Poetry

I wake up under covers or chains,

Alone in a bed I didn't sleep in,

Clothes like a straight-jacket around my limbs,

My thoughts locked in the prison of my brain.

Outside it is snowing—a cotton cover,

This is not a political poem

It can’t be

Because I need hope

And I cannot find hope in such a divided world

I mean, look at us

Left versus right

There’s war in Europe, 

but this time the US has stopped selling guns,

Not to join in or contain the spread,

But to talk with the invaders,

Air

circulates

around

us

breathing together

=

starting together

playing the same scale altogether

with people you don't know

We went on a hike 

because I was music-ed out

walking in the cold all bundled up

jackets, borrowed gloves

sneakers

crunching through the icy wet

snow-steeped landscape

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,

Like atoms, humans attract when far, and repel when close; distance is the beauty of this prose. 

stupid little trees

speak to me

through their whispering leaves

they seem to grieve.

stupid little clouds

cry so damn loud

through snow and rain

they share their pain.

I am just too much, 

too loud,

too weird,

too open and honest,

too kind, 

just too everything. 

Talk about my emotions, 

so smart about who I am, 

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,

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

Streets of Minneapolis by Bruce Springsteen 

is so hard to watch when comments

are sobbing about seeing renee's face

or alex pretti's

with flowers piled up and ice agents shooting