Everything is new. (1.24.16)

Anger dries my throat. Tears well in my eyes.

I ball up my fists, crushing them against my sides.

A bruise will soon form where the two forces meet.

Words from a broken home knock me off my feet.

My mouth is taut, a line so thin, one would think it would snap.

I inhale once, and let out a heavy sigh that sounds more like a gasp.

The muscles in my hands tense once more as tears dry in my eyes.

Palms now gone flat against purple-green thighs.

All that remains is a bitter after taste.

My cheeks burn where tears rolled their stinging chase.

I breath deep, and let it all go again.

As I've Grown. (12.3.15)

As I’ve grown,
I’ve witnessed countless tragedies.

Whether it was guns or bombs,

In person or on T.V.

The world is a better place,

This much is true.
Less deaths thanks to disease,

Less things to kill you.

As I’ve grown,

I’ve come to disagree.

The mathematicians must not see

The world I see.

Graphs say the world is getting better.

Crime is going down,

The ocean is going up,
The shoreline is getting wetter.

But as I’ve grown.

The only things I see,

Are wars on drugs,

On terror,

On me.

From the time I was born,

In 1997,

I can’t count the number of

Funeral processions.

As I’ve grown,
I’ve seen people cry.
Watching millions of innocents die.

I ask the world,

Now that I’m 18,
What changes are left unseen.

Now that I’m grown,

I need to know,
Just where the future will go.

(P A S S I V E...O B S E S S I V E) (9.9.15)

Finding some new

Niche

Is the best drug I can imagine.

Boys,

Girls,

Words,

or

Stories.

It never matters.

I feed off the

Energy,

I need your

Attention,

I don't know you but I miss

You.

Please I can't 

Move on.

The Chase. (7.29.15)

Vincent Van Gogh told me to go out and taste the stars. To paint them with my wide eyed brush. That same brush that was tinted rose with the words of Emerson and Aristotle. Those 'great' poets told me to live my adventure, and to hold close my dreams. Scientists have spouted for years that I am special. That I am made from the building blocks of universes and I am innumerable.
All throughout my childhood, Doctor Seuss wrote for me a path of confounded prose. Telling me stories of all the places I could go and I believed every word. I remember the first time I picked up a Harry Potter novel and I heard Dumbledore tell me about his mismatched wool socks. I recall the sense of whimsy the words ignited in my chest.
I remember picking up Shakespeare's 'A MidSummer's Night's Dream' and having that whimsy run wild. I was entranced by the pitter patter of Iambic pentameter. I recall being engrossed by Edgar Allen Poe's trokey, as he talked about ravens rapping on his door. All these voices calling to me from the past, inspiring my mind to rebel against my present.
I remember finding out about Van Gogh's depression, Poe's too. I learned about Shakespeare being a drunkard, and my dearest Doctor fighting nazis. The way those realizations dawned upon me, the weight of their words only increased. Suddenly the raven was no longer a mischievous friend, but a sullen companion. No longer did Puck seem to be the lovable scamp, but more the righteous hand of fate.
The beauty of 'Starry Night' became insurmountable.
There is a sense of wonder that never left me. Inspired by the greats of old. They whisper to me while I try to sleep. They tell me their tales and ask me mine.
"Who are you?" They say, and "What are your sorrows?"
I miss the days when I responded freely
"I wish I had more money." "I wish that I was in love."
But now things have changed. I am no longer chasing sorrows, because despite what the greats told me, I chose to chase a more finicky beast. I chose to follow hope. The light that glows in the flowers at dawn. The way the ocean sounds at midnight. I chose to follow my heart and chase my dreams like wisps off a wishing weed. I don't know where this road leads me, because more often than not it's not a road, but I know I will land one day. Wherever I land those greats will follow.
Because people like us can't help but to chase a story.

I Remember The Rain. (2015)

When I was a little girl, Thunderstorms scared the living breath out of me. My mom would tell me that it was angels moving furniture in heaven. As I grew the rain became a fascination. An event I remember quite clearly was leaving a little sand sphinx out in the rain when I lived in Arizona. I went back the next morning and the sphinx had eroded, I claimed satan had put a mark on me. My mother told me I was nuts and bought me a book on Egyptology. 
I went to my cousins house for some reason, as we drove in my grandfather's old white minivan five year old me watched the rain race down the window. I always rooted for the really little droplets. I imagined they all had families and had to race to gain more food. When I arrived at my cousin's house (she was seven at the time) We put our blankets into the dryer and worked on making pop tarts, hot chocolate, and two bowls of cereal for a rainy picnic. We weren’t going to go sit in the rain, but rather on this little piece of pavement in her backyard the the roof hung over very conveniently. We watched the rain for hours before her mom found us.
As I grew older still, rain was the time that I feared most. My father died on a day with rain, and it rained that whole week. No hot chocolate or tea could have made me feel better. I missed him so dearly, and felt so guilty that I asked the rain to forgive me. I asked the waters to poor over me in a cool embrace and remind me that I wasn’t to blame. I was eleven.
When I turned thirteen, my knowledge of spirits and how to contact them grew immensely. I was at my cousin's house, (this was the same cousin from the previous story, she lived in a new house though.) which was located in the middle of the desert. I wrote a letter to my father, four pages. Asking him questions and desiring some kind of proof that he was still with me. The definition of “Be careful what you wish for.” was that evening. I burnt the letter, sending it to the heavens and to my father. My cousin and I went back inside, when I freak storm had appeared. Light crashed and illuminated the house, turning off the power. The power kicked back on quickly but loud claps of thunder sounded through the night. Rain poured down in buckets. I hadn’t ever seen anything like it. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. The shadow of my Dad, he was standing across the room from me, and I froze.
And today, when I was too angry for words, or the only thing I could do was dance. I did so in the rain. Letting it wash away that hate and letting the universe remind me that it was okay. I was valid and the anger I was feeling was valid. 

Vile. (12.2.14)

Black out your heart,

Dark smoke blinding the moon

Sand falling on a distant shore.

How many colors do you taste

When you think of me?

And how I burnt out your heart

And cooled you with my touch.

I am something vile.

A poison made pure by

Years of distillation.

I am assimilated into something that I don’t

Completely understand while you scream.

"Don’t go into the night"

Because that’s when the stars can get you

I have found that every year is the same.

Right as I figure out what I fear most,

You teach me why I am always right.

So if you kiss me goodbye,

You’re going to end up dead.

A Little More Than Hopeless Romantic. (11.24.14)

I found the cure to growing old in her peppermint smile.

I'd be damned if I didn't mention that
even the mere sight of her handle gives me heart palpitations.
A gentle tip tapping, ripping at the delicate muscle.

Sometimes I want to pull a "Practical Magic" and
Just set a spell telling me that,
No, I don't fall in love with those eyes.
No, I don't find the way you laugh at me endearing at all.

No. That isn't the slightest bit true.
And of course number one on my list is not to lie.
And how dare I break that rule,
By lying to myself, telling me that I don't want you.

As the Summer died, gasping out His final breath.
Winter takes Her hold on me.
Two aspects of my soul, fighting for the spotlight.

Because where he was warm and wild,
She is cool and gentle.
And where he loved me in the moonlight,
She'll love me in the sun.

The way her hand cradles my heart,
As though it was a hawk with a broken wing.
Something fierce and crippled.
Makes the tip tapping grow a little more each day.