i don't know how i feel about this one, so critique would be appreciated :)

maybe

maybe i’m too hopeful. 

maybe i’ve already wasted all my potential on

perfect cursive in second grade &

raw yet mediocre poetry in google docs &

editing the graduation speech

i was too afraid to read—

and maybe that’s okay.

maybe i was never destined for anything, anyway,

beyond the cards i was dealt

(though that doesn’t mean i can’t

curse the dealer, whoever

that might be).

and maybe i can live with that.

maybe i can be okay with knowing 

that no one will ever remember my name, that

no one will ever remember my face, that

no one will cry when i die—

yeah, maybe in some other life.

but i’m too hopeful

(or too arrogant, perhaps?),

and think that maybe i,

i alone,

can defy death, defy time,

which will inevitably erase me from

memory, 

and turn me into no more than dust beneath 

a pocked, crumbling headstone, 

overgrown with weeds and splattered with

papery green and white lichen so that

no one may read my name,

like so many before me.

and maybe i can leave a mark

on this world

(god forbid that mark be a scar)

maybe i can let my name be known, 

let it be more than some words

printed upon second-place spelling bee certificates &

scrawled in middle-school yearbooks, accompanied by some generic message &

typed on the headings of essays that my teacher thinks are ahead of my grade level but i think suck.

and then, one day—

maybe i’ll be enough for you.

but maybe i'm too hopeful.

Yellow is the colour of time.

Distressed parchment and oil-stained pages,

Ever-loosening bindings, licked and frayed with age;

Dust falling through an hourglass,

Ever feeding into the eternal onward march.

Fabric starched, stiffened and bleached 

By each day endured for years at a time,

Yellowed by love and wear and constant use;

Porcelain teeth and tiring skin

Dirtied by the passage of time in this place.

Memories tinted golden, fading reminisces

And shadows melded from warm twilight shine;

Musty attics, old towering  clocks and peeling wallpaper; 

A colour of cheer, courage and prestige,

But also that of cowardice and treachery galore. 

We look back to the mother continent, the cradle of humanity

And see dull blooming golds, forestlines receding as if a mere mirage.

Yellow truly is the colour of time. 

After the War

It's after the war.

Death destruction despair

and the ruins of London

still smoking over there,

but out here in the countryside

there are birds flying up through the meadow grasses,

there are flowers flaming in the sun,

there are frogs singing by the banks of the streams,

still.

Humans are devastated,

our lives have gone,

some never to return.

(death destruction despair

and the ruins

still smoking over there),

everything we know has ended,

or so we thought

but life does still go on,

and there are birds flying up through the meadow grasses,

there are flowers flaming in the sun,

there are frogs singing by the banks of the streams,

still.

haven't been on here for a while so here's a poetry dump! 

the funny thing about my home in the mountains is that,

often,

the sky is split in two.

one half is your picture-perfect day in the countryside:

skies reflecting the pale blue waters of the county pool,

fluffy cotton balls hovering in the air,

birds crooning to our battered radio

as they somersault through the clouds,

and the other is the type that makes you frown upwards

and cancel any picnic plans you'd made before you spun around:

deep gray watercolors blended messily into the horizon,

gusty winds carrying the smell of rain,

the throaty caws of a lone raven

as it draws sharp angles in the sky.

the darker side is always the result of a storm in the high country.

if I close my eyes,

I can see it raining there.

thick drops disappearing into the churning river,

like a paper boat caught in a swell,

thunder shaking the trees,

as if a giant was awaking from her slumber,

lightning crackling through the sky

and illuminating the forest,

like a faulty flashlight's beam flickering on and off.

the lighter side stretches across the meadows and valleys.

if I focus,

I can smell the wildflowers.

they cover the rolling hills like a patchwork quilt,

the array of colors reminding me of fourth-of-july fireworks,

their scent like a dozen candles with wax seeping down the sides.

if I focus,

I can hear the light breeze.

it twirls through the grass,

shifting each piece,

rustling ever so softly,

leaving cool kisses on your cheeks,

letting your hair drift along with the weeds.

the funny thing about my home in the mountains is that,

often,

the sky is split in two.

the funny thing about me is that,

often,

I am split in two.

all blue skies and bird songs until

you glance over your shoulder and the storm is rolling in.

but I think my thunder and rain

are just as important as my sunshine and flowers are. 

today is a gray, gloomy sort of day,

which is strange for the last week of school.

I don't think I've ever witnessed a last week that wasn't

seatbelts singing your hands,

chapstick melting in your pocket,

tank tops and flip-flops,

kind of hot.

but I also hadn't ever seen a week of snow days

or a flooded school until this year,

so I suppose it's to be expected.

typically, I'd consider myself a fan of cloudy days.

I love the way fog curls around the mountains like

those floaty scarves my mom always takes a liking to in autumn,

and the way the cool air curls my hair,

and the anticipation of rain making pit-pattering polka dots on the sidewalk.

but today the gray skies weigh on my shoulders like

a guilty secret weighs on your mind,

and I can't help but notice that the birds have stopped singing.

perhaps the mountains are in mourning.

perhaps I am in mourning too.

did you know that if you sink beneath

the bubbles and sweet-smelling water

for just enough time,

scales will start creeping up your legs?

pale green and shimmery blue and dark purple scales that

fuse your legs together and

sparkle beneath the surface.

the scales are only the first step, though.

if you keep your head submerged for long enough,

your curls drifting through the water will twist into a sharp fin and

gills will be carved into your rosy cheeks,

turning the world above into a dangerous, suffocating place.

(is it so bad, though?

being one with the flood,

a creature who knows where they belong?)

get out of the water.

let your scales fade,

your curls tumble back down your shoulders,

let the slashes in your cheeks heal.

listen, the world beneath the surface

is

not

for

you.