or else you will fall back down. Happiness is the sight of a frozen pond next to an open field. The swish-swish of skis penetrating the still, quiet air. Happiness is a beautiful old house, nestled in the evergreen trees, sagging with the weight of the sparkling snow. This was a time of an innocent mind not yet troubled with the weight of the world.
The first time I heard of the wave of school shootings streaking across our nation, I was shaken to the core of my being.
The second time, I was scared but not shocked.
By the third time, I was used to getting alerts about students being shot in one of the few places they should feel safe. And that’s not a sentence anyone should ever have been able to say.
I read the stories online. I read the obituaries of the students, who had opportunities awaiting them they would never be able to take. Acceptances into college, internships, places on sports teams that were robbed from them in a single bullet.
Everyone gets a chance to knock, only some are let in. When it is my turn, I knock once. Once for the one individual each of us can be. I knock twice. Twice for the two genders that society tries to define us with. I knock six times. Six times for the six races society tries to judge us by. I knock seventeen times. Seventeen times for the teachers and students that were slaughtered in Florida for wanting an education. I knock nineteen times. Nineteen times for the amendment that allows me to put forth a vote that represents my country. I knock one last time. One last time so that they know I will come back. And I will never stop knocking.