Don't you think

that rain drops are

all our dreams

that shatter when they

touch the firm ground

or reality?

The endless blue ocean

A magnificent view

Seagulls call loudly

As you and I stand

On the edge of the

Deck, leaning over

Observing the view

You whisper to me,

“Isn’t this place so

Beautiful? In the

Middle of the ocean,

Surrounded by

Nature’s power?”

I smile in agreement,

But stop when I see

Dots in the distance

Getting larger and

Larger, turning into

Pieces, turning into

A large mound, an

Island of—

Garbage, littered

In the ocean, floating

As if nature is glaring

At us, asking us why

Why did you, the humans

Dirty my oceans? I

Have only ever rewarded

You, thus, you should see

The consequences of your

Single actions, which

Pile up into a monster—

A monster of garbage

Waiting, waiting, waiting

To be dealt with

I don't really like this but *shrugs* and I didn't have time to edit...

i am a rock. granite infused with hints of

steel. i remain because i have to, because if i don’t then

how can i be there for others? i prevent

the regrets from drowning me by being the dam that holds

them back. i wear down with time eroding and maybe

i’m losing myself. but i’m still mineral strength and

indomitable gray. the sledgehammer i started from

is becoming a grain of sand. insignificant

but swept through the tides and

still i hold on. grasping at nothing but lopsided castles of hope

that wash away in the coming wave. rock

beats scissors every time and so i clash with

the shining blades and win. but paper poetry

wraps around my soul and exposes

it to where i am living under a rock. the rock

that i am. the rock that i will continue

to be. the rock that is a speckle of sand. the rock

that is alone. the rock that cannot find the words.

the rock that loses to paper.

Plaster caked on thick,

Thick enough it cracks

When I paint a smile on.

I wonder if they can see in

The way I see out, when that happens

It slips a little, the tears come through,

And I feel the clay crumble a little more.

Sticky and hot with condensation.

Drowning in quicksand. 

I feel like Medusa,

Sealed behind a wall,

Blank white eyes, unseeing, set in

Blank white skin, marble

A canvass for you to paint your monsters on.

I swallow down lead

Like the Nimean Lion

Choking on viscous molten metal.

My mask is powdery when it dries,

Dust coating my throat and lungs

Like smoke from the funeral pyres

But also like offerings to the gods.

Have you ever tried to inhale sand?

That's the way each breath feels to me,

Each exhale a little bit of you gone forever,

Something you realise you could have saved

Now that you're drowning,

Chained to a ball, sinking in heavy dark water.

I feel like twisted metal,

Wartorn lands who now have to put their parents' mistakes on trial

Put the pieces back together

In a jigsaw of dust and limbs and blood seeped deep into the Earth.

I feel like synagogues

Burnt in 70 CE, girls married off before 13.

Jagged glass and parchment torn

And robes soaked in heavy sand,

A valley of bones covered in stones,

Nothing more than human before Him. 

i have a friend

who writes poetry to process

to express their sadness and heartache and tears

simple words that twist my heartstrings

and they share a snapshot of themself that’s fragile and a little broken and beautiful anyway

and i think i’m a little jealous of them

the bravery to say what they feel instead of hiding from it like i do

because even a private doc is too much

so i hide behind twisted metaphors and pretty words, the kind of things my english teacher would praise but i hate myself for

fake in that they can never convey the indomitable ache that breaks me from the inside even on my good days

and i think i wish i was mature enough

to say something like

i’m scared and sad and stuck/and i don’t know how to fix anything/and what if i do something i regret because i’m too far gone to care/it hurts so much but i’m only numb/numb, and scared.

and maybe someone would read it or i would read it and

it would finally feel real

because nothing else does anymore

and i’m scared. 

It's early.

Morning grey,

Almost raining but not cracked enough

So it's just grey

And dry and

Morning.

Cold.

She hasn't eaten, but it's time to go. 

It's endless hours, muscles sore

Despite the hours of stretches and yoga,

Counting times and pointed toes

And pink and tights and silk and leotards.

The sun comes in, 

Dances all across the room

The mirrors

Bouncing boards 

For a golden spear of light.

She sees herself in those mirrors,

Stick-like, tight.

And yet she can see the weight

Of one too many meals.

Crack.

Every movement rigid but smooth,

Painful but graceful. 

Just

Broken toes on

Broken feet

Spinning 'round a

Broken heart. 

She sings, she spins

She smiles

Through gritted teeth

Mascara and eyeliner

Smeared down her face

Beneath the white makeup

Applied before recital.

She hasn't eaten yet, nor will she.

When she walks

it's as if she leaves

stars in her tracks.

When she smiles

it is truly divine,

calms the most inpatient.

Her arrows are swift,

And her aim is perfect

Her tunic blows in the wild wind,

a token of confidence.

She hunts,

the deer still follow her,

Why?

I will never know

The moon is perched on her head

like a trophy.

And her children,

are clever

and defy our definitions

and rules.

How I wish I could

see the world through her eyes.