You were a house of cards.
You were the joker,
The queen of hearts.
You were cupid’s arrow,
You were the darts.
You were an umbrella,
The rain,
The hail.
But me I’m just
A lonely snail.

Ive never knelt before a church’s alter

I cannot believe that people

who spend their whole life

doing good

will have to spend time

in some sort of

spiritual prison

because water

was not sprinkled onto

their soft heads

Mother Mary never even answered when I called her

I cannot believe

that good people

who spend their whole

lives awaiting the relief of

their own death

will be stuck in an endless line

to the Pearly Gates because

they did not make reservations

yet I’ve seen prophets falter.

I cannot believe in an

after life that I do not want

an eternity is too long

just let me rest, please

my heart is too big for me to handle

I fall in love with strangers and objects and feelings and the way the light hits the walls of my room in the afternoon and I can’t help but cry at everything. I have so much capacity for love and no ways to express it. 

People tell me I have a large heart like its a good thing. It is not a good thing to be given a heart so big that you’ll never fill it. 

I’m just a snow globe collecting dust
Please stop shaking me up,
just to put me back on your stupid shelf.
I’ve settled at the bottom, finally made myself cozy,
took my shoes off and everything.
And then you just had to go making flurries didn’t you?
You just had to.

I found a crumpled
piece of blank
sheet music
under my bed,

I thought of you.

right on top
of the fictional
story I wrote in
the 4th grade
that made my
teacher cry and
she gave me a
worried look and
slapped a AA+ on
the front

 page

Today,
I saw you in
front of the
big glass window
that peers down
into the library as
I waited for someone,
and my heart
beat was a
crescendo that
didn’t build up
to anything at all.

We’re down to
only
two
seasons,
And you don’t seem to care
but Im clinging to
a
single
reason

Which has lots to do with the way the moon looks when everyone is sleeping. 


I wish I could know what you were thinking.



You are the green light on the other
side of the bay, 


and you are blinking.

I want you to know that I could write an entire heptology about a single time you looked at me, And that has nothing to do with my appreciation for the number 7

I want you to know that you’ve planted flowers in my heart and I fear that soon they will begin to grow out my collar bone.

I want you to know that the day I learned of your existence you crawled into my ear and rewired my brain, and ever since I couldn’t stop coming back to you.

I want you to know that when I was 5 I stole a butterfly bracelet from the store because my mom wouldn’t buy me it and I’ve I’ve felt guilty ever since.

I want you to know that I’m not quite sure which of my memories are real and which ones I’ve made up and sometimes I tell a lie so many times that I consider it the truth

I want you to know I fall in love with complete strangers every time I turn a corner, and as much as I want to despise the entire human race I cannot stop falling in love with some its subtle qualities.

I want you to know that despite my loud and obnoxious quirks I am terribly shy and I am still afraid to give waiters my order without mumbling

I want you to know that I don’t have much going for me other than false confidence and ambition for the future and Im okay with that.

I want you to know that sometimes I feel like Daisy Buchannon. But a lot of the times I feel like James Gatz.
I just really wish I was good enough for you

I’m going to make a sequel to my poem entitled “childhood” And it’s going to be great. As soon as I get inspired. .

How strange it is to simply be alive
To look in the mirror and to think that you even exist
To catch a glimpse of yourself straight out of the shower
To run your own fingertips through your own wet hair
To touch your own chapped lips.
To think that this is you, and this is not only your body but your home
To think that these thoughts are yours,
Or even stranger; to even think at all.
But the strangest is thinking of all the thoughts of others that we can’t hear. Or the lives people live that we aren’t aware of, people we’ve never met.
I’ve spent countless hours as a child standing in front of the mirror after an accidental glimpse of myself
Thinking, Is this really me?
Were all trying to wrap our pretty little brains around our own existence and the existence of those we’ve never met and cannot see.

She kept cartoons on in the background always. Because the sound of the rain along with the tv playing The Flinstones with the volume down low was a familiar one.
Summers wasted on rainy days.
When she’d rather waste them on you instead.

I was wind and found it hard

to stay in one place, always running. 

You were water and you

slipped through my fingers, far too easily.

They say that wind and water 

are meant to crash and collide

rather than to coexist. 

But you and I, 

we come together for a moment

and lose each other the next. 

A constant rise and collapse.

Water evaporating into air, 

just to fall back down to earth as rain. 

If only I could stop running, 

stop letting love slip through my fingers, 

and instead, 

let it hold up ships. 

They say It could never work;

it is not in our stars,

it is against our elements.

But I think maybe

we are meant to crash and collide. 

I think it is in our stars indeed. 

she wanted the world to be at the tips of her fingers. She sat in her lonely chair and thought of all the things happening in places other than “here”. Places other than the little niche that she created for herself in her mind behind dusty bookshelves. Her problem was however, that she could not leave. She could not leave her little chair or her small gossiping town, and she most definitely could not leave her own mind. The world wasn’t at her fingertips. She knew that every second of her life she was missing out on something happening somewhere else. So she traveled to the made up worlds inside her own brain which she filled with books and tales of adventure and she read about places beyond her own little realm. She lived her life inside her head. She escaped to the made up world inside her mind and discovered that she did not want to leave. So she stayed there. She went about her daily routines, went to school behind a dusty desk, rode the bus, bought her groceries, placed them on the kitchen counter where they would begin to pile up. But these, as I said were only routines. She was only participating in life, watching others, doing what needs to get done, and the rest of her life, was lived through dreams. It was as though she had taken all her belongings and her disembodied self and moved them into her own brain, and her body was running on autopilot. It picked up the dry cleaning and paid the bills and took in the mail and fed the dog all while she was snuggled up in the crevices of her skull. She was safe there. 

Safe.

She didnt know what she was safe from. But she was safe. Maybe from life perhaps.

She made sure to make it clear to keep your realities away from her, she did not want them. They did not pertain to her. She got by just fine on her own, in her own little world. It got lonely sometimes, but all she had to do was dream up people to keep her company, and that seemed to keep her satisfied.

 Maybe its not the greatest way to live ones life, but it is a way to live. 

the past is a ghost

is second hand smoke, 

it hangs over your head 

makes you dizzy again

you keep rereading the same line

because you simply do not understand 

and you cannot turn the page 

the past keeps reaching out its hand

saying stay with me a little while longer 

you dont have to go just yet 

but you’ve got to be stronger

turn the page. kill the ghost. 

reach forth.