She is faded.
Worn out,
Worn down.
Time stole her crown.

I could spend an eternity upstairs reading.
Under the covers reading, hiding like a bear for winter.
Skimming the pages all day.
In the world of Anne.
Flip, Flip, Flip, Go the pages.
Her always saying Anne spelled with an “e”.

My hope is that we can forget about hate,
our prejudices, our unneeded bias.

Forget about making others feel bad about themselves,
oppressing them for being different.
We can forget about our pointless wars,
and instead, focus on restoring peace and order.

There is a little place in my mind…
that is my favorite place…
in the whole world.
It is my creativity.
My imagination.
There I escape to other lands.
To other worlds and kingdoms.
I become anything I like.
Anyone I like.

The weird stuff in my head,
can confuse thousands,
like a llama driving a car.

The unnatural stuff in my head
is pure nightmare fuel,
pumping through my veins into my brain.

The unusual stuff in my head,
is just sick and twisted to an extreme.

There are so many, too many, humans in the world,
Who are silenced, forgotten, voices never heard.
We make snap judgments based on race,
Appearance, or simply the look of their face.
But each of these people in the world,
Has a story that needs to be heard.

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
in a judgment free world.

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,
from pedaling.

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.
My bark may be rough

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.
A cry for help

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
Helpful
Nice
Labels are unfair

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?
If we are, how do we find it?
We don’t.

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
                              I look hard.
     Some I have no idea what they mean.
     Some are small, invisible.

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
Standing up and speaking out

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.
He is still there I smile.

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.
Keep roots down there,
And to be fair,

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
I learned from myself and others.

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.
This place is there for me night and day,

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