Poetry

I used to walk into a theater and it was salvation.

Stage lights and people who filled up a room, 

I was happy to watch them for hours.

I wanted to become some part of that

some part of the instant admiration

Good morning, sunlight like syrup

Touching every dew-streaked blade

Of grass and puddle of drying mud.

Good morning, air that smells of spring,

Air that sounds

if feelings are fluid then so is

the way you run your hands through your hair halfway out of your braid

your breath against my neck since you don't want others to hear

the statue of liberty was brown once, an unprepared American girl blistering in the sun as if our Constitution has torn sharp green papercuts into her skin.

When I try to tell you about it 

you just act like a clown.

You just want to see me happy 

and I'm just trying to make you proud.

But whenever I try 

it's another brick to the clouds

Inspired by “I’m Not That Girl” from Wicked

i thought his glance would mean a bit
that maybe fate had plans unlit
but dreams like that just slip away
he looked at her, not me that day

i look in the mirror
and flinch like it’s a stranger
like the face staring back
should apologize for existing
there’s a weight in my chest
that has nothing to do with flesh
and everything to do

everyone loves her
like it’s the easiest thing in the world
like breathing
like light finding the ocean
she walks into a room
and it rearranges itself around her
but she never sees it
never sees the way they watch her

Spring is blooming

around me,

the trees flushing pink,

the wildflower-shaped freckles

scattered throughout the grass

growing darker, brighter

with the sun;

The little boy next door,

Slowly,

I stand, 

simmering in the seraphic summer sun, softly

stammering silly sayings,

smiling at the shining sky.

Solemnly, 

I sit,

in the scenes of September, singing

Lying awake at midnight, watching as each blade of the fan spins around, one by one. My bed absorbs me as I think, "hey, maybe I should write something".

On the windowsill

He sat,

Staring at the sky

Writing words

Known only in his head,

Leaning against a reflection

Watching the moon,

Listening to the wind

Drifting through the trees,