An old-ish poem that I wrote for school.

(un)locked

——

the doors close quick, an entire country decries

responsibility, decries humanity,

leaving the rest to peek through the cracks in the walls and

count protruding ribs, wondering, wondering,

why I am I so different?

the phantoms plead in tinny voices,

mournful eyes blinking at us from the faces

in our grandmothers’ tatty photo album.

but our hearts have grown cold and

so we paint our faces with

righteous economy, shield ourselves within the pockets of

paved streets and full bellies and

forget the pain we once

knew, the pain of stomachs weighted with nothing, the

fragile, choking beat

of a bird’s-wing heart.

and the rest remember. they duck from death and

mark days on gaunt-peeled cheeks, their

lives consist of walking, hollowed. but perhaps

they know more of real life than us, for we have forgotten how

to listen to the whispers.

aren’t I real, too? 

This is a mostly-true poem. I actually managed to revise it a bit but I CANNOT DECIDE ON A TITLE. I'm pretty sure I want to save "dead or alive" for some different poem but I'd appreciate some opinions! 

undead/living dead/dead or alive

i don't know when i started getting up late

acting like a zombie most days, often

finding myself staring into blank space

i rarely see the sunrise these days and

it's hard to make myself move--i sit

glazed over with the radio on, but not

listening, just in a

haze

maybe it's a lack of company, or

anxiety side-effects

but i always wish i could do something

about it, the days when i'm sitting gazing

at nothing with my eyes slid out of focus

now i want to be reanimated, and to have

someone else hold the puppet strings, except i

want to think for myself, maybe

and yet i'm still a zombie, not quite resurrected

undead and stumbling

i want to be brought back to life

a short ode to the sun

catch me outside-

i don't want to fight i just want to feel my goosebumps sink away

when the sun, with its soft marigold fingers

shines on my skin, already kissed

(age spots are inevitable, although,

that's a problem for another dawn)

i ponder the odds of existing

93 million miles away 

McMansion

My home is from a factory

Devoid of creativity

Just look along my street and see-

My neighbors have the same.

The inside's nice and fancy 

But the windows are all drafty

And the molding gets so dusty-

It truly is a pain.

The clock is ticking

The future gazed at the past,

Seeing how far it had come.

Time is changing, time is changing-

Ever, evermore.

The past looked toward the future,

Jealous of its wonders and mights.

Time is changing, time is changing-

Ever, evermore.

The present glanced on either side,

Marveling at what it saw.

Time is changing, time is changing-

Ever, evermore.

The three cought each other's eyes,

Nodding, bonding as one.

Time is changing, time is changing-

Ever,

Evermore. 

This is something I've been turning around in my head for a while, after I was taking out some old watercolors and found this cool one that had gotten mixed with a bit of other colors, and dried like that. 

watercolor bleeding

it is the color of the sky at night, a

galaxy, or aurora borealis

dreamy-eyed dusk perfection, a universe, the

milky way, the hues of just before and after a

cloudy winter sunset like maybe if you looked

close enough you could

see the stars

And this I haven't, and might never, finish, but I wanted to post it anyways.

picture me

alone, like i was, standing in the middle of

a road that stretches 

into nothingness

or maybe i'm sitting on a battlefield,

with smoke curling around me 

i'm surrounded by a silver frame hanging somewhere 

that's not close to you