Eep, thank you! You don't know how much it means to me to be complimented by you guys, 'cause I always look at your guys' poetry like wow this is so beautiful mine's really bad, so it's crazy that you think I wrote a good poem. Even though I made alot of typos. 

This poem is pretty lousy and unemotional compared to all yours, but here goes: 

Phoenixbirth

Gray ashes

Sift and

Shift to

Make way for a tiny bird

Gray

Colorless 

But then

It grows

Plumes

Feathers

A tail

Wings

Expand

And are covered with color

Red

Scarlet

Sunny tangerine, and

Sweeping yellow

Even hints of deep aqua blue

Flames rise

The phoenix cries

Flaps its wings

Scattering the gray

Bright fire

Rises into

The blue, blue, sky

And flies 

This is a poem I wrote recently. It's kind of but honestly it's how I feel sometimes. :(

If they ever saw me crying

They would say why

Why are there tears in your eyes

You're absolutely perfect

You're just crying for attention 

They lie, the liars that they are

How could they understand

They know what to say, what to do

I don't 

Sometimes the tears just flood out of me

But they could never understand

So I cry alone. 

untitled as of yet

you.

you love vivid sunsets.

you love trees and the honeyed chords of guitars

and you love fingerless gloves and

running fast and holding hands.

and falling. you love the thrill of falling.

you love warm tea and morning birds and

breathing out frosty clouds. you love

smoky sweatshirts and unclouded skies.

you love knowing that others love you and you love smiling.

you love the sparkles on your fingers.

and me. you love me.

you love the wind and you want to fly. you

love wooden bridges even though they have 

splinters and you love dirt and pencil tips and

the frigid january water. you love fire.

you love that so many people are good.

y o u   l o v e   t h e   d a r k .

you love everyone you can and even some 

you can't and also the color gold. you love

ink doodles and the northern lights and 

flowers.

you. 

author's note: the first one i wrote in my head in the shower. the second is exactly what the title says, i had a good idea of where it was going to go, then... 

white water faucet

you are like

a rainbow trout

to me-

all i

see

are a few

metallic 

flecks of

pale pink and

yellow

amidst

the 

frothy, lapping,

river

i lost what i was going to say 

never has anyone made my stomach churn more.

(my insides feel like folded sourdough)

laying alone in my bed i

feel you like a phantom limb

last saturday i

buried my head in your shoulder lying sideways

sweater sliding slowly up my waist 

memories like ghosts (that haunt me now)

---

yesterday i

drove by where

in the summer,

you sat with your friends

and others,

in the shade of

a verdant, leafy

tree

and i could picture it 

perfectly in my head

but yesterday,

it was different

the ground

was covered 

with snow, and

there was 

an absence of

people on the wooden

beam and the

tree, once

green, stood

bare

it was like

a ghost 

town and i 

watched, as it 

went by, 

at a loss

i knew you

sat there in the

summer, and i can

see you there, but you

are gone 

now and left

behind only

ghosts,

ghost versions of

you, that i 

can see but no one else 

can

drifting out of focus 

underneath

the skeleton-like tree 

---

This is a true poem! It's kinda long but that's because I felt the need to split it up in short lines like I did. It's where I tried to capture the strange feeling of driving by a playground where I happened to be with some other homeschoolers in the summer one day, and my crush and his friends and some of my friends' moms were sitting on this wooden beam in the ground that was underneath a tree, because it was really hot that day. And so I drove by it the other day and then I was looking at it and I was like, remembering that day and picturing exactly where the people had been sitting, but the playground now is all bare and desolate...like, I was picturing a memory and it was just really weird and a little nostalgic.

Um, yeah *stops typing*

A short one— What it says on the tin.