almost flora kane

United States

my pen name is flora kane. i'm a slytherin, infp-t, christian, and generally insane. joined 3.30.2018.

~ will do reviews on request ~

currently hoping i don't lose anyone else.

Message from Writer

i’m addicted to my ringtone,
and get angry when it’s not him.
is this real?

Published Work

mara: bitter as the sea (EDITED/ADDED)

the congregation of well dressed travelers look terribly out of place before the run-down mansion of a house. they pass the sign overtaken by brush which used to display the ownership, and someone murmurs the forgotten name: summer grove. once well-kept trees drape branches over the roof and surrounding area, weeping willows full of flowers in the spring weather. wonder overtakes those walking the stone path toward the building, a dark stain in the surrounding flora.

the party continues while their horses snort behind them, stamping feet while tied to trees. two soldiers lead, with no armor except for a sword on their hip. A graying doctor takes his time at the back of the group while his young apprentice follows closely at the heels of the soldiers. there is one woman, in the middle of everything, who seems the most shocked of all even past her severe gaze and sharp features. 

she halts abruptly, turning to the doctor...

mara: bitter as the sea (EDITED/ADDED)

the congregation of well dressed noblemen look terribly out of place before the run-down mansion of a house. they pass the sign overtaken by brush which used to display the ownership, and someone murmurs the forgotten name: summer grove. once well-kept trees drape branches over the roof and surrounding area, weeping willows full of flowers in the spring weather. wonder overtakes those walking the stone path toward the building, a dark stain in the surrounding flora.

the party continues while their horses snort behind them, stamping feet while tied to trees. two soldiers lead, with no armor except for a sword on their hip. a boy, looking about twelve, follows, most likely a young apprentice to the doctor, a graying man taking his time at the back of the group. there is one woman, in the middle of everything, who seems the most shocked of all even past her severe gaze and sharp features. 

the woman steps up to...

luck is man-made. attraction isn't... i don't think.

​i think, perhaps, if luck wasn’t so artificial, 
superstition might crawl its way into 
my list of causes for the memories i wish were real. 
i spend another dollar on a lotto ticket where 
i earn nothing except those sticky silver shavings 
and a paper sparkling with hope of greed. 
how many times will i waste more in hopes of great gain? 
such is the question i used to ask myself 
before i realized something like 
before-love might be real. 
it’s one of those things where i recognize life 
to have certain pieces, holding them in its hand 
and just out of reach. or it makes sense now 
how all the songs which may sound so 
different say the same things. 
i don’t know if the stars aligned, 
or simply right place, right time, but i 
wouldn’t give this up, 
(whatever “this” is) even if it was only chance 
which brought me to this moment, 
hoping against hope that we...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

when my lunch table is empty, this is why.

i can feel it breaking. 
it’s unbecoming how i’m shoving 
candy in my mouth as if the sugar 
will make silence and 
sharp tongues 
easier to bear. we
don’t know each other anymore, 
or maybe too much, 
we know too much.
 
some of us need to stop grasping
for attention. i know i’m arrogant, but 
i’m the only one who can 
keep everyone else together,
we’re sandcastles at 
the edge of a storm. i 
am so deeply exhausted, with which, 
i cannot say since 
i’m afraid of your tempers,
all staring through my defenses, from 
around the full cafeteria table.

you in particular are entranced in the hold of fire,
laying on the ground in a mud pile to cool down.
hoping by the time lightning comes 
you’ve dried to sand, 
so the strike of heat might 
bring your physical and mental together. 
if that works we’ll both find it more realistic, 
my bloody feet dancing over your broken...

youth and how we lie to ourselves

i once wondered in my waiting, 
if it — this perhaps —  even made sound conclusion. 
to that i merely laugh.
occasionally my mind rather likes 
to play tricks on me, for 
i will think on such things without 
any recognition of tomorrow’s similar fault. 
oh, how i fall prey to non-remembering and memory alike! 
as prey i must be, one laying in hunter’s path, 
with no care to what may happen. 
i remain, terribly still… 
while my fragile understanding barely holds together.

she came from english. i was only passing by... {4}

the morning rose with gray skies. i pull on boots instead of sneakers in anticipation of coming rain. thinking over the poorly laid out plan in my head, i begin walking toward the english building. harry had two ideas: stalk her on instagram, or go back to where i met her before. i decided to go with the latter, and i didn’t tell him it was actually because i already tried all the social media platforms i could think of. crossing over to the concrete steps, a few people pass me here and there. i stand for a minute, looking around and seeing no one with her smile. settling down to wait, i listen to a windchime in a tree clink out the notes of a birdsong i may have heard before. at the top of the stairs i sit, book in hand, which i didn’t even realize i brought. 1984, george orwell. 

time must’ve passed between opening the pages...

today's news: she has a new crush. this is not new news.

spontaneity might one day get the best of her. not yet, she’ll keep running just out of reach of the gripping hands of consequence. she almost got caught, when was it? a couple of days ago. it feels like a couple of weeks at least sine she sent that email. an email, that sounds real stupid, but it worked for her. you see, she watched him fail to spin a pencil like those party tricks. his nails were painted black, she noticed, and even after the bell rang she thought about it. walking home from school that was stuck in her head like a song you don’t know too well. 

what would i say, she asked herself, if there were no consequences? 

i saw your nails. careful with that, i think i just fell in love with you. 

of course, said in a joking manner, because she doesn’t even know him, really. she imagined saying it anyway. sure, she didn’t...

she came from english. i was only passing by... {3}

“you alright?” harry says from across the restaurant table. i glance up from pushing my silverware around my plate, returning to reality, and taking note of the creases in between his eyebrows.

“yeah, yeah,” i reply, waving my hand to the side and shoving a forkful of food into my mouth. “don’t worry about it.”

“alright, but this might be a bit awkward if we keep sitting here in silence,” he says with a shrug. i grimace in agreement. truthfully, he knows i’m not acting normal, especially since i’ve known him for almost two years now. he’s the one who told me we had to go get some food, trying to get me to talk. 

“harry…” i start, hesitating. 

“yeah?”

“how do- i mean... what if-” 

“take your time,” he says, laughing around his bite. 

“i don’t know how to find this girl,” i manage. he stops suddenly, fork halfway to his mouth. halfway to the stairs, halfway across the...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

when my lunch table is empty, this is why.

i can feel it breaking. 
it’s unbecoming how i’m shoving 
candy in my mouth as if the sugar 
will make silence and 
sharp tongues 
easier to bear. we
don’t know each other anymore, 
or maybe too much, 
we know too much.
 
some of us need to stop grasping
for attention. i know i’m arrogant, but 
i’m the only one who can 
keep everyone else together,
we’re sandcastles at 
the edge of a storm. i 
am so deeply exhausted, with which, 
i cannot say since 
i’m afraid of your tempers,
all staring through my defenses, from 
around the full cafeteria table.

you in particular are entranced in the hold of fire,
laying on the ground in a mud pile to cool down.
hoping by the time lightning comes 
you’ve dried to sand, 
so the strike of heat might 
bring your physical and mental together. 
if that works we’ll both find it more realistic, 
my bloody feet dancing over your broken...

daydreaming to a song on repeat

vibrations flowing into my feet and hands,
sound. one of many which i take for granted. 
it’s hard to imagine anything completely silently,
since music is my catalyst for fantasy, 
and fantasy is my drug.

i like pretending that i might be able to control
the gentle tremors around me,
rumbling car, metal and glass barely separating
environment / human 
so i watch the world rush rush rush by...
thinking

pitched notes resound within me.
my nervous system, pulsing in time. 
steps on blacktop,
- stationary physical -
r u n n i n g  in my head,
away from the reality of today,
into the never maybe of tomorrow.

she came from english. i was only passing by... {2}

i saw her again two days later in a coffee shop. she looked as though she had gotten some sleep since then. her skin was practically glowing, her eyes now glinting suns in the brilliant daylight. the girl saw my face from across the room, walking closer only to get her drink. i met her halfway, reminded of halfway up the stairs not too long ago. 

“hiya,” i said, trying not to let my excitement of seeing her show. she reached around me to get the to-go cup. her arm brushed mine, and she shivered. the air conditioning made the room, and my skin, extremely cold, though i hoped it wasn’t only temperature. “i’m finn.” for a second, the ice in her cup rattles as she swirls the coffee-colored liquid. i thought it might’ve been tea, actually. 

“you stole my line,” she said. her face reflected subtle pretend anger, the corners of her mouth turned up giving it away, a...

April Grab Bag

she came from english. i was only passing by...

a 200-word story that starts with the last text you sent. (by Ava Marie)

“hiya,” is what she said the first time we met. such a short greeting, and i never even got her name. i can only hope it wasn’t the last time we will see each other, since it was only in passing, and yet, i could tell the girl was a living oxymoron. her body proclaimed exhaustion in slow steps, dragging feet, and secondhand clothing. her hair was frizzy and damp, likely due to the humidity and light rain. her smile was faint, though her eyes reminded me of stars in the spring. something like a night in flowers, surrounded by trees, and a wind; a faint wind which might’ve been her smile. i might’ve seen it all in a dream once.

“hello,” i replied to her cheery voice, which was high and bright past her obvious sleep deprivation. i’m not sure whether she could hear the...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

when my lunch table is empty, this is why.

i can feel it breaking. 
it’s unbecoming how i’m shoving 
candy in my mouth like the sugar 
coating will make silence and 
sharp tongues 
easier to bear. we
don’t know each other anymore, 
or maybe too much, 
we know too much, 
and some of us need to stop grasping
for attention. i know i’m arrogant, but 
i’m the only one who can 
keep everyone else together,
we’re sandcastles at 
the edge of a storm. i 
am so deeply exhausted, with which, 
i cannot say since 
i’m afraid of quite a few 
of your tempers. 

you in particular are entranced in the hold of fire,
laying on the ground in a mud pile to cool down and 
hoping by the time lightning comes 
you’re dried out to sand, 
so the strike of heat might 
bring your physical and mental together. 
if that works we’ll both find it more realistic, 
my bloody feet dancing over your broken glass 
all flattened and still...

my skin is not leather

they say my skin is tough,
yet leather would not slice at
the edge of paper.
i’ve reached my hand
out toward the back of a mule,
touching rough hair and 
underneath, skin. 
underneath, tissue.
muscle, bones and blood.
what little difference between 
myself and cattle?
oh, i wonder at this world.
indeed, that is which 
i am human.
if they ever find it right 
to cut through my un-tough skin
it won’t be difficult.
still, how would i die?
for i wonder at the world,
and He, at me.

to the strangers i might never know

the only thing i think about anymore is imagining my life with you. 

i thrive off of conversation, 
reach out and i'll take your hand.
i love you, and 
i want to help you, 
even if we haven't met.

trust me when i say, i think of you when i see the stars.

typewriters should be less expensive.

i want a typewriter
because i think that having
a bulky, automatic, non-delete-able
printer sort of thing
would make me sit down
and write more. 

if, perhaps, i could trade my 
state-of-the-art laptop 
for something that i'll never know 
if it'll break, it would make me
value my temporary marks,
clicking one letter at a time,
anti-perfectionism. 

even though there's twenty-four hours a day,
it doesn't seem like enough time to
figure in all of the
minutes and half-hours 
doing things i only half-want to do. 
so i stall,
so much time spent with waiting for words to come.

when i say i'm in my head i really am.
i'm struggling to keep my feet on the ground,
i can't feel reality anymore. 
i need a typewriter to weigh me down, 
make sweat between my thighs as i 
tap through,
making mistakes, 
one line at a time.

terminaremos en la comienzo - we will end at the beginning


(english translation below)

encanto tus ojos y cuando hablas mi nombre,
bailando del techo mientras el sol va abajo.
si llueve no estaré llorando, 
aunque la agua correrá abajo mi cara.
nos enfriará, 
enfriará nuestras corazones hasta 
este noche es como otras,
tus ojos estarán como otras,
tu voz estará como otras.
la llovia enfriará nuestras emoción hasta 
nosotros solo dos personas 
bailando mientras el sol va abajo.

i love your eyes and when you say my name,
dancing on a rooftop while the sun goes down.
if it rains i won’t be crying,
though the water will run down my face.
it will cool us down, 
it will cool our hearts until 
this night is like any other,
your eyes will be like any other,
your voice will be like any other. 
the rain will cool our emotions until
we are only two people
dancing while the sun goes down. 

 

she'd never say "i'm sorry i killed your best friend," but she would write you a poem about revenge.

the bartender hands a man another whiskey as he glances toward the seat near him. he's watched the woman at the counter here and there with curiosity in his glances. she's barely made eye contact with the bartender, or anyone else for that matter, sipping on a vodka martini with strawberries instead of olives. the men sober enough to still have common sense stay away from her seat, since a knife rests in a sheath on her exposed thigh in a slit between red silk, not that there's much more fabric either way.

when she gets up off her barstool, stares follow as she walks out the door, not flinching when gravel from the floor sticks to the soles of her bare feet. she looks straight into the eyes of the man, who sets his glass down as she does. the liquid drips over the rim as it swirls, still full. while she holds her head high, her shoulders slump,...

if i fell asleep in the passenger seat, would you wish i was in your arms?


    we spent hours last night imagining a trip to anywhere because i mentioned i’ve been stressed. when you asked how i was doing i didn’t even think to lie, and that means something i’m sure. i’ve been going to bed at midnight instead of nine pm, my head is restless, and yet, last night it wasn’t because of hurt. i asked you where you would go if money meant nothing. japan, you replied, for the food and clothes. i want to come with you if you ever go because of their architecture. you flipped the question back at me and i didn’t hesitate. 
    anywhere. not for too long since i would miss my family and friends, but i want a break from this life and all of its routines. i paused in my typing, feeling the press of a leather couch against my back as i take a deep breath. you could come, and anyone along the way....

March Grab Bag

seen often, chosen never. (transparent)


a 100 word story based on a randomly generated word - the story title should be the word that you generated (by alyanna)

you reach out your hand and they
see only the one walking up behind
you. i watch as their eyes seem to 
run right through your body, you're
dust in a sunny ray, ash in the wind.
when you look out, around the room
(which bends and twists in my head
you're stable, even while the world
turns upside down)
 every person 
meets your eyes, and yet, they see
only a ghost. would you please turn
your head before the moment ends?
still, i'm invisible when you're
transparent.

tectonic plates will swallow the stones under my feet

i have always wanted to see the great wall of china.
the idea of its structure, snaking across hillside,
standing for safety. one day i'd like to walk down the stones barefoot,
pretending like i belong. i like to imagine energy,
some kind of tangible-intangible connection which flows
through the soles of my feet, digging deep into the earth.
the crust shifts over stone and the strength of the wall is so easily overpowered,
how years and years it takes to build and rebuild,
but tectonic plates will always have their way.
one day, i think they might get tired of our whining irony
and the mouth of the planet might begin to open wide.
what a different kind of apocalypse it would be to look outside,
see crowds running away from a gaping jaw.
the dragons we imagined are nothing like a throat of magma.
we do not control the plates, and there is no killing this immortal beast, ...

- if i was a harry potter character -

i wouldn't be myself exactly. my character would be a bit different, with long platinum blonde hair and my same blue eyes (you might see where i'm going). 

my name would be cassiopeia mal-- no-- mcgonagall. cassia has lived at hogwarts for as long as she can remember, in hiding for safety. she's never been allowed to attend classes, instead, she listens to them and practices with the teachers (they all know her well, she learned to walk in flitwick's classroom years ago). her mother gave her up when she was born, and to her blood-family, even her twin brother doesn't know she exists. that is, until third year when everything changes. 

her adoptive mother, minnie mcgonagall, finally allowed cassia to become a part of the school, since she knew enough to defend herself at that point. even though she was never sorted, she was put into gryffindor to be closer to minnie and further from her brother. when she...

self light of the eye

laying in bed sometimes, the night crackles behind her eyes.
the things she sees used to scare her,
always in that place between sleep and un-awake,
bright swirls of color dance on the inside of her eyelids.
this is what she imagines synesthesia would be like.
only certain colors surface in the dark of her mind.
never deep, never green, never pleasing.
it's most often magenta which makes its way across her blurry vision,
the bright purple-pink she always used to hate choosing from the crayon box in third grade,
now she wonders if this was the reason.
cyan too, another hatred which floats in circled patterns, dialating.
blurry isn't the word, since "blurry" means "fuzzy," not grossly pixelated.
she remembers being afraid of stripes of purple and yellow,
they never had a pattern, never controlled, never predicted.
those nights when colors flash behind her eyelids, it keeps her awake.
she wonders if this is anything similar to psychedelics.
she'll...

politicians and citizens, fools all the same

Damn you fools,
who chew and drool
at the feet of these beggars. 
Derelicts and rats
climbing through sewers.
They curl and crash
toward cigarette smoke
blooming at the castle’s gates.
They have visitors,
vagrants holding hands
trying to break down iron bars
with their minds,
manifest a revolution without
starvation
which arises from effort. 

“Dear God...” a girl at a window,
she prays in her own way,
using the Lord’s name in vain,
no one is to say if she’s servant or first lady. 
A tray of melting china
pools on the paper,
no worry, for the scene reads
similar
though not exactly the same.

The telephone rings to warn a man,
the man,
no man,
of curses chanted in broad daylight
as a radio sells a spell to sleep soundly. 

“Death to the monarchy,
the democracy,
the general hypocrisy.”

They want a voice
which they use to
say, “Death and the dead be 
all our evil, yet
take...

a world of gray (title ideas pleases)

It is dusk in the city. The kind of twilight that takes a face with both hands, cupping curves in shadow. So similar, perhaps, to any other night, an ordinary person wouldn’t acknowledge the minute differences which set this twilight apart from any other. It is simpler, it seems, to ignore such a time. 
    Luis Santoro wants to ignore it all tonight. Everything, from rustles and swishes in alleyways to his own dress shoes making rhythms on the sidewalk. The cars, too. Oh, the cars. He’s convinced they’re the reason he can’t forget about anything. Maybe if there weren’t so many cars in a dusk like this, he’d be able to let his head go fuzzy, drunk on almost sleep. 
    Luis stops in front of a 24-hour drug store. He should go in. Get a pint of ice cream. What’s cake anyway? He could try to get whatever’s closest to a beer. It’s his birthday tomorrow, after all. Only a...

all we see - v & vi. the sea is only art in a museum

a floor 
entirely within replicas and 
walls 
arc delicate squares, 
centimeter-wide, 
drawing the sea. 
walk the room whenever the 
water travels around, 
waiting while the quiet hums. 
the louder voice is high tide, 
and the fingers of it hesitate.





all the light we cannot see by anthony doerr is a novel which i am using to make blackout poetry under the name: all we see. the poems may not make sense, but tell me what you think of please.

all we see - iv. stardust

they named stardust
far below the moonlit horizon.
threads of ruined flickering 
burns.
inside a window 
the city looks like something
dangerous, 
a final abscess to be lanced away.




all the light we cannot see by anthony doerr is a novel which i am using to make blackout poetry under the name: all we see. the poems may not make sense, but tell me what you think of please.

all we see - iii. run to the sea

let’s pour across the
rooftops 
between streets.
the open tide hangs 
to the east behind 
incendiary mouths.

all the light we cannot see by anthony doerr is a novel which i am using to make blackout poetry under the name: all we see. the poems may not make sense, but tell me what you think of please.

the beginning of maybe a new series: all we see

all the light we cannot see by anthony doerr is a novel which i am using to make blackout poetry under the name: all we see. the poems may not make sense, but tell me what you think of please.


o. august, 
the jewel of fire
within damaged degree
would take us
without hesitation.

i miss you: a tribute to the incredible life of my grandmother (please review)

time and time again i've spent
folding to close off every
edge of my actions, an origami crane
against possibilities of regret
so the sand inside of a sheet of paper will
never fall out when i shake,
but i have no tape.
no matter what i do
i still see the seams which
i haven't sewn up exactly tight
enough
so when i grow the thread tears.
these are the lessons i'm learning to heal
figurative, emotional lesions before they break skin.
too late,
has been my mantra as i realized
too late that i had missed her and i was
too late to memorize every detail of that last 
"i love you." 
be still, He says.
i was never too late for her love. 
isn't that the grace i've been given?
a child next to a grandmother
who has never thought less of me for being
"too late." perhaps
i was exactly on time to the beginning of
goodbye...

status update: i don't like this chocolate.

it's bittersweet,
something she would've hated.
yes, instead she would get out 
cookies and cream ice cream
and sweet tea because sugar
was always her favorite thing.
i don't know what to think,
since i've spent all my life
wondering what grief is like
and then she cuts off 
"the long goodbye."
now it's just a matter of time
before she heads home,
and leaves me hanging
so alone,
yet not alone in the slightest.

i could never fix you, and i see that now.

it’s a simple truth that
while i hold the edges of your broken bowl together
you have the superglue, and 
nothing i can say will
ever secure those pieces together.
golden
is what i see
the idea that mended,
your cup will overflow past the 
streaks of glitter in the handle. 
kintsugi, it’s called, in japan
where repairing the broken thing is what 
truly, truly matters and 
the point that you were once broken
doesn’t
anymore. 
i see gold 
in the cracks and folds of your life where 
you and i, we weren’t constant, but 
i was different and you 
were afraid. 
are you still afraid? i think
yes, it’s resounding because somehow
you know one day the world is going to crash around you 
THE SKY IS F   LLING.
                  A      



(it hasn’t really sunk in yet.)
i wish i could be there when you have to melt down
the gold with your tears and paint...

attention, (what i want?) scares me.

i. he likes catfish and cajun cooking,
“i could eat catfish every day,” he said,
i don’t know if i’ve ever tried it.
would i be good with a louisiana boy?

ii. yesterday one of the guys in my last period 
asked me about my full name.
he was curious,
and he thinks [redacted]’s a cool nickname.
he called to me, today in the hallway
even though he didn’t think it was me.
i don’t know what to make of the attention,
isn’t a smile never free?

-- the only variable i changed 
from last week to this,
is planning my clothes the night before,
showing more skin in confidence. --

iii. the boy who was my friend last year,
in math when i dated the other,
avoids me now in the hallways
and never really smiles.
he watched me walk past as he 
came down the stairs this morning
i don’t know what that meant.
will he ever...

last night i did not get much sleep. i'm going to bed now, thank you.

i’ve never been drunk,
yet i’m sleep deprived. 
it seems similar enough. 
i swing from tears to laughter in 
the matter of a song and
my sentences go out the window,
the filters on all wrong. oh,
suddenly i’m yelling, for what reason?
happy, somewhat, i think,
but i won’t speak for the next hours
anyway.
what a fool
to waste time, i say
in that arrogant hypocrite’s fashion.

tomorrow morning, 
today will feel like a drunken memory,
so far from before.

status update: i'm fine

i don’t know what to feel
since, i saw my dad cry,
or maybe that was just the remnants of fear 
drawing wrinkles in his face. 
i don’t remember ever seeing that look
or the tremor in his voice, so
did i miss it before?
strong,
is he, 
to drive his mother to the   e m e r g e n c y 
                                                                        room,
for the second time 
in two weeks.
he wrapped his arms around me at midnight and
for once, 
i felt him vulnerable and it
scared me.              because for the first time
my father was capable of true sorrow.
i didn’t fall asleep for an hour
last night. 
if this week is the time
i cry at school for the first time,
then i won’t be surprised
as i wait to see how much of my grammy will be left behind.

renaming yourself: choosing a pen name.

hello, i’m flora kane.

that’s me, but not really me. the character i’ve come up with, the person i am when i write, that’s flora. 

i can’t be the only one who makes up main characters by basing them on who you wish you could be. this is of the same vein, naming the character you already have inside your head. for me, my pen name began as enna hollynd, the name of the main character of my first big storyline. i wanted the name to be unusual so that it would stick out, but i wasn’t naming myself, i was naming a character. eventually, i couldn’t see myself saying…

“hi, i’m enna hollynd.”

my next step was to change it. i thought it was a little too unusual, or too close to the name emma, etc. my solution, to change it, was simple. for another bit while i was working on the story again, i was theodora hollynd. soon,...

sometimes i wish my dreams would continue when i'm awake

i’m stuck on a 
race,
    stop. 
fasterfasterfaster
HOLD ON
kind of street.

refusing to worry exhausts me
until my 6-7 hours of solace
is filled with more running. 

there’s a week old dream that has
stayed in my memory.
i keep falling asleep
in the off-chance i’ll be there again,
even though the situation was blurry,
and the room was dark. 
at the countertop of my kitchen island, late at night
my friends,
friends? i’ve never seen them before, but
yes, somehow i knew.
they were laughing about something.
about me? no.
i couldn’t see their shadowed faces.
looking over my shoulder, there was someone,
a boy who rolled his eyes at their taunting.
eyes? where were his eyes?
i felt safe as he stepped closer to me,
while i lean over a chair with my elbows on the granite,
my chin rests on my hands.
there are other boys in the room, aren’t there?
he’s staking his claim,...

Mid-January Grab Bag

cutout collage in nothing close to utopia

a piece using only lyrics from songs (don't forget to credit each song and songwriter in the footnotes) (by lemonnsharkk)

wander through the darkness and come walk with me.
far away from the modern style,
i could be your centerpiece.

you know i'm really good at putting on a show,
while my own reflection's making me sick.
if i don't get better than this man in my skin,
bank on the funeral,
dressed in black.
your eyes already told me what you never said.

you know the way that i hide.
please tell me why
it just reminds you of where you were
and the nineteen seventy five?

i've got the key to 
a diorama we could live inside.
we always talked about forever,
oh, we were such a mess,
didn't mean to fall so deep.

you catch me running away then you'll know
it's gone, now the night has come. 

"i would pull you from the tide,"
i thought...

the journalist

For three days, they had followed her. A woman and a man, one driving a red car, and the other, she noticed, in all black. Basic, she thought, nervously laughing in her head while trying to show no emotion. A placid look covered her face in an effort to stay calm. She would never admit to anyone how much it freaked her to be watched. Keep walking, were the only words she allowed in her head as if they could read her mind.

That was the first time she was found interesting by an antagonist, as she called them. Now, she looks back on the memory of her followers fondly. She named the pair Kendra and Tommy as she slowly became comfortable with the fact that her questions would not be answered. Instead, she explained them herself. 

Tommy was the first man who tried to kidnap her. He came up from behind, grabbing her hair and pressing a...

they think a girl cannot be a knight, and yet, they were all fooled

i started this in the middle, explanation in footnotes:)

Sir Merik hasn’t gotten an order. He glances over at the girl. She stumbles as a knight grips her arm to pull her past the horses. Gregory shoves her toward the ground, and she falls to sit cross-legged. Elenore wishes she could rub away the throbbing ache where his fingers dug into her skin. Instead, she shifts uncomfortably, bringing awareness to the state of her exhausted body. 

Merik still watches. He steps forward, as if to- no. Catching himself, he withdraws. She looks up at him from across the clearing. In this forest, they think of the wolves. How they know rank and strength through only their eyes. Merik takes up the challenge. Holding the stare, Elenore doesn’t blink. She’s not sure what he sees, but takes a deep breath. She lets go of any fear. 

That, he does acknowledge. Later, when she falls asleep in seconds, he will realize how...

don't give people too much mystery, or they won't get out of your head

she's desperate. this time it's clear, she's so hopelessly hoping that the stars align just right that this time, this time, is right. it's been forever since she swore off romance, and now she cannot wait for destiny. still, she's too scared to mess it up again, so sit back and imagine, slowly let excitement wear off for other priorities. oh, how she wishes that it was different, that it was easier. would i take the easy way out?

one hundred thousand different universes live in her head. ideas of a future with anyone who's caught her eye. it doesn't have to be romantic. she's sometimes wanted to be friends with someone so bad it hurt. always wanting to know people. if she could, she'd know the lives of all of her peers because every person has a story, and it's almost better than reading fantasies. 

she wants to know what the boy sitting diagonal from her, his first time...

too nice

what if i don't want to do it for everyone else?
the politeness, the smiles,
always kind
get your own happiness! i don't want to share mine anymore, it's -
well doesn't that sound rude.

i wish i could
fling the door open
yell some unpracticed expletives
at a teacher i don't like, and 
walk away. 
i could,
if i throw away my morality.
my conscience,
such a goodie - goodie,
knows i would feel bad about it
the rest of my life.

what would it be like
to throw everyone off balance?
all black and chains,
hanging on my body.
dark makeup and messy hair.
oh, how i want to be a rebel
if only in my own head. 

i want to look, to act
the way i feel
listening to matt maeson and call me karizma. 
carlie hanson and corpse husband.

i've been alive for sixteen years. here's six candles instead of sixteen.

i. a lavender candle, it smells like my mom's shampoo.
it's my birthday.
today doesn't feel any different than yesterday or tomorrow.
i've celebrated with barely anything,
just another tuesday.
yet my mom gave me a hug this morning,
whispering in my ear that she loves me,
and it made me forget
i have no cake.

ii. black, looks like a middle finger.
new music this morning,
made me wish for something i don't have.
specifically, black lipstick and someone to 
kiss. still,
my dad wouldn't let me.

iii. blue, a text bubble
six text messages from friends and family. and one email. 
i smiled at each one. still,
i wanted someone to call me at 2am,
and tell me to look out my window. 
i don't know why.

iiii. red, an open mouth 
the first day back to school in weeks.
i'm back to a wall at my shins, figuratively. 
politics and biases are scorpions climbing at my...

underage


drunk wind smells proud.
a too young wondering if
ugly suffering is
lazy summering.
you gloat about using your 
last life in independence,
but we all know
you’re already un      -      alive.
no amount of artificial euphoria 
can save you from the world.
running to death, 
the easy way out.

honestly, i'm better when you're around

The clock on the back wall of the cafeteria blinks red numbers, but the girl staring at them only recognizes another twenty minutes before lunch ends. She sits alone in the back of the large room, with a few people congregating at tables around her, though out of sight of most other students. She lays with her head on her arms, debating whether to get up and go somewhere. Anywhere other than right there doing nothing when there’s so much to be done. 

Her head is busy with this, overthinking and hating everything she comes up with. The girl knows where it’s going, veering too close to a breakdown. Don’t cry, she thinks, and wishes that her hair wasn’t braided so tightly against her scalp. It could be a dark brown blanket against the world, but for now, she pushes her face into her arms and tries to breathe. 

She’s dressed simply in a t-shirt and blue jeans, yet feeling...

and i wonder if it's good enough (footnotes!)

another idea flits by,
alight on a butterfly wing.
in my head, i let it fly away.
so stupid,
i think.
i can't write a romance
where nothing goes wrong.

and still, the thought remains,
that that is
the thing i want
in life, and
in story.
 

to the boy who was my quizlet password four years ago

part i: i wonder.
sometimes i wonder how life would've changed if i got over myself and talked to you when we were younger. i think about it more nowadays. i don't know why. you must've known i liked you way back then when we didn't know what attraction really is, much less love. i hate that you're in so many of my classes this year. i'm still embarrassed. after losing track of you, (well, more like accidentally keeping our distance,) there's some kind of mystery around you. is it the same for me? probably not.

part ii: i wish.
we're not friends, we were never friends, just barely there acquaintances that talk to different people in the same room now and then. i wonder what it would be like if i shielded my little girl crush and simply gotten to know you. we could've been friends for years. we've been at the same schools for around seven now....

Dust Jacket

me & who i wish i could be

prompt #1: writer id
what is your favorite genre to write?
probably poetry, as it's exciting to me when i can fit together words like puzzle pieces because those cardboard puzzles frustrate me. i love sprinkling meaning in between the lines and hoping that people will marvel at it.

what is your favorite genre to read? 
fiction (prose?). i like reading poetry too, but it's harder for me to focus on. i'm a hypocrite really. still, the rush of jumping into someone else's world which becomes your own is something i yearn for. 

what draws you to the wtw community? 
i've been here for over two years now, and this online community is different, i think, than any other. how we are able to interact through a commonality of a love for writing is amazing. of course, it isn't perfect, but i still haven't walked away. 

what do you find most challenging about writing?
action writing? editing? revising? all three....

an ode to the villain

when you hear villain
you think of black.
a deep, reaching black that
seeped into your mind long ago.
the kind of black 
which looked at space 
in wonder.

(those kinds of shadows are blankets, now.)

inspired,
it created a void
to chew on planets and 
the idea of power,
spitting out a broken crown.
you had the two halves
in pudgy hands,
(soft,
you had soft hands as a child)
grabbing superglue and tape
only for it to be taken while 
you were insulted. 

there is comfort in revenge.
it tastes green.

green spots, too, when you close your eyes.
make the headline 
again and again
until 
each story is about the adversary.

you decided, there is no running and 
never rest, only the 
next step ahead.
your heart,
no longer matters for there is the 
game. no-one and everyone plays.
there is another round,
more chess to be set. 
one day you will yell 
CHECKMATE
in the bloodied...

this is what perfection really feels like. (EDITED, please tell me if you like the new ending)

making excuses not to  s t a r t. 
procrastinator before anything, 
always at heart 
afraid of the finish line,
or the lack of one. 

they say “nobody’s perfect,”
and i want to prove them wrong. 
nobody’s perfect, it’s an impossibility, 
but as my heart beats 
one-two, one-two, 
i will, i will
 
nothing is farther from the truth. 

they say: 
you can do anything if you believe in yourself. 
well, the first thing i wanted to do was be a fairy, 
the second was to be perfect
and no matter what i promise to
fix everything all at once
i’m thrown further and further 
down 
the rabbit hole 
where magic isn’t real and 
neither is perfection. 

i break my nails clawing on the edges of--- 
dirt crashing down from the sides of the well
i bury myself alive in the 
“i’m not good enough”s 
and it breaks my heart over and over again. 

in truth, it's only me.  ...

this is what perfectionism really feels like.


making excuses not to  s t a r t./procrastinator before anything,/
                                always at heart/
                                afraid of the finish line,/or the lack of one. 

they say “nobody’s perfect,”/
                and i want to prove them wrong./
nobody’s perfect, it’s an impossibility,/
                but as my heart beats/
                                                    one-two, one-two,/
                                                    i will, i will
/
            nothing is farther from the truth. 

they say:/
you can do anything if you believe in yourself./
                                                well, the first thing i wanted to do was be a fairy,/
                                                the second/was to be perfect,/
and no matter what i promise/
i’m thrown further and further/
d
    o
        w
            n/
                the rabbit hole/
                where magic isn’t real and/
neither is perfection. 

i break my nails clawing on the edges of "i can't do it,"/
                 dirt crashing down from the sides of the well/
i bury myself alive in the/
                                                    “i’m not good enough”s/
and it breaks my heart over and over again. 

it,...

this is just to say .ii


(in the style of william carlos williams, with the title and most words taken from his piece)

i have stolen
your loveliness
that was filling 
my loneliness

and which 
you were probably
saving
for your life.

forgive me,
it was tempting
so beautiful,
happy,
and so pure.


~f

this is just to say .i

(in the style of william carlos williams, with the title and most words taken from his piece)

i have broken
the silence
that was in 
the air,

and which 
you were probably
saving
as an advantage.

forgive me, 
for when it shattered
the truth
took your power
with it. 


~f

april 22, 2020

I want my tongue to fall out of my mouth, lay on the floor, just a dead piece of muscle while my throat fills with blood and my teeth turn red. Then at least I’ll be so occupied that I wouldn’t think to speak. Please answer me, why must I be so stupid? When shit hits the fan eventually, maybe then my friends will realize I am not a god no matter, perhaps, I wish it wasn’t true. 

I am a broken piece of meat and marrow and I cannot complete my dreams. But even my own self will read back these words and laugh, shrugging it off for being young. 

Do you hear me? We are one and the same! Succeeding at failure and drying up in the sun. I cannot accomplish my dreams. We, together, will not change. I wish it wasn’t true. 

I want to go outside and lay on the concrete, looking up at the sky...

my status in the world is currently undecided

I didn’t expect it to hurt so much when my friend pointed out how I could be considered popular. That wasn’t the blow, no, of course that was a compliment because I’ve always thought of myself as a weirdo. Still, in the next piece of conversation, it was also made clear to me how I’m an outcast in the “weird” group. So I don’t belong in anything, but as the teacher’s pet.

Looking at the labels which now aren’t me, it should be freeing. Right? Suddenly I’m my own person, not on either end of the spectrum. It’s disconcerting actually. I’ve tried so hard for the popular kids to think of me as not weird, and for the weird kids to think of me as not popular. Apparently, I’ve convinced no one. 

I should be enjoying this lack of pressing outside views. It’s an opportunity to remind myself of the fact that no one really knows me. Except for those...

to the boy driving a white car:

A white car passed us on the street. It was the glasses that caught my eye. The driver’s glasses were the old type that is only now becoming popular again. What with the thick lenses and wire rims and oval shaped eye pieces. I could tell from the back of his head that he was my age, or a few years older. He had a passenger that looked a bit younger than him. They both had black hair. The passenger did not have glasses. 

Glasses boy, while participating in an animated conversation with the other, pulled up to the red light in just a way to cover his face from me. I inched forward in my seat, suddenly very interested in what he might look like. I can’t explain the curiosity. 

Urging the light to turn green, I knew I had to see the boy’s face, or I would wonder about it forever. That is the kind of imaginative state...

dear friends, we've found each other here. (a huge thank you, footnotes!)

something twists inside of me, 
expecting the worst,
hoping for the best,
without the hope.

i can't do it alone. 

no idea of what it means
to say
"i don't need you."
because i try 
to spit it out,
but it would break me.

you have no idea
of how much
your words mean
to me
dear friend. 

i'll try to make you
know it
even if we're all 
on the internet.

"i'm not alone!"
we scream.
i smile. 
i've found you,
dear friends. 
let's write
for a while. 

internal ramblings of someone who is so stupid they don't believe they're enough.

You look at me and you see “smart” plastered on my forehead. A’s tattooed up and down my arms. You look at the gradebook again and you wonder how you could ever succeed like me. It doesn’t matter if you do, or don’t. We both cry, for different reasons. 

I’m constantly afraid that I’ll mess it up. I’ll break the streak and that’ll be the end of my spotless reputation as the best. No, I’m not the best, and I could never believe it, but maybe if I kill myself trying to get #1 out of the class somebody else will tell it to me enough times it’ll sink in. It never does. Some days I feel powerful. Other times, it only takes an hour, five minutes, two seconds, for me to shut down. 

I can’t do it, I say. 
Yes, you can, says everyone else. They yell out my accomplishments, and what they wish they had, while...

please. and i wish. and maybe?

before you walk away
sit down
at my cafeteria table
listen to me ramble 
for just one second
how we could be 
perfect, in the 
humanly
sort of way. 

bring me to a parking garage
with your friends 
i don't know, but still trust. 
take 
a skateboard for 
you to teach,
and i to learn. 

hold my hands until
i can ride
smoothly. yes. so 
we can drive to
a movie theater with 
the windows down. 
i'll sing while
you drum your fingers 
on the dashboard. 

i'll bicker with 
your best friend but 
he'll laugh at my 
stubbornness. then,
you can smile when 
you see how
perfect
we are.
how humanly.

don't. and never. and you? (the curse of a crush)

when is it all right to refuse pretty 
eyes, lying in trying times, 
never looking to the falling sky?
not kind. i try to be unkind. 
dark hair and dark mind. 
i want to see you smile.

forget it,
i can’t get attached. 
the rope is already around my neck,
but i’ll 
not.
i’ll get over love. 
i’ll get over us that never was.
a whole great mess of 
don’t. please.

why must i laugh in almost happiness?
i say now, i won’t 
until a few minutes later,
when i don’t want to give up my fantasies.

stop!
telling me we’ll be best friends,
with your casual conversation.
i refuse to cry over
nothing, and a broken promise.

(which i knew was a joke
the first time you spit 
out the words in passing.)

stupid girl.
stupid boy. 
share insults 
as if we are more than 
two strangers
sitting at a subway station.

let's travel to pluto

nasa send me off.
i want to watch the world burn
on mars. 
maybe,
if the constellations approve,
you can come too. 


~f

it doesn't look right anymore.


 i’ve stared at this face
for years, it seems.
i pretend the frame is dented
with imprints of 
moon-crescent fingernails.
i thought it would help me
memorize all the details,
but the nose, eyes, mouth,
blend together. it’s as if 
i stared at a word
for too long.
the shutter of a camera clicks
from behind my eyes.
it won’t be accurate,
though i’d take a picasso 
masterpiece over blacktop, 
chapped lips, and 
a gravestone
any day.


~f

folding paper crowns and pretending we're royalty

i’ve been folding paper crowns
to hold something steady in my hands. 
squares into triangles,
corners into pockets,
making a ring of points.
they’re fit for the characters
in a children’s book.

i want to twirl in a perfect day,
bare feet,
grass, 
and feeling beautiful,
only a fleeting breeze on my forehead.

i’d pretend i could spin
rays of sunlight in my fingers
while we laugh.
sewing flowers onto our paper crowns.
oh, take my hand!
and we’ll dance.

imagine a festival of another age,
loud music and overflowing cups.
we could jump up on the tables,
after the feast,
run away
when they try to take our paper crowns.

what envy!

i’ll make each one a paper crown,
we’ll storm the castle together.
the jewels will lose all value
to some origami.

and it seems,
though i’m holding it steady,
my reality has deserted me
for a lovely paper crown.


~f

humanity is irony, we built the parthenon as our bones were crumbling. (revised)

Death and the dread be damned. What a joy it is to be alive! Those who haven’t must find this, this heart stopping loveliness of life. Look around! Do you think the trees contemplate why they’re on Earth? No. They know they’re here with a purpose, like the birds, and rodents, and insects of the ground or air. They do not believe they are here only to die. Nor do the butterflies who have much more to worry about than any of us, I daresay. With all that which we know, our brains question if we are coincidence. What insanity!

What of our bones which stand? They are the same with pillars guarding the Parthenon. What it would have been to build them, those pillars. Did those sculptors know from the Egyptians how they were replicating our own structure in art? Sculpture, all within outerwear and folds of skin. How they, the Greeks, have put us on full display at...

humanity is irony, we built the parthenon as our bones were crumbling. (revised)

    Death and the dread be damned. What a joy it is to be alive! Those who haven’t must find this, this heart stopping loveliness of life. Look around! Do you think the trees contemplate why they’re on Earth? No. They know they’re here with a purpose, like the birds, and rodents, and insects of the ground or air. They do not believe they are here only to die. Nor do the butterflies who have much more to worry about than any of us, I daresay. With all that which we know, our brains question if we are coincidence. What insanity!

    What of our bones which stand? They are the same with pillars guarding the Parthenon. What it would have been to build them, those pillars. Did those sculptors know from the Egyptians how they were replicating our own structure in art? Sculpture, all within outerwear and folds of skin. How they, the Greeks, have put us on full display at...

not so civil war

I do not trust Edward Vizzagdura. Especially not with my life. Yet he has the gun, and my dagger, and I have finally lost faith in Katie. This, of course, is a lie. I could not be more worried, since she left two days ago. In this mess, I doubt I’ll see her again. 

Right now, I sit at the foot of a dingy bed which looks, and sounds, like it was made forty years ago. Edward is smoking across the room. It’s much less of a room than a cell, however. It’s located on the ground floor of an apartment building. Called a “concrete apartment” for a reason, nothing in the room is too flammable. Anything not concrete or metal is spread out, making sure that the building won’t burn. 

The stolen cigarette is in his left hand, surprisingly. I’ve never seen him shoot rightie, but the pistol, held loosely to his side, seems comfortable there nonetheless. I’m happy...

careful of the frogs eating gunpowder in your stomach, the thunder calls to them.

I’m so tired of the thunder.
It’s too loud.
The kind of power
which shakes the walls, 
and I worry if 
my shelves will break.

My head hurts (hurts)
when thunder throbs (throbs)
at my temples. (temples, temples)
Pushing at my ears
until they’re pulsing,
my heartbeat that’s 
going to explode 
out, with my eyes.
I shut them, too.

I never understood
how they say
their bones shook.
Now it rattles,
it, the thunder,
and I’m waiting to
see my femur
peeking out in blood,
following the call of
thunder
without a care if it’s,
so very dark,
outside.

It’s interesting to think. 
I can’t run from this
any faster than I 
run from your ignorance.
Lies pouring from
breath. Please don’t
open your mouth.
Oh, do you know?
Know, no word now
isn’t loaded.

I can’t run any
quicker,
away away away
from the thunder.
Your thunder.
It shakes, and
throbs, and 
rattles in my body,
because you have...

sour oranges and raw green beans

i whisper
"f*** yeah"
just to see if i like it,
but 
it tastes like
sour oranges and
raw green beans,
not good enough
to make me want
to say it 
again.

i guess
i don't like
the devil's words
on my tongue,
and i'm glad
the wind stole them away.

i'll ride my blue bike into the sun if it means beauty



watch the sun go down,
child. 
know this,
that I know nothing,
not any more than you.
go,
run away.
i have to leave.
i have to ride,
my blue bike
matching with
my most beloved sisters
who i see,
every day,
beginning to flinch from
light. Instead,
they see
gold.

Look at me,
you, yes
driving down the street.
are my bare shoulders,
and bare wrists,
and bare feet
beautiful?
more so,
than them?
oh, my sisters,
young and alive,
so am i.
but their smiles say,
“you look at me.
you love me now.”

i let them ride
in front,
pass me,
foolish girls.
I will be the one
to take a car,
straight into the side
of my blue bike,
so that yours would
stay
pretty,
just like your face.

do you see me now?
you with your tires spinning,
tinted windows,
i can’t meet your eyes.
do you hear me?
what about my plea,
for just...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

Ancient Times are So Familiar We Forgot to Watch the Ruins

I contain the same presence as the useless object
cast aside
and deathly silent,
if only to listen.

I imagine great justice because
nothing happens when I'm around.
Everyone always seems to spot the signal,
a beacon which shines gray,
screaming WATCH
like any other television.
(But if I had known where it was,
would I have run?)

Events are a tether to connections,
and would give me conversation
with passerby on the street,
neither blessing nor curse,
while I wish I had been forced,
by my own hands, no less,
to see it.

This it, I cannot place.
Hungry for controversy
and broadcast secrecy
plastered on every front page.
Sometimes bloody elegance
where they thought none was possible.

(Though keep in mind,
the ones searching for attention,
they try their hardest for this achievement,
and will only succeed at hair-pulling coupled with expletives,
since they believe that
"higher-level vocabulary"
will separate their shaking fists
from an elementary squabble.)
...

yes i did put my own fictional character into asgard, edited a bit


“Daughter, who do you wish to see?” The guard steps forward to lead her farther into the dungeons. A dress of peach rustles around her feet in folds of silk. The calm swirls of cloth mirror the reflection of value in her eyes. This is the face of a woman in power, and who knows it.

“The prince, on order of Frigg.” The metal of his armor scrapes together as he motions for her to step ahead. Inside her head, she grimaces, much preferring the chatter near the kitchens to the noise now. 

Servants watch them walk on their way to their next assignment, trying for more than a glimpse of the girl. She is the stuff of legend, an honorable apprentice to the queen. Her allowance to Frigga’s right hand seemed to be without knowledge. Many thought them to be naive. This lady, looking as little more than a child, had proven many wrong. It was with interest why...

yes i did put my own fictional character into asgard, edited a bit


“Daughter, who do you wish to see?” The guard steps forward to lead her farther into the dungeons. A dress of peach rustles around her feet in folds of silk. The calm swirls of cloth mirror the reflection of value in her eyes. This is the face of a woman in power, and who knows it.

“The prince, on order of Frigg.” The metal of his armor scrapes together as he motions for her to step ahead. Inside her head, she grimaces, much preferring the chatter near the kitchens to the noise now. 

Servants watch them walk on their way to their next assignment, trying for more than a glimpse of the girl. She is the stuff of legend, an honorable apprentice to the queen. Her allowance to Frigga’s right hand seemed to be without knowledge. Many thought them to be naive. This lady, looking as little more than a child, had proven many wrong. It was with interest why...

The Path I Take

Under a canopy of yellow leaves,
I wished I could see a path ahead,
for many a dreamer loses to thieves,
even pebbles have thought for schemes,
and I wondered whether I was misled.

To my right, I am closed off; alone.
Brambles and thorns climb my legs in wait,
and still I want to stay or turn,
into the comfort of familiar fate,
yet life is too short to avoid unknowns.

One side was open though terror I thought,
since it was dark and shrouded in murk,
but I stepped onto the path that was naught,
and looked for future in such a spot, 
that I could only feel as framework. 

With far to go and far behind,
I will keep trekking into a wood,
which led me to futurity blind,
and I boast of travels unlike mankind,
that guides past viridity to womanhood.

a broken woman in an old world

 
Is it only a coincidence,
how am I in your possession?
To you, I embody purity, 
for the sole purpose of pleasing the unclean,
and within yellowed pages I curse the bindings, 
pressing petals as if it is escape.
A customary rite to take what our humanity has created,
since anything man sees,
he believes is owned by man,
which also wishes for a master.
While sleeping with your eyes open,
unblinking and unwilling for action,
sitting in stagnant pools of change,
calling for another servant 
to strip your conscience silver,
covering sins with the artificial shine of greed.
Profit upon profit,
until business means nothing,
fog of drink after drink after drink.
If only someone would throw poison into the glass!
Kill the immortal estate of affairs!
Cry men ashamed of risks taken and untaken,
left virtueless and full of hatred
for men of no better.
Why is the world left with a purpose which no one wishes...

exotic fruit in baskets

A sticky sweet substance,
bright,
and tropical, 
coats my tongue
in sunlight.
Laughter shoots up
into a dimming sky.

Golden hour is upon us.
Golden hour is collecting
in empty bowls 
where liquid sugar sits,
and waits for fireflies. 

The fruit long devoured,
and the seed scraped clean.
Underneath the green peel,
smooth, yet like leather
lies orange flesh;
an angel’s nectar
wrapped in mortal skin.

I imagine,
one day,
being free from life’s contract,
to go pick my own mangoes,
while I carry a basket,
full of exotic fruit.

undead in ice #experience

my fingers twitch,
and it grows cold
as i become encased
in gleaming layers 
of glass and smoke.

i don't know when it started.
maybe i was born
from the killers element,
and it enrobes me
in my naive viridity.

when the sun comes,
my enemies will never wake,
silenced in gossamer webs of 
brittle skin and crystal eyes.

i don't remember sending the order,
the blizzard raining down
clear arrows in their throats,
and the others proclaim
my name:
long live the girl of ice.

i would give it away,
in all its burning glory,
when my palms lift,
and bring life to a figure
a statue in my dreams.

i fly up with melting wings,
icarus doomed to fall,

and i feel the frigid wind on my skin,
wishing for a trade,
so the snow wouldn't be so bloody.
 

a white hole

The world is never as it seems yet exactly as it’s supposed to be. We can’t understand what we’re missing, hidden behind light too pure to imagine, because this sinful world is a dot on the spectrum of a white hole that coaxes people in with truth instead of earthly lies. Praises rise from the inanimate that will turn our heads to the skies saying, “Holy! Holy, is our great and wonderful Lord! How blessed our bodies are to see the life we could never live, and take the path to heaven upon his sacrifice.” Let us love like Him before us, for we have a purpose. Our God has given us such a mission that we would be fools not to use our working spirits to please our Heavenly Father that has also given us breath.

death by unbalanced exhaustion

"am i dying?"
she asks,
while she watches the masked chaos
outside a stained glass window,
and he says no,
but it's a lie.

she won't leave this earth
from any disease, 
unless exhaustion counts                out
the last beats of her heart
because no one stops working 
to live.

excuses are lies, and good intentions are never what they seem to be

Shame sets in,
    a caged animal,
        that strikes,
            and breaks,
the glass window
from which we  s  t  a  r  e,
knowing but not knowing
the cause of our disease,
                   p
that claws u   the netting
of a carefully laid plan,
cobwebs holding it together,
and saying

"I didn't mean to,"

but good intentions, 
pave the way,
as bricks and boulders,
on the road
running                   the surface.
            underneath 

forgiveness, you earned, one time.

"I'm sorry..."
And the words quicken and pour,
like a cup overflowing with
                                        molten g
                                                      o
                                                     l
                                                        d
as they dance over 
a    b        e       z
           r         e        e              like mist,
and hit my chest as hard 
as   s   t   o   n   e
when I realize,
I believed your lies the first time,
so you can speak,
but I can't listen
to promises
too good to be true.

caustic water burning

the flame in my head,
burns bright,
and it hurts 
as if 
bubbling scabs,
contagious and caustic,
erupt on the surface of my brain.

i take scissors to the river,
since the heat from my scalp,
triggers fear,
that i might be burning,
and as i lift the blades
to the rope laying on my palm.

a wisp of smoke
trails out of the braid,
and i drop the scissors,
with their sharp silver edges,
into the grass.

my eyes widen,
and i untie my hair,
while the smoke engulfs my head.
i cough.
i dive.

through the murky water,
my skin shivers in shock,
but the temperature didn't change.

i begin to see 
the same gray cloud
climbing the plants between my feet.

it snakes into my nose,
and i don't mean to breath,
but it numbs my fingertips,
like anesthesia in a muddy beige office,
that darkens and deepens in the corners.

so i look around in the peaceful,...

a barely ripened peach on my tongue

i choose a peach from the newly filled bowl,
we went to the store this morning.
i wish that it was just picked from my backyard,
a tree that's imaginary.
the knife slides through bright flesh,
and i sigh in relief,
that i picked a piece,
​that was almost perfect.

i lift the barely ripened fruit 
past my lips,
to my tongue,
and it squishes against the roof of my mouth,
a smoothie of sweet and bitter. 

its skin reminds me of the texture i feel,
a simple orange, 
but the flavors of those two fruit are no similar
than the salt and pepper,
sitting in the middle of my black dining table,
while i sit,
and chew,
and contemplate
the food before me.

the leaf deserved to die

i pause at the edge of the sidewalk,
cracked concrete,
covered in a layer of grime.
A leaf turns orange,
and a streetlight flickers on.

i pick up the spot of color,
on the ground near my feet,
rip it in half,
before walking home
where the air is caustic,
and rubs all the color off my face.

it's like sitting on a shelf,
a porcelain doll,
painted on pretty,
then dipped in alcohol
to create a blank slate.

mystics would say
"there's no place for envy"
but i say pain is the consequence of beauty,
so the leaf deserved to die.

origami in an imperfect summer

folding origami,
we watch the sun
                            go
                                down.

mangoes in the heat,
tomatoes dipped in salt,
and candles on the windowsill,
with swans,
and cranes,
and lions.

we complain about the burrs, 
sticking next to our bare feet,
when we dance to avoid the thorns,
and while sweat drips
                                 down
                                          our
                                                neck.

but curiosity will drive us,
into the woods,
where mosquitoes leave red bumps 
on our legs,

still,
we don't stop taking,
paper boats
down to the stream,
and racing,
for hours,
every day.

reject

This is a poem from the past that I recently found in my notebooks, and it's true. Just a little thing. No worries:)

Do you know what hurts more, 
than realizing,
I was never important to him?
Realizing,
that she would always be better?

I still see him,
in the halls,
but during my free period,
our
free period,
he randomly stopped coming 
to talk.

Obviously,
he's got better people,
to talk to.

All day.

Every day.

And it's grown to 
a sore ache,
in the paper-cut scars 
when my heart keeps repeating,
that I never mattered to him.

And sometimes, 
he tries to act like we're 
friends.
But friendship requires more than being a 
spare part.
A backup,
when your "girlfriend" isn't there.

You don't see it.
I do.
And I might be wrong.
But if you didn't like her,
why would you decide 
to go mute,
even when the teacher sits me,
right beside,
you.

I guess I...

London is Falling #nurseryrhymecontest

    It rains in the streets, on the cobblestone bricks; the city never sleeps. A church-tower chimes for twelve, and a train rolls in. On the residential block, a young apprentice takes a message to his master. He won't be happy to know the boy has been called away. 
    On the way to the building, he admires the night ships pulling out of the harbor. They are mad, some people say, to continue in these storms. And rightfully so. It has rained for seven days, and many children have not slept since the thunder first made an appearance like a balancing act on the edge of disaster. 
    The boy isn't scared of noises, nor the dark: he's the man of the house now, while his father is away at war. A gold pin taps on his chest, next to the letter he has yet to send. And as he gets to his master's doorway, sirens...

Justice is Coming #Stopthepresses

Lone Star News - June 27th, 2019

    It was almost a full month without the missing group of citizens from a small town. The bus, once heading to a summer camp, first disappeared off an old highway. The wreckage was found 50 miles away in a forest, six days later. There was no sign of the kids, but officials called that injuries had occurred. Further recap on page three.
    
    Children and teens alike were found today, emerging from the depths of the aforementioned forest which stretches hundreds of miles. They seemed to have created bonds in the need for survival that no one could've ever expected. All 26 members are alive and attending the local hospital. Leader, "Tiger" Lilli Sallow explains:

    "Living out in the wilderness has taken a toll on us like any human being. Knowing this was a chance on our lives put much more on all of our hearts." Standing...

tell me, moonchild

moonchild,
never stop your stories
of fairy godmothers in the dark.
"night isn't all bad"

and i watch,
since I never could touch.
i watch
all your shimmers in the glow
of candles almost burnt down.
i watch,
and you bring down your mirror.
"pull me up, past the birds flight"

i imagine that i was one of you, 
with stars on my eyelashes,
silver on my lips.
my skin black,
my eyes alive,
and feet bare.
"let the wind teach you"

moonchild,
never stop learning,
for i can only wish
to be as wise as you.
"how can you trust so many?"

tell me one of your histories,
please,
and if moondust is real,
tell me about one of its songs.
since,
while we're both children,
i don't know how to find truth...
"permanent is the only lie"

can a traitor be a traitor forever?

An easy recognition, the kind when you know their name, but nothing else, slips in and out of his eyes. It lasts barely a second. A fleeting image of a past memory. It's almost unnoticeable, unless you know how to search, how to find the things that skim the surface of your mind. A bird flying just above the clouds. 

She sees it, analyzing every possible root of the stare. Just as quickly as its gone, it's there. A snap of a camera shutter, and everything goes silent, everything stills, everything falls heavily on the weight of the sudden clarity. The police run up now, grabbing the boy with force as he yells and tries to break away. It passes over the girl's mind, unimportant at the time. She'll go over it later, let it play on repeat like a drunkard's song, just to remember the minute that the world changed. In the waiting, the muddy moments of bright light,...

a shadow

She thought that music would help,
but it only blocks
            out
        the
 world.

Shadows still come,
clouding her eyes,
no one knows
how she's killed.

She stays away,
locked in,
easy to escape.
No one is safe,
while she knows,
and learns,
the secrets
said to stars 
in the night.

The girl you see,
on the outside,
littered with smoke,
and picking up smiles
from rotting weeds
that sit like shards of glass,
glinting in the absence
                        of
                   light.

They don't believe her
when she says
"I'm staying back,
she will hurt you,
if we are careless."

Her words 
are few
until
they talk
against her.
Since,
a hellfighter,
holding hellfire,
doesn't like lies
in her name.

No one realizes 
as she sits,
knees to her chest
with a green sweatshirt
and bulky headphones,
that her eyes are closed
because
she still sees
a heart in her hand,
with fingers rubbed raw
to...

inconsistencies in time #revoke

    My brother would never say he was a genius, but he never passed a chance to tell about his apprenticeship with the Hermit. The Hermit lived near the city, yet no one ever saw or heard anyone living at the house. We knew he was there, though. His collection of items continued to grow. No one thought it would go this far.
    
    My brother must have been a genius, since no one’s ever been allowed into the house. The house itself is made of stone, set just past the city walls, and materials used to pile up in the rocks outside. A metal door should have been the first clue. His lies should have been the next. Who knew that the place where it all started would be where the end caught up?
    
    If my brother was a genius, how does someone disappear, without a care on how to get back?
    

    The house...

and time moves on, chapter two

    It doesn’t take long to meet up again at the Lab, a huge warehouse-turned-headquarters in the middle of an overgrown field. From the outside, I’m reminded how it looks abandoned, yet as soon as we step inside a comforting wave of familiarity takes over. The second story is a loft with couches, chairs, and other comfortable furniture that makes meetings or hanging out with friends more enjoyable. I don’t look at the first floor, focusing instead on getting up the stairs and moving to a bright yellow chair near Isaiah, a quiet classmate who gives me a smile as I sit down. Many windows let in natural light, but the sun only shines behind clouds.
    A simple chain with a gold cross shines from around his neck in the other stagnant colors, and shredded memories of before play on the screen behind my eyelids. I take a breath, letting the gentle sound of conversations calm me. I turn to look...

Travel

What would life be
to take on the face of a 
g    y    p    s    y    ,
steal away
into the night.

A journey to fresh
                    new... starts
every day.
Voyages to tour lands
with 
                           nothing
        and everything.
Since each time I wander
to a place where
        w            e   
    e            r            a
n            d          m   
                            s
shove their way
into my arms

I need 
            some places
                                  to unload. 
 

Justice - a series of haiku's

Falling down the edge.
Loopholes, I say, specifics,
but I know I lie.

My morals stand still, 
as I push for redemption,
my conscience confused.

I wonder when my
truth will come; the trust breaking,
one day justice reigns.

Twisted Thorns

Muddy red dirt likes
bare feet,
better, 
in my forest.

Where branches reach for newcomers,
gnarled fingers begging for solace,
searching for blood,
stinging cuts across open skin
like the mosquito comes and goes,
leaving only a scabbing itch.

Bloody red soil likes
to settle in acid. 
Toxic and caustic,
but with no worry
as I walk.

Poison runs deep in my scars,
a simple price to pay, 
for a home
that hardens a heart enough,
to stroll to Death,
an air of lazy confidence 
around my head.

But it's true.
I'm not afraid.
He saved me once.

And I've seen worse,
than succumbing to the deep slumber,
where nightmares cannot reach the surface,
of the abyss of graves drawn in red,
falling or flying from the meeting,
with our prophesied acquaintance
I've gotten to know.

~~~

My sisters,
they will meet,
find him ugly and soft,
for his quick ends.
For they take their beauty as if it entitles...

and time moves on, chapter one

MAY 7 (Read the prologue here)
        My mind is going on hyper-drive as the school comes into sight. My thoughts react as though they are lightning as I take the last few steps through the pouring rain. My breathing speeds up, and I try to pause, take a break from reality. Turning the ring around my finger, a small blue topaz set in silver, over and over, I think, Today, I shouldn’t feel this way. My feet take me to my locker, left then a right down the grayed tile. Today, I won’t be alone anymore. I find my supplies for my first class: notebook, computer, pencil. Today, I’m selfish, and pushing him into the pit where I am isn’t okay. I step into the bathroom, looking in the mirror. No one’s here, and I sigh, trying to calm down. I close my eyes and stand for a minute.
        
        Change is good.
I remind myself. Change is good. ...

and time moves on - prologue

        The world has never been perfect, yet before its people stopped believing the impossible, there were two villages that shared the land. One in the North, and one in the South. The land was cursed or blessed, you can decide, with the control over an element. The North, contrary to usual theory, controlled not ice, but fire. The fire kept them warm in the mountains, grew their food, created a place where they could thrive. The ice kept the Southern people healthy, and their homes were also happy.
        Two people, a sister and a brother, led the people. They trusted the right families, made mistakes, took responsibility, and above all, stood by the others’ side. You know how this goes, one misunderstands the other and it becomes war.
The magic took the hatred until no one could control it anymore, and the siblings each cursed the other to a life within the elements they used to keep. The Northern people...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2019

Ink - The Story of Writer's Block

                I have spent a few years,
traversing the roads of life,
                        (I’ve tried to stay sane).
        All the time I’ve been alive,
        and longer,
                on the questions
                on all the pages before me
s      c     a      t     t     e      r     e     d like     a
                                                                         s
                                                                      h
                                                                        e
                                                                     s
                                                                   to the wind,
Notebooks,
        and school things,
                and online,
                        and on the back of my hand,
                                or memorized in my mind.
Categorized with the letters         not spoken,
the lines that just--            haven’t been finished.
                                                                    The tip of a pen,
                                                        just making scribbles,
‘cause all the fantasy is     gone.
            It’s just real life here,
but it’s torture
                        without my best friend.
So I make up for it,
                                    diving into music,
and I try to catch the lyrics
        on my tongue,
                        trap them
in a paper cage,
        but they--     just--         won’t--
LISTEN!
        And I try to say
I’m...

speak #onlyonehundred (EDITED)

Every day I feel the count-down press
“go”.

        Somewhere              100
Must be blinking,  w a i t i n g for
    words.

My mouth becomes a
palace,
    like a prison,
every meal made of speech.

Every letter becomes so
                v
                a
                l
                u
                a
                b
                l
                e
when-vines-start-climbing-in-my-head-and-chains-begin-to-wrap-around-my-wrists-while-I-sit-stick-straight-on-a-burning-throne-for-fear-of-using-up-my-little-bit-of-life-every-day.

I feel time start to d
                             r
                             i
                             p
                                 out
w i t h  b l o o d  f r o m  m y  t o n g u e.

It soaks the cloth over my
cra
            cki
                        ng
lips,
the only relief I get...

the unspeakable things #N.dialogue

    She trembles on her feet with unbridled rage. The children, the children can’t die, she thinks. A flame was growing as she opens her mouth to scream and then closes it with little more than a breath. A scream would knock what little strength she has to pieces. I will not be forced to kneel in front of this traitor, I will not... the voice in her head chants. The man shakes his head in amusement and smiles. It is that sick, evil smile that will curse you farther into your prison, her heart pulses, that smile will be how I live. Your smile will be the reason my sisters and brothers in captivity will be released. A stone strong determination shoots into her malnourished body and bleeding wrists and ankles as he begins to speak.
    “You can't do it, can you?” The man says with mockery dripping off every syllable.
    “Why do you think so? Why do you...

The Day of Days - For contest

Personally, I've never seen the purpose in the holiday that people started some hundred years ago, but it's here, and I guess I'll take the extra day off of school. At one point, apparently, March 7th was just a regular day, not to celebrate the number seven and anything else today. Why everything and anything? I don't know, because somehowMarch 7th is the day of the first time we landed on Mars, of the first time traveler's birthday, of the golden queen's coronation, of the day they found a cure for cancer, when the president... y'know, I might as well stop there. March 7th is just the Day of Days, as many call it, where people celebrate everything from a paperclip to the next breaking news and on. Babies born on March 7th are rumored to be very successful later in life, and many times, that's been true. Why did this become popular? I don't know. Still... today,...

Ink - Reimagined

    I like to think that every free moment of my life has been spent writing. It sure seems that way. Questions, and wonders, and far away lands have always been my friends. The thoughts are scattered around, not really a pattern as anything I could use became something to write on. Notebooks, school assignments, online places, all up and down my arms, or just memorized.
    Every title reminds me of the words that I haven't written yet, the sentences left in fragments. My pen makes indents on the blank page, all out of ink, but no matter, all the fantasy is gone. Every second I sit here, at my desk, reality creeps up on the back of my mind, chasing ideas away. It’s torture as I wait for the words to come, but no one’s knocking at my mind’s door.
    So I put in my earbuds, listen to the music play. I try to sing, but no lyrics come out,...

Improbable Flavor

Navy Blue in the Night sky

I reach my hand up into the night, of darkness and of light. The simple glow of tiny worlds flash in the black. I jump and grab and take one down, to taste the white fire. I breath the chill air, with hot sparks on my tongue, and cloudy demise floating in my mouth. The vines of dreams curl toward me, and I twirl them on my fingertip. I'll leave them for later, the dessert, as the peaceful world of shadowy twilight will lure me into the folds of the stars eclipse, and it melts like rich chocolate on my tongue.

The World is Calling - Chapter 4, 5, & 6

I’ve made it.
The blackened tracks below,
my searching train.

There’s a room.
It’s small.
One bunk on one side,
One bunk on the other side.
I wonder who I’m riding with.

It’s a girl.
She looks like me.
Almost.
My auburn hair.
My tan eyes.
Her chocolate hair.
Her dark eyes.
She lays down.
Falls asleep immediately.


I’ve made it.
Onto my vintage brown leather train. I throw my stuff on a seat, and watch the world.
The blackened tracks below, my searching train.

There’s a room,
in one of the cars. I look around, one window,
one bunk on one side, one bunk on the other side.
Mostly wood. A desk under the window. I pick the right side, and grab my stuff again to put it on the top bunk. Rough sheets and lumpy pillows don’t look comfortable, so I ball up my sweater and replace it. I lay down, and find a place where I can...

Child Narrator

just me.

    People have always known what I think. Not the small things, like how I see that zipper is coming undone, or the door isn't closed all the way, but the stories that I think up, and the nightmares that rush at me in the darkness. I've always thought that everyone saw the details. The color changes in the sky, the crumb in the carpet, the tiny pencil mark they thought they erased. I walk slowly so that I don't miss anything. The girl bouncing beside me doesn't like to step off the beat of the seconds she feels ticking, click, click, click. I still don't listen. I would wait outside in the dripping dew and the leaves crunching beneath my feet, and stop. Just a cold breath, in, out... in, out... remembering the moment, with the birds singing above. in, out... the smell of the wet, earthy air, and no one around. in, out... just me.

One Question

Tell me, what do you plan to do do with your one wild and precious life?
~Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

No Pause for Breath

A longing that never subsides...

I've learned the heard way,
that the sky is not our world,
but my heart still longs to dance in the clouds,
and sing with the stars,
yet the shaded ocean space,
that I can never reach,
will not come down to meet me,
as I look up at the dreams of children,
and wonder when I'll fly,
when I'll embrace the unknown,
as it engulfs me in silent waves,
of mercy and grace,
where my imagination thrives,
as snow rains down,
and acid falls upon my ingrown wings,
while I wait with a small book,
where others can find me crying,
over another happy ending, 
but I curl into the comfort,
that the simple story provides,
and the coffee on the side table, 
steaming up the chill air, 
with a quick burst of warmth,
as it stings my tongue,
yet I don't want anything to change,
and I wait for Angel's wings...

The World is Calling - Chapter 2 & 3

I did it.
My home is behind me.
The world is my heart now.
Beating.
Beating.
I won’t miss my ride.
The busy streets mark the paths of my life.
I’m leaving.
This busy suburb won’t hold me any longer.
Not my parent’s dizzy grasp.
Not the memories.
Not my chains.


My home is behind me.
If it could ever be called that. I think all the happier memories were when I was alone, or with the few friends I thought I had. Not in the room where I convinced myself I could survive. That it was my place. But their living in the lies dripped into my brain and now I know.
The world is my heart now,
beating,
beating.
I won’t miss my ride,
as I check my phone. Nothing’s shown up yet, but then again there’s no signal. That’s fine with me. I’m not scared, not of these back streets, or the fields just past, or of...

The World is Calling - Chapter 1

Today is the day.
I decided it a long time ago.
I’ve saved enough money, and extra.
The weather is right.
My bag is packed.
My letter is written.
I leave today.


Today is the day.
Sometimes I wonder how long I’ve waited because I’ve always wanted to leave. Leave this little routine town. Only one school, and only two ways out, north and south. One small railroad station that may be the busiest thing here. Everyone knows everyone else, most families grew up together. It never changed that people are still cruel. It just means no one notices.
I decided a long time ago,
that I would get out of here. Run away as fast as the wind on the rails that comforted me. Helped me through all these years with the promise of an escape. Every day with the same routine, and the mornings where I didn’t want to get up out of bed because I wanted something...

The World is Calling - Chapter 1

Today is the day.
I decided it a long time ago.
I’ve saved enough money, and extra.
The weather is right.
My bag is packed.
My letter is written.
I leave today.


Today is the day.
Sometimes I wonder how long I’ve waited because I’ve always wanted to leave. Leave this little routine town. Only one school, and only two ways out, north and south. One small railroad station that may be the busiest thing here. Everyone knows everyone else, most families grew up together. It never changed that people are still cruel. It just means no one notices.
I decided a long time ago,
that I would get out of here. Run away as fast as the wind on the rails that comforted me. Helped me through all these years with the promise of an escape. Every day with the same routine, and the mornings where I didn’t want to get up out of bed because I wanted something...

For the Future

On Wings of Hope...

    Lovely world,
    I hope you've learned from your mistakes. Whether anyone reads this is no matter, for the stars will remember every word, and it will come back one day. 
    The things I know are few compared to the vast color of the Earth, yet I will do my best to give you those few things to remember. You might think it's old, you might think it's cliche, you might think it's boring, but give me one minute of your life. Maybe it'll mean something. 
    Keep your memories close, the small smiles that anyone shares, the tiny details you might never recognize. Remember how the sun sparkles on the snow, one day, maybe it won't happen anymore. Keep in mind each time you become fire and start to burn on anything that's in your way, maybe one day, you'll know how you should have put it out. Keep the picture of each time it rains, and...

What is a Person's Character?

    Every person's character is beautiful and unique to them. Their personality is like each feather on a bird’s wing, they are all vivid, colorful, and different in the best way, but together, even the smallest bird can fly. Everyone wants to reach the stars, and sometimes others are jealous, hurt, or feel like they aren’t good enough, so they start pulling at the places where we are insecure. Each word can be like a knife, pulling through our spirit, and dragging us down to them. When you hit the ground, they try to make you feel their pain, the dripping destruction that they had to endure. In that moment, you have a choice; either try to understand and stitch up their raw scars, or break others down, so they can’t fly. We can try to limp along, half of our hearts missing, or we can work to build up the stairs, reaching past the constellations, so that everyone can get...

25 Words

The Sky

Her heart longs to dance in the clouds, a sapphire world she could never know, but her golden glass wings are growing, feather by feather...

 

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2018

A Glow

I watch on the cliff,
my mirrored reflection,
the girl I once knew,
whose trust ripped away,
on her makeshift butterfly feathers,
in a swirling tempest of their cruel dismissal.

A fire once glowed,
a light used to shine,
but the sun's radiance doesn't climb the walls,
of the prison she kept,
her heart of hearts. 

Bars on the cramped windows like rusted burns in the dark stone flesh,
with bloody scratches in the black ink corners that won't ever be found,
and a box which sits,
locked up with moonlight,
the scars that their words left,
and the salty-sweet music of the ocean.

Her eyes once danced in laughter,
while her spirit skipped through the stars,
but the world flipped through its pages of painted on truth,
curled into the growing lies,
and she slowly sank into the ground,
as her wings tore away like the edges of an old photograph, 
in the pebbles of silver glass shards that we're made...

The Violin

A chilling wind brushes over the gray skies and above twisting foreign streets. Broken glass and burnt down buildings create a feeling of living inside a faded photograph. The ones with yellowed edges that fly down the current and stick in unknown places until someone cares enough to look for the pieces of lives no one will ever know. Simple melodies twirl up and down the abandoned gravel, finding their way into the strung together notes of a song. It curls and moves with the wind, flitting into the darkened corners of the empty day.
A girl sits peacefully on an upturned bucket, rusted and scratched, as the equally exhausted instrument in her arms turns out notes as fast as a bird whistles. Its auburn wood and hollow stomach feels light as the music streaming into the spring air. The girl plays for hours, moving the song and stringing it in circles and lines with the rest of all the...

Place Poem

Faded Photos

A simple place,
of good old times,
and frozen smiles, 
sits wrapped in leather,
open,
shimmering in the dim candlelight.

The memories of
picnics,
apple pie,
and summer sweetness encased in a glance.

Of fiery leaves,
maple candy,
turning branches,
and crisp night air.

Of stirring snowdrifts,
glowing lights,
delicate presents,
and rushing traffic.

Of soft colors,
dew on the grass,
endless sidewalks,
and small shoots in the morning.

As the small house,
a simple place,
of changing worlds,
and frowning smiles,
sits wrapped in nature,
open,
shimmering in the fractured sunlight.

The Girl-Flower

    Once there was a flower, while the Earth was still green. It was a picture of beauty, ringed in soft colors. The day came where it wanted more than a simple life of the forest. She looked up at the light above and asked to be. To do something more for the world. After many days and nights, she knew her wish was to be granted. The flower listened to the stones sing and the leaves sway for the last time. When she woke again in the morning, she was, and it was quiet, it was big and beautiful and scary. She cried then, the flower lost in the world, weeped over the loss of song and beauty.
    The flower, trapped in a body, sobbed for a long time, until the sun began to set. The colors of the sky comforted her. They soothed her, and she laid down and fell asleep. The next morning she woke to a...

Onward

The choir sings as though angels have awoken in grief. A girl walks down the carpet, head down, feet moving on the music. Only sixteen, and yet in charge of a throne, the onlookers murmur. She wears a blood red gown, diamonds in her necklace, flowing with the maroon garnishes in the golden palace. The picture of beauty, the whispers blow. A small tear makes its path down her cheek. That gleaming tear falls, and her eyes harden. Her movements are still graceful, but there is a cold. She straightens as it curls around her heart, weaves into her soul. Not many notice that she is gone, succumbed to the ice, until there is only one thing left. Chanting in her mind, through the veins of crystal.
Onward.

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2018

A Glow

I watch on the cliff,
my mirrored reflection,
the girl I once knew,
who loved with reckless abandon.

A fire once glowed,
a light used to shine,
but the sun's radiance doesn't climb the walls,
of the prison she kept,
her heart of hearts. 

Her eyes once danced in laughter,
while her soul skipped through the stars,
but the world crashed down with the weight of the universe,
and she slowly sank into the ground,
of the silver glass shards that we're made of, 
where we littered the dirt with our broken smiles.

I sit here today,
watching the moon,
with the waves writhing below,
and echoing in my crippled soul. 

Something I wrote a while ago...

    I see lips moving. Eyes watching. Ears listening. All I hear is a blinding silence. I feel the vibrations of the bus but hear none of its usual thunder. The blue sky comforts me. It urges the gears inside my head to start turning. The green motion outside the window slows my heart rate. It’s strange how I sound so calm. The only sound I hear is the words in my imagination.
They twist and turn. Weave and create. Characters enter and leave. Worlds fly by. An alternate universe complicates things. Stars reflect in a pitch black lake. A letter is received. A message is sent. Birds wake the sun. Wolves honor the moon. Flowers bloom. Leaves unfurl. A dog pads across a street. A cat stalks its prey. Clouds grow. Lightning strikes. Thunder crashes. Wind howls. Fear creeps up from behind. Pain slashes through vision. A diamond heart smashes into a thousand pieces. A kiss stops time. Wings stretch....

The Power of Words

Broken words unfold inside me, 
all the letters I once wrote, 
that curl and burrow deeper,
filling holes I didn’t know. 

They climb up the corners of my soul, 
find the crevices in my heart, 
keep dividing in mind,
and tearing me apart. 

It comes in a wave, 
the papers that I find,
on the walls of my body,
where the ink is drying. 

It bloodies my fingers,
the colors of my world, 
as the universe inside me,
expands and unfurls. 

Another piece from Google Drive...(3)

    The moon was a sliver as a shadow moved across the golden field. It moved with the grace of a dancer and flew with the speed of a bird. Reaching the tendrils of luring trees, it stopped and turned around, searching for something that wasn't there. The darkness of the canopy weaved and curled, creating a foreboding stir in the hearts of unwelcome visitors. However, this shadow jumped through this forest with easy familiarity. It darted from dark to dark blending in with the other shadows joining it in slow, tentative winds. It crossed a stream, ran past a path, and landed in a cozy clearing of night. The shadow unfolds and lays in the grass, a sense of ease and relaxation stirring from the stars above. Its breathing slows and its eyes close, the night gathering the nightmares and replacing them with dreams.
    A sleepy sun rises in folds of soft yellows, pinks, and blues. The forest doesn’t look...

Another piece from Google Drive...(2)

    The girl is a blur of movement as she drops her stuff into a bag that looks way too small and vaults over the banister. She drops gracefully, landing on one knee, her dark hair falling in her eyes. All this happens in a matter of seconds, and before anyone can realize what’s going on, she starts running, sprinting down the hallway to the gym. Her sister’s there, lying unconscious on the hard floor. She slides over with a tear falling down her cheek as she picks her up and whisks her away. The girl runs as fast as she can without hurting her sibling in her arms. She bursts out of the door, into the street in front of the school, and a car builds itself over them, lifting them up, making a stretcher for the hurt girl, and speeding away into the busy street.
    If anyone cared to look, a paper floated down from the banister where she...

Another piece from Google Drive...(1)

    She trembles on her feet with unbridled rage. A flame was growing as she opens her mouth to scream and then closes it with little more than a breath. Something tells her that a scream would knock what little strength she has to pieces and she would be forced to kneel in front of this traitor. The man shakes his head in amusement and smiles. It is that sick, evil smile that shoots words to her tongue and a stone hard determination into her malnourished body with bleeding wrists and ankles.
    “You can't do it, can you?” The man says with mockery dripping off every syllable.
    “Why do you think so? Why do you think I can't stop you when people, kids, just like me have done the impossible?” Her eyes are burning holes through him, her concentration growing as the sentences form.
    “Well, I didn't cause the holocaust. Ididn't put black people in oppression.” Her voice grates in...

A sentence idea.

Really quick, just thought of this sentence, I honestly don't know what its for. 

Her eyes glow with the unrestrained fury and fire of pure hatred as her heart realizes the the loss, the weight, and grief that is weakening and curling around her body, and forcing her down on her knees. 

Never Again ~ a poem...

Never again,
will I make that mistake.
She tells herself,
in the mirror.

Never again,
will I say that phrase,
She whispers,
as she walks away.

Never again,
will I think,
that the world is that forgiving,
is that kind.
She vows,
as she remembers.

Never again.
Says the girl,
who grew cold,
and unfamiliar,
in the starlight,
of shadows.

A poem not yet finished.

You don't understand,
and never will,
that people speak out,
in their opinions,
as military shouts,
world peace! 
But all we want,
are no more broken families.

The news isn't helping, 
with this or that.
Just making us wonder,
is that one a lie?
Are people still hurting each other? 
With spite and hate?

~ More Randomness ~

    “You little girl! You little jerk! What do you--” I slam my door shut, effectively cutting off my older sister’s furious ranting. Leaning against the door, I wait for her pounding on the other side to stop. I breathe in clean air, uncontaminated by the fiery anger of my siblings. It always gets turned on me and my parents never listen.

    “I guess that’s how it works.” I say to my little kitten stretching on my pillow in an orange fluff. I step away from the door and walk over to my bed in the corner of my small room.

    “I think you’re the only one who loves me.” I pick up the kitten and plop down on the bed, setting her down next to my head. I close my eyes, hoping no one would break down my door before dinner.

    I wake up to the feeling of pressing night. I sit up slowly and quietly step to the window....

~ Just publishing some randomness from my Google Drive ~

    If you looked out your window before the sun rose, you’d see a bicycle moving down the street, glowing a soft yellow in the quiet light of the day. If you lived on Maple lane or Hullberry street, you’d know the girl riding along, singing sweetly in the cold silence. If you ever ventured into the bakery, past the kitchen, and into the small back bedroom, you’d know the girl who was so quick to write her dreams, and curl the ink into something beautiful.

    If you look out your window before the sun rises tomorrow, you’d only see the waking glow of light peeking up over the horizon. If you live on Maple lane or Hullberry street, you remember that girl fondly, wondering where she is now and replaying her voice in your mind. Now, if you venture into the bakery, past the kitchen, and into the small back bedroom, you’d find it cheerful and welcoming, but empty. Almost....

Monostich

A line filled with ideas.

A handful of monostitch poems to get something started. Note: None are really connected in any way.

When I grow old, will I remember the little things of childhood that are the most important?

The colors burst in vivid light as the world falls away. 

In dreams and wishes she collects the smallest pieces, and bleeds the ink into words. 

She waits with abated breath for the last letter to fall as a dread settles in the corners and lines of her heart.

The sun curls in simple rays and heals the broken soul.