I am from hard worn leather beneath my feet.

Watching my second home from my favorite place,

4 feet above the ground.

From sounds of gymnastics filling my ears

to a layer of chalk and sweat that coats everything from my

There’s a question in her blue, misty eyes.

His don’t answer.

Hey, I miss you

School started yesterday and

I really couldn’t stand

You not being there

They had a pasta bar in the cafeteria

The germs wouldn’t mesh well with your hypochondria,

But the butter noodles were okay

Tissues.

Litter my floor.

Scraps of Paper.

Crumpled and overflowing my recycling bin.

Eraser bits.

Cover my desk until the pale wood looks black.

You were my

Spaghetti boyfriend

Blonde

Full of spaghetti

That’s all I really

Know about you

You were my

Only friend

Bright

Full of potential

It’s strange how I don’t

Remember you

Typing the conclusion of my English essay,

in a loud, dimly lit coffee shop,

I peer over my laptop screen

and see the type of girl you only see

in pictures.

cactus spines

pink flowers

my quiet is not

blurred signs at the edges of

interstate

when the clouds

circle at night

pack of dogs

i will my body

to be

prickly pear

Montana and Wyoming

The sprawling landscape of Yellowstone

Against towering mountains

Form a place that I'd never seen before

The animals and people you meet at pull offs

Are what make the experience an experience

cactus spines

pink flowers

my quiet is not

blurred signs at the edges of

interstate

when the clouds

circle at night

pack of dogs

i will my body

to be

prickly pear

I'm sittin' on a swing and I'm talking to myself while wearing my chocolate mint licorice peanut butter shoes ...

On a desert thinking about other odd things like yellow flowerpots hidden under the bed of the boy next door.

chorus

What if the world had peace,

no one in the world would have to sleep wit a piece,

i need to find inter peace,

the peace that’s inside of me.

we all need peace it’s what provides for thee,

Creating worlds

The writer does

Is it not?

Conveying a message

With interconnected words

And a simple plot

A thousand ideas

A single pen

The writer has at hand

What do you see,

when you look at me?

Do you see my different ethnicities?

I’m Mexican

I’m French

I’m White

TO claim one any of,

Those aren’t quite right

I was born on american land

An ordinary villager was he

Poor and only twenty-three

His name was Benjamin

And the princess’s heart he wished to win.

The Princess he so wanted to have

But knowing his chances, he grew sad

A call is a call as a body will fall,

And all through it all the men will stand tall.

To service the call is to liven the brawl.

On their bellies they crawl while the others may stall.

We remember them all whose names paint the wall.

My big brother was shot and killed late night October 17th

At a house party just relaxing trying to do his thing

Got into an Altercation but decided to walk away

But the oppose continued agitating all out of his rage

The congregation; working actors, writers, dancers, and painters looking for inspiration

The ministry; museum curators, storytellers, and teachers that spread the word

The saints; those who made sacrifices for art’s sake and are forever embedded in history

How do some falsely proclaim to

lie down to sleep in prayer, with a

right heart and mind.

And yet they arise with anger and

strife. Storming with hatred, even

though the sun is bright and shining.

Their soul is black as night.

You don't know us,

Unless you've been there,

We live differently,

We live our ways,

We fight our ways,

We make our own decisions,

Without parents,

Without any real danger,

But you see it all as danger,

In that worn book

With its black etched pages

Scribble marked paths

You chose through the ages

Even paqes wished forgotten

Outnumber those loved

Paper winqs ripped out

And thrown flittering up above

My mind is a library

Sorted thoughts of countless words

Memories of different years

Information stored upon thousands of shelves

One little push on one of the shelves

And they will all collapse like dominos

Behold the cage in the papers lines

Where history will stay behind

A prison for my free thoughts

Where my free words are being caught

In my wonder for my own ways

I wonder where my words will stay

Nine in the morning

And the crack between us widens.

A low rumbling starts in my chest

Where my heart used to be,

Growing louder and stronger until

I’m shaking

With silent rage.

They say I write to escape

That I let the words flow like droplets of water

Swept along in a strong current

Tumbling

Gushing

To get away.

The world is a spinning ball of darkness when there is no light.

The answers are hidden in a lying mess when there is no truth.

The happiness is crying mournful tears when there is no joy.

The bravery is retreating from its fears when there is no strength.

I’m looking for a trash can,

I’m looking for a broom.

I need to get a move on

I have to leave this place soon.

But I can’t find the door anymore

I can’t leave this place,

Cause of all the mess I’ve made

With such dexterity I make a world of my own.

Only here can I hew my imagination with intense zeal

To create greater imagination.

Here we see a prodigy that is us.

I saw your name in lights last night,

like the stars formed together and spelled it out, just for me

a neon sign, in pinks and greens

it’s the middle of the night and i

can’t sleep.

My mind wandering

running

racing

A poem should be equal to what I find engaging

the way the scene keeps shifting around

The first couple stanzas thrown down

For all of a sudden the iron mask represents

The barrier between the author and me

Her sympathy

made his pain

all the more real...