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
legs to the inside of my throat

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
humidity is saturation
saturation of patience

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
Waiting for Old Faithful to burst

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
humidity is saturation
saturation of patience

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

Yet nothing goes
Onto the blank page
Even at his command

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
Therefore I am American

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,
We know it’s a computer,

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
Maybe, you will realize
Later in a day

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
Falling on top of each other violently

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
Caught up in the chase.

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
distorting reason from my intrigued mind

Her sympathy
made his pain
all the more real...