Fear of not being good enough,

World with Judgment,

People knowing everything about you,

Mistakes talked about

being judged feelings pain

we are who we want to be

people can be different

wishing of Living

I found myself

staring out of my bedroom

window,

my eyes followed the footsteps

of the strangers walking below me.

Life is a bike going through

twists and turns.

I never get it on my first try,

so I keep trying and trying

until I can take my training

wheels off.

I might get a few scratches and

cuts, but that won’t stop me,

I am a story

my existence made for people to enjoy.

They skip over me

flip

flip

flip

to see only the things they want to see

not what they need to see.

I am a tree

tall and skinny

my roots run deep

and my leaves are big,

and grow up high.

Nearby are my family trees,

from which my seed came.

A bit further are my friends

of all shapes kinds and sizes.

Who is this girl I see in the mirror?

This girl’s eyes full of fear, caused by

Demons whispering in her ears.

Scared one day their words won’t be lies.

She holds on, trying not to cry.

Each day wanting to die,

She finally cries.

Blondes are

Stupid

Popular

Ditsy

Un-athletic

Girly girls

Blonde is a label

Look at my personality

Look past my hair

Blonde is not me

I am

Smart

Athletic

Messy

Hiding in the background.

Behind everything and everybody.

I’m missing something in me.

I wait at the end of the mat thinking those thoughts.

Thinking as hard as my brain would let me.

When I’m starting to run...

What is life?

Is it the short time between birth and death?

Is it a chance to do something?

If it is, then what?

Do we pursue happiness?

Do we try to help others?

Or are we all here to fulfill a purpose?

The wallflower sits and listens,

in the back of the classroom,

remembering each word spoken.

She never smiles,

never laughs,

has never shown emotion.

You see, I’ve been on both ends, the smile and the tear,

But still I stand after all of my years,

Perhaps a little wiser, maybe stronger too,

But I’m still nowhere close to what I’m meant to do.

And although I seem generous and incredibly kind,

I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t let go.

I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t let her true colors show.

The girl who hides her sadness as if she’s wearing a mask

And says that everything is fine.

The girl who pretends everything is sublime.

Who am I?

     I am a puzzle. A million words and thoughts and ideas, feelings that fit together.

     I can maybe identify some of them if

People hide in the darkness of the day

They see it happen but they stay away

But today is the day that I speak up and say something

Being brave, not afraid

Taking a chance and stepping out

Being heard not reticent

The fire hisses, flickering,

as it lay encaged by a thick black sheath of iron.

Cloth stockings droop down− bare and bereaved.

Pure, white snow is drifting

down from the blank upper atmosphere.

The gray and white dog routinely scampers

Sitting on my grandpa Larry’s lap,

laughing and smiling.

Going everywhere on the cart smiling.

Smiling the way he laughs.

Going to the hospital trying to smile,

but I can’t.

Rushing to his room I run.

The ties to your ancestry

Binding a great family tree,

With this can you be truly free?

Now you have these choices three:

Embrace your blood,

An old-new bud.

Refuse the bonds

For fields beyond.

I have not changed at all.

It is not true that

I have changed for the better from experience.

It is genuine when I say that

I have not tried to apologize for my past wrongdoings.

I am false when I claim that

Some of us haven’t quite found a place

We wander with suitcases full of self-doubt and worry

We flit from person to person seeking acceptance

We run from place to place

searching for a passion where we can direct the never ending flow of time

What do you do when the place you call home

Is one that you no longer recognize; when you

Forget that place is no mere function of space,

But also a function of time; and the

Crystalline memories you can still see,

This place, that place, there are so many in which I can be,

But I choose that one, the one where I can be free.

It can be a place where the sun shines at the crack of dawn,

A place that is so dreamy it can make me yawn.

I couldn’t see the ocean, I couldn’t see the waves.

I didn’t even know there were waves.

Just a blue blur, like paint splattered on a blank canvas

Tripping over nothing,

Catching something that wasn’t there

A trick of the mind it was.

Down the winding path I stroll, through woods dark

And deep, where mystery and magic roam.

A swift stream runs here; high above, a lark

Sings sweet and clear, in a voice that calls “home.”

Onwards, a low growl comes from some deep cave

there was a river/in the black hills/that my favorite trail followed/with pine trees lining

its banks/of hard ground and towering rocks//i would beg my father/to walk that trail/

as far as it went/as many days as i could//and as we walked he would/recite poems from

It’s been five days,

But more than five days have been accomplished

It doesn’t feel like years have past,

Only that the beginning seems like years ago

It’s time to leave, to another world

But the world we leave will never leave us

i could break beneath the weight of

atmosphere.

these stars, balanced atop my head

are heavier than the sun,

lending their light

across a universe, a lifetime

to shatter my insides in their silence.

Hadfield gazed out the small glass window,

a portal to home.

Through the opening, an inspiring sight,

the bright sunlight shone.

Swirling colors, pushing to the horizon,

a palette of aquamarine,

On sad days,

his eyes tell me stories –

stories of pain,

of struggle,

of truth.

They hold within them soft, grey clouds after April afternoon storms.

But the sky is bright without the sun,

because it is never truly gone.

My record player- The warm sound of “Ultraviolence” circling through my room like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Connected with the music. 

Quite a lot to say but such little time,

We are all stuck in the crime of rhythm and rhyme.

Forgive my silence, my pen is running dry.

Don't know if I'll make it but I can promise to try.