Poetry

I looked up at the statue, and it looked down at me.

There we stood, unhappy wretches.

a kiwi soft with suntanned skin from

what seems like a lifetime of being outside,

you swim probably unlike a bird because birds don’t swim

but it’s sweet to imagine – you

It's crazy isn't it  

How we can stare at a screen for hours 

When all it really gives us  

Is a false sense of power 

We think  

Everyone needs help sometimes 

But the problem is it’s hard to find 

And it’s hard to know how much you need it  

From going insane to just wanting to rage quit 

What makes the bird sing,

Playfully like an April breeze,

Living freely,

Fluttering about in the Great Blue Sky.

Not standing the Dead of winter,

What happens in love,

Ends in death,

Despair,

Silence.

We are but bees,

In a captive hive,

You are the fire that warms me,

The desire for my shaking heart;

Your beauty and grace,  

So unimaginable yet,

As if it was a radiant glow,

I personally love

Mary Oliver's

Dog Songs

the way she captivates 

the little dog

in poems 

in books

and in heart

the way the poetry flows

last year,

I did a school debate 

of why 

trans athletes should be able to play in sports

I lost

and I cried

because my teacher

let us pick topics

YWP is the springtime crocuses you have been waiting for,

the flower in the snow

YWP is the golden hour

poetry flows 

Walking home alone.

She spots a man nearby.

He whistles, shouts a lewd comment.

She tries to ignore him at first.

He yells again.

She calls back, laughing nervously, "Maybe another time!"

He doesn't listen.

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.