All Library locations will be closed Monday, June 19th for the Juneteenth holiday.
as the clock strikes the bell tolls
the steeple has never looked as high as it does
when you are standing on the tip
looking down at the cobblestones
there is no room in the temple
for the sinner
who does not repent
Is how still the air is, standing
Is how grey the sky is, weeping
Is how red the fallen leaf is, dying
Is how green the grass is, living
Living, living, living
A breath in, a breath out
Taken for granted—granted, it’s
Are these the pangs of birth or the aftershocks of death?
What awaits me beyond this shore?
And even now when legs and feet have failed me
The sand shows trails, like serpents, of this fragility
I bleed: the gravel grinds my skin and ﬂesh
"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never one beautiful, it was just red." - Kait Rokowski
I wanna make poetry out of the way the boy who was my first grade best friend
i have never loved another in the way i have found myself to love you.
i have loved you the way the sun loves the dandelions
and the way the tides love the moon.
i simply cannot imagine a world where we didn’t save one another.
sometime before the clock hit eleven,
i thought of you.
i imagined the threat your caressing fingers possess
as they trace targets on the side of my belly.
Even when she was young, Sonya had never been afraid of the supernatural.
grasses bent in a tweak of fingers
bent my fingers bent my bones
my toes in
earth sweating dew
digging a way out
sucking on a single clover
I will count them all
shards of glass in the mirror
every part of me adds
up to nothing
I’m standing in front of violets
in front of a Renaissance painting
and wondering what do I have
in this town
words hold hostages
if i cry i will
bleed, and i will
integrity and i will
rip apart the frontdrop that has
made my portraits pretty
for (maybe) minutes on end.
that when I die
I’ll sink into the soil
Be eaten by all the things I’ve eaten
Become the dirt for all to walk upon
I know that my thoughts are just neurons firing
That my heart is a collection of molecules
that happen to beat
Does it end where it all began?
Since the death of my mother
Something inside is broken
from deep deep
I feel like I’ve sinned
Thoughts ramble through my head
I feel like I too want to be dead
Yes it’s wrong
it’s not right
Among the freezing breeze of swastikas,
The only awakened robot
Was the word of the innocent.
She was of three hearts,
Like a sphinx,
Child, escapist, and thief.
The milkman used to come up this way,
Bringing us his creamy milk, and stories, back in the day.
A dusty train followed him, rising up into the sky,
His buggy drove low, but his spirits sang high.
In my mind, I still see his horse-drawn car,
I look at your face,
the flowers in the vase,
I never wanted to be in this place,
As I pace the floor,
Searching for the door,
I realize I miss you more,
So I kneel at the cross,
And pray for my loss,
Wondering why you paid the cost . . .
He woke up shivering, the cold hard floor having been his bed for the night. His brain throbbed as he pushed himself up, making it hard to remember what last happened. He held his head in his hands as he thought it over until an eerie sob bounced off the walls.
It’s hard to understand and agree with this quote, unless you’ve experienced a great loss. My friend, Paige Winters, died in a plane crash and it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with in my entire life.
Her death truly has changed everything.
It looked a bit like Lila, but it wasn’t Lila. I don’t know why people say that when someone dies they look like they’re sleeping. Her skin was dull grey and colder than ice. Her long body lay limp and heavy on the stainless steel table. Her clothes were dirty and rumpled.
Whenever I' m alone I miss you
Wish I took that chance to kiss you
I feel shattered and alone
like a dog thats lost his bone
Remembering your laughing eyes
my life is filled with quiet sighs
Seasons may come and seasons may go