First of all: I'm not sure this is even a poem? It sounds more like the nostalgic rambling of an elderly person... No comment. (I half-jokingly titled it "The Reminiscing of an Aging Ninth Grader" in the Google doc it's been sitting in, unread for a few months) It sort of sounds like the opening of a realistic-fiction novel, honestly.

Secondly: Sorry about the weird formatting if it stays in there (and also the length, sorry admin). It is very ramble-y and how I often narrate flashbacks in my head for some reason.

Swings

~~~~~~ 

I've always wondered what went on beyond those trees.

Yes, as we sat on those swings, I would often wonder that.

We always did end up going back to those swings, too. I think they were actually removed recently. I wonder if we'll ever get to sit on swings and talk together like that again. The trees all got cut down too, so it wouldn't be the same. Even if those trees are gone, though, I'll still wonder what's beyond the horizon. That's just what I do.

It's funny, we always just sort of assumed that things'd stay mostly the same. Oh well.

I remember us coming back to those swings, even as the seasons changed; from sweltering heat that had adults reminding us not to run or we'd faint, to changed leaves that we loved to collect, and then frozen leaves on the blacktop, giving way to sleet and then snow, and sometimes we'd get yelled at by the lunch monitors for not wearing boots in the snow (but it was fluffy snow anyway, so it was fine), and then those times where I'd let you borrow one glove and I'd keep the other so we could both write in our matching notebooks while trying to balance them on our laps as we pumped on the swings, going so high we'd get nauseous. Then the biting, bitter cold would get melted back into a drizzle, with the scent of fresh earth and grass and adventure as the trees all unpackaged their blooms, and the sun sometimes shone, but mostly it was still gloomy.

I remember the thin-spread sand lining the swings, and where, right behind them, we buried coins and painted stones and golden chocolate gelt that you insisted were "real treasure from genuine pirates that were passed down for centuries," in your family, which made my cousin, who was in the same grade as us, cry when she discovered that they were not, in fact, as we said. (You can blame her brother, who was two years older, for bursting her bubble. Poor Maggie.) I still remember the way you said "bury" in a way that the first syllable sounded like that in "bird," and the way you'd gush about Harry Potter and look at me in distaste when I said I didn't like it before you told me that you did. 

That was in the second grade. 

I was a new student that year, the only one in our grade at that. You always became "friends" with the new kid, impressive, and were always subtly aiming to get into the "cool group." Of course I noticed, that's just what I do, but you always ended up coming back to me in the end.

Back to me and that swing set again. 

I remember all those conversations we had, filled with secret plans of "world domination" as I put it, and secret codes, and codenames(that only we knew about) for all the kids in our grade (which we did, and redid a few times), and of plans for a grand future. I remember laughing and talking and enjoying the silence with you all those times, over the creaking of those old swings we always sat on. 

Even with our alternating ups-and-downs we managed to stay somewhat in sync; I remember when we kept trying to high-five as we swung by each other, but with our young, short arms we couldn't reach and ended up veering all over, or the times we'd twist the chains as far as they'd go before letting go and spinning ourselves dizzy and sick, and I remember the occasional company who'd interrupt our secret plans and we'd have to play nice around and make small talk with. 

I remember when we were still just two little girls who everyone thought worked perfect together: one was shy and well-behaved and got good grades, the other was similarly tempered albeit a bit strange, and yet made up for it by being 'the cleverest child they'd ever seen;' the first with almost-straight, wavy black hair and olive skin, called a strange word: 'Pakistani,' and the other with curly dirty blond hair she always wore up and had cloudy greenish eyes that nothing seemed to be able to escape. I remember swinging, even as all those years passed; as you donned a hijab and sweeter way of talking, and as I slowly, invisibly, sank deeper into a quiet despair. 

I remember you complaining about having only hand-me-down clothes and shoes from your sister or how everyone said the two of you looked the same(although you definitely didn't) and how I'd spin wild stories to cheer you up, all the while letting myself fall further into the pit as I dug you out. 

I remember whispering about who liked who in our codenames, and the drama of fifth grade's "cheese," "crackers," and "salami," that still cracks me up to this day. (Who ever thought that food-related codenames were a good idea?)

I remember slowly coming to realize that despite supposedly being shy, I talked far to much in class (by answering questions, of course) and noticing the difference between you, who kept your head down, even though you were always just as interested if not more so, and certainly more gossipy, than me in any given topic or conversation or relationship.

And it's not something I'd ever admit, but I always envied your eyes, and how beautiful your loopy handwriting looked. The way you could flip personality and voice so effortlessly, and managed not to get caught up in anything. I'm a jealous person, honestly, yet I hate myself when I am. Not that anyone else notices. Ah, but I suppose it doesn't really matter now. We still went back to the swings in the end.

That reminds me of you wishing out loud that you could be as carefree as me, whatever that means. Maybe it was for the same reason everyone thought I wanted to hear a bunch of empty compliments back then. I don't know where you all got that idea, but darling, you must have been mistaken; it was only after that, that I always made sure to put on a mask of security and confidence to cover up those endless nights spent in tears at home. I never talked about home; for all the stories I told, and stuff I (perhaps)... well, fabricated.

I only remember a couple of times where I really ever got openly angry, which I only do when reminded of that place; it was in front of you, one time, and the girl who lived next door to my father's house in that last year or so, the other. Perhaps it was too much of a contrast between my usual indifferent personality, because both of you looked a bit scared, though you probably didn't notice. After that, I was more cautious, bottled everything I possibly could, and never did anything like that again. And so, once again, we ended up going back to those swings. 

Maybe the humanity in me would say I miss those swings, and you too, but I can't even say that for sure. I can't bring myself look back and regret things, no matter what the circumstances. But maybe I'm just in denial; still, after all these years, too afraid to expose my vulnerabilities. Or perhaps there's really nothing beneath my layers of masks.

Even so, I still remember those swings; we sat there every day during recess and ate our lunches (even though we weren't supposed to, because that's what lunch was for, but no one ever scolded for that anyway) or had to deal with rumbling stomaches as we each fasted for our own religious cerimonies, and later on, 'Frenchy' sometimes used to join us, although only to swing. 

I still remember when trees grew thick in the car park(parking lot), and then when they only dotted the mesh fence behind the swings that are probably gone now. I remember the creeeeeak-crink, creeeeeak-crink and the way the set would heave under us, if both of us were swinging, as we got older. 

I still remember the sprawling field that doesn't look as big as it used to anymore, past the big playset full of wood chips that some people, and even us, sometimes, would play football(or soccer, as you guys call it) in. We used to have the 'banana-split' final party there, and our end-of-the-year parties were held there too.

All that circles back and reminds me of those swings, and the trees, and all the changes, and you, and all of elementary school. 

It reminds me of that old, creaky swing set, and us, just swinging. Some days I'd look into the trees and wonder what spread out beyond them.

I'm gonna read this one to my class tomorrow. I feel like I really worked at the rythm on this one -- probably one of my most "polished."

I’m Sorry

Once I found a feather

I picked it off the ground

And as it stirred it,

It whispered the words “I’m sorry”

I snipped up the feather

I snipped the barbs around

And though it was bitter, and not just a little,

I pocketed the apology glitter

I came across a rock

I stumbled and I fell

And then it spilled, though my pocket was filled,

And whispered the words “I’m sorry”

It soon became instinct

To quickly ring the bell

And once every minute, even with no sting in it, 

It whispered the words “I’m sorry”

The tiny specks of dust

Would wedge into their clothes

To them, a flame, indeed, most strange,

But it impacted me all the same 

This feather was too light,

Like shaved from granite stones

It was blown around, couldn’t keep it down,

As it whispered the words “I’m sorry”

And someday soon I hope

I’ll keep that glitter down

I’ll save those stones, for when things have grown,

And not whisper the words “I’m sorry”

I’ll mop that glitter up

I might feel like I’ll drown

But once I’m done, we’ll all have won,

As I won’t whisper the words “I’m sorry”

I really like this poem, what do you guys think?

One Summer Night

One summer night

We ran around barefoot, the grass tickled my ankles

One summer night

I laughed as you told a scary story

(It wasn’t all that scary)

One summer night

You smiled at me slightly as we swung up towards the sunset

And then you jumped off the swing

One summer night

We were flying

One summer night

We giggled, stayed up all night long

Telling silly secrets

One summer night

You taught me surfing

(Not very well, we almost drowned, but we came out of the water smiling)

One summer night

I took a bike ride and you skated on those too-small roller skates

One summer night

We took a selfie at the ice cream shop

It was blurry, but we didn’t care

One summer night

You grew up

You were suddenly too old for telling secrets

One summer night

Tag and hide and seek were for kids

One summer night

Scary stories, dumb

Swings gave you motion sickness

One summer night

Surfing badly didn’t sound like fun

One summer night

You couldn’t squeeze your feet into the roller skates

One summer night

You deleted the selfie for storage

Because every summer night will have to end. 

I stand at the edge of The Void

Nothing but empty blackness to be seen

I feel hollow

But at the same time, too emotional

I hate myself for my anger

For envy and imperfections

For everything I can never be

I wish I were different

Then that I were lonesome and free

What good are the things I do?

When there's always someone better

Then I despise myself for thinking that way 

But there's no point in tearing myself up about it

Just bottle it up

And take a step forward

Feel nothing even when you should

That's just how I am, I'll finally just accept it

My brain rushes at a hundred miles an hour

As if trying to achieve vacarity as per the wishes of my feet.

But I am trapped

In a gilded birdcage; wide, but never wide enough.

I act like I don't know or care

But I yearn to run away

Take off into the sky

and fly 

Far

Far

Away.

Since my head is already in clouds

Would it be so unbelievable if I suddenly sprouted wings?

No one will miss me anyway

And maybe then

I would be happier too.

To disappear into the distance

Over a horizon

And let the darkness consume me in another place 

Far away from prying eyes 

Where I will finally achieve peace...

Welll, one can always dream,

right? 

i don't pretend to imagine this is good what with freaking about various glass animals slowed and i have no idea what's going on and the rhythm is probably all off and it has little to no structure and the rhymes are never quite nice

BUT WALLA WALLA SLOWED  

so here it is: 

even as we sleep

it's coming out of me

something in the deep 

can't find a way to be 

and it's my own voice 

calling up at you

can be heard above the noise 

it's puching through 

help me

cage me up lock me down 

it's coming out it's coming out

i can't stop it don't know how 

can't you find another route 

{okay. pause and scream about exxus slowed which is the closest i can get to this [poem]}

i don't want to do this

can't you stop this

won't you stop this

i can't do this 

STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT

{sorry but  NO NO YOU INTERNET WORK PLAY ME MY SLOWED GLASS ANIMALS [flower] YOU AAAAAAH AhhhH} 

fix it fix this i can see the holes in me

the places where it's pushing out rimmed in red (rimmed in red i)

something in me's searching for a way to be

but it's breaking me 

{you think everything else was good but my child you've never heard pools slowed} 

so, actually i just realized what it was after writing all but the first four lines here as i post it because i didn't like the stuff i had written

annnndd 4th time putting in the captcha.... 

Ice is blessed in a way;

It is cool and smooth to the moment it ends

And then it can calmly fade away--

Melting without dealing with any consequences. 

Steel poles are also blessed in a way;

Rigid and unbending, never one to doubt itself,

Shiny and perfect and always so very useful;

It will never have to worry, 'till the day it is melted down.

Yet living things are so inelegant,

Always such a hassle as they push each other down in life

And leave behind a dirty mess in death 

What are the purpose of such things?