Put This Poem Somewhere Safe.

A poem about poems. :)

I wrote a poem, once
when I was littlest.
It was about a horse
with a brown main
in a long braid.
And I showed it to my teacher
and she showed it to my mom.
And she tucked it somewhere
safe
and I haven't seen it since.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was littler.
It was about snowflakes
and how they melted on my nose.
And I showed my grandma
and she hung it on her fridge
safe.
But I haven't seen it in a while.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was little.
It was about flowers
because that's what my teacher
said to write.
And I gave it to my mom
for mothers day.
And she put in a frame
safe.
I wonder if she remembers
the flower I described to her.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was smaller
It was about love
because I thought that love
was something all poems should be about
even though I hadn't the slightest clue
as to what love was.
I still don't.
I didn't show anybody.
I tucked it in a diary
safe.
But I can't really remember it now.

I wrote a poem, once
When I was younger
about school.
And it was very long,
and my teacher put it in the hallway.
I wrote about notebooks
and science teachers
and laughing students.
And I see that poem, from time to time
where I put it,
so it'd be safe.
And I remember what life was like
back then.
And I smile.

I wrote a poem, once
last year
about light
and dark.
And I read it to the professor
who told me I needed
to enhance the characteristics
of my metaphors.
And when I was satisfied
I stared at the words.
And I tried to really believe
everything I'd said.
And then I put that poem in a folder
and it's tucked away somewhere,
hopefully safe.
Because someday
I wonder if it'll really make sense to me
like I said it did.

I wrote a poem, once
a few weeks ago
about changes.
And I didn't show anybody
because it's something that is meant
for only my heart.
And I wrote about how things were so much easier
when I was little.
How family and the perfect outfit
would make me so happy.
And I wrote about how I'm really not sure
why that isn't the case
anymore.

I wrote a poem, once
a few days ago
about my life.
And it was very long
and I didn't use many big words
because that professor, she told me
that sometimes, small words can mean big things.
And so I talked about how things change
but they always stay the same.
And about how I'm very lucky.
And very happy.
And even though I'm sure my mom would love it,
I haven't shown anybody.
It's tucked in my computer.
Where it's safe.

Someday, I'll write a poem
about my life, again.
And it'll be much longer.
And I'll know more words.
And I will have grown so much.

Someday, I'll write a poem
and I'll show it to the world.
And they'll thank me.
Because words are very powerful,
and that's what my dreams tell me.

Someday, I'll write a poem
and it will be me.
And everyone will look at me
and wonder how they've known me for so long
without ever really seeing me.

But right now, I'm writing this poem.
And I'm not sure what I meant for it to be about.
But that professor
who told me to enhance my metaphors
says that a poem can be anything
as long as it means something
to yourself.
And this poem
it means a lot to me.
Words are very powerful.
And I'm proud to have found them.

Someday, write a poem.
And tell me a little bit about who you are.
Because I could live a thousand lifetimes
and never know.
Write all the words in your head.
The words on your tongue, at this very moment:
panda bears
ukeleles
bamboo trees
nail polish.
And then after wards,
you'll know yourself
a little better.that poem
will be safe.


Even though not knowing for sure
is what makes the discovery
worth seeking.

Someday, I'll write a poem.
And then I'll understand
why I began writing
in the first place.
And I'll put it somewhere
where everyone will see it.
And a billion eyes will read it
and understand.
And in their hearts
that poem
will be safe.

Spectacular.

A Poem.
I know the theme's been done so many times, but this poem means a lot to me. So thanks for reading, if you do. :)

I'm not perfect.
Really, I'm nothing special
spectacular.
I wear makeup, to hide
behind every flaw
that doesn't belong.
It's like a mask
I never
take off.
And I wear a cape, too
to complete the look.
To make myself feel invincible.
With words sewn across my chest
in bright colors
that everyone's already seen before
a thousand times
on every other girl.
But this isn't one of those poems where
I try to make you see who I really am
by just spilling every thing
out.
It's not a teenage rant
about how no one understands me
or about how I'm hiding
behind myself.
Because I'm not.
And they do see me, I think.
I hope.
I promise I'm not trying to
win you over with
these little words.
Because I'm not.
The people who see me
who see behind that mask
and cape
I wear
are the ones who never
knew
they existed.
And that's really all I wanted to say.
That even though I hide, sometimes
I don't think you can blame me.
We're all insecure.
Every one of us.
And I'm just another number
on the staircase
to infinity.
Standing on the fringes
of the dance floor
and trying to understand
what brought me here.
But I think that
not knowing
not being sure
about things that don't really
even matter
is what makes the question worth asking.
But this isn't one of those poems where
I try to uncover the answer to life
because, as we all know by now,
we don't know the question
yet.
So here I am.
You can call me average, but
I'm not sure anyone is ever that.
I've got flaws
and imperfections.
And I make mistakes
and I tell lies.
And I hide sometimes.
But we all do.
Right?
But truly, this wasn't meant
to be one of those poems where
I try to make myself feel better
by disgracing everybody else.
Because, I promise, I feel fine as I am.
And yes,
this is one of those poems
where I tell the world
that I'm something bigger than
just another face.
I know it's been done so many times before
but this is one of those poems where
I hope we can all learn
by the end
to accept ourselves.
Even though I'd never ask you
to take off your mask for me.
Because I understand your fear.
We're all scared, I know.
Even me.
Even the wise, and enlightened poet.
What a twist.
Has this been done before?
Probably.
But that's okay.
So take my hand and
all of us can tell a story
together about how
our worlds are getting smaller everyday.
And we can all wear our masks
because we all are
terrified but
it'll be okay, this time
because we'll know.
And we'll understand.
And in our caps and masks
we can stop the world
or we can save it.
And finally,
in a chorus of fear
that we pray to conquer
we can be
so perfect.

Dear Mr. Potter

If you're like me, childhood ends on July 15th, 2011. This poem is for all of us who believe that magic is only a page turn away.

Dedicated to J.K Rowling, and the home she built for me.

Long Live The Boy Who Lived.



In the year 1997,
Britain gave Hong Kong to China.
People were massacred in Algeria.
A Picasso painting was stolen.

In the year 1997,
a gallon of gasoline was a dollar seventeen.
Missy Elliot topped Mtv's playlists.

In the year 1997,
3,880,894 people were born.
Among them are
Gresyson Chance
Cody Simpson
Chloe Moretz
Myself
and
Harry Potter.

And Mr. Potter,
this one's for you.

Because on June 30th, 1997
you were born,
and so were millions of muggles
who'd been waiting their entire lives
for a little magic.

That was fifteen years ago, now.
And I wish I had Hermione's time turner,
because, Harry, it's gone so fast.
And I can't believe it's almost over.

I remember when I was seven,
and for me, Harry, you had just turned eleven.
I found you, then, for the first time
and it was beautiful, Harry,
how you taught me to fly.

Four years later,
I waited at the mail box
for my letter to arrive.
And I dreamt every night
of the adventures we could share
the triumphs we'd live.
The battles we'd fight.

I like to think I got the letter, Harry
because you taught me that magic
no matter the boundaries
is the greatest gift of all.
And could be found within me
If ever I sought it.

You taught me to follow the spiders
even when it might be easier
to follow butterflies.
You taught me that happiness could be found
in even the darkest of times
If I simply remembered.
To turn on the lights.

You taught me about love,
and how its powers triumph all.
You taught me about bravery
when the best of us, begin to fall.

But most of all, Harry,
You gave me this:
You gave me the desire
to seek the snitch.
You showed me
to open at the close
to believe in friendship
to rely on love
and live for magic.
You gave me a scar of lightning
round glasses, red and gold robes.
And Harry, I want you to know,
that I wear them proudly
Everyday.

You have your mother's eyes, Harry,
You have your father's heart.
So thank you for showing me
that life is lived apart.
That when I'm lost, when I'm confused,
I've got a home at Hogwarts.
That no matter where I go,
you'll walk with me,
the entire way.
Until the very end.

You've made me who I am, Harry,
this mad and twisted Ravenclaw.
And without you, Mr. Potter,
without the Boy Who Lived,
I can only imagine
where I might have thought to fly.
Because without you, Harry,
I wouldn't have realized,
that all I needed was a cupboard
under the stairs.

So thanks for the ride, mate.
Thanks for the spells.
And forever, I solemnly swear,
that I'll be waiting, up to no good, to meet again
someday.
Lost in the pages of the home
that you have given me.

I'll meet you on Platform 9 and ¾
and we'll stare out the train windows
at all of our memories,
rushing by.

Thank you, Mr. Potter
for everything.
With you here, all is well for me.
And I'll believe the same of you.

It's ending now, mate
but not for good.
May our mischief
never manage.

I'll see you in the common room, Harry,
When I'm lonely, from time to time.
I'll meet you in Diagon Ally,
when I need a little magic.
When I'm lost, when I'm upset,
I'll count on you to save me.

This isn't the end, Mr. Potter
for friendship never dies.
And if I leave my heart in the Chamber, Harry,
I know you'll bring it
back to life.

Thanks for the memories,
for wizard chess, and exploding snaps.
Thanks for the ride, mate.
Quidditch games, and Potions class.
I'll see you again, soon, I know
so don't forget me,
because I'll never
forget you.

Long live the Boy Who Lived,
and those of us who lived beside him.
May our magic never falter,
may our wands point high, forever.

Thank you, Mr. Potter
for our worlds,
and the stories built there.

Thank you, Mr. Potter
for bringing me
to life.

Currently Untitled

Once, in the midst of an autumn night,
I opened brand new eyes, and met a man,
Whom they called granpa, I think...
though I'm starting to forget.
When I grew a little taller, he told me
That for a very long time, he'd waited
to finally meet me.
He'd painted some pretty pictures,
and I tried to copy them, with a sticky child's hand,
and in the pictures we would make,
he'd tell me a story, about how all of them were real,
somewhere.
Stories of his youth, of cherry pies and apple dumplings,
of the war, his fear of sharks.
Impossible tales of a time with no Television,
when your imagination, was all you ever had
Or so I'm told.
It was a long time ago
and I really can't remember.
And when he got even older,
he talked a lot of home, and how he missed it.
He really missed it, he said.
He'd give anything.
And finally, when he left me, one summer at lunch time,
that's where he went, they told me.
He'd gone home, and that's all.
He's happy now
or so they tell me.
Because I really don't know.

Years before, on a sunny, summer morning,
Alice met a man, named Charles,
who'd been watching her, for a very long time.
She was smart, and he was strange,
Or so I'm told.
I can't remember.
He had a camera in one hand,
hers in the other.
She was very young, then,
and he rather old.
But he told her a story, that day,
that a thousand ages, now behold.
He told her that there was a place, out there,
one like you'd never imagine.
A place of wonder, of curious madness
And beneath the sun, that day so long ago,
Little Alice, she fell down a rabbit hole
and years later, when her time came,
again, that's where she went.
She's drinking tea, right now and forever,
With a rabbit and a hatter, or so I'm told.
Because honestly,
I can't be sure.
I don't remember.

A few years later, waiting on a park bench,
there sat a play-write, by the name of James,
pondering the pages of an empty tale he couldn't tell,
when he found a woman, and her son.
Her name was Wendy, or so I'm told,
Because, truly, I'm not sure that's really it,
and his was Peter, I suppose,
and they were very tired.
So James took them to a faraway place,
on the second star to the right,
and he called it Neverland
or so I'm told.
Because, I'm starting to forget these things.
And I hear that, when you stayed there,
all you had to do
was believe.
And anything could happen.
You wouldn't have to grow up,
so you'd never have to die.
You could stay young forever.
Or so I'm told.
I don't know.
But if this place exists,
then Peter, and Wendy and James,
They're there, right now, I bet.
Playing games with the fairies,
just like Alice, down in Wonderland,
just like my Grandpa, wherever home becomes
when finally, it's time to go back.
Wherever they went, I'm sure they're happy.
Atleast, that's what they say.
It's nicer there, there are streets of gold,
sometimes, they call it “they yellow brick road.”
and Dorothy...I think she walks that road every night, up there,
and the poppies can't make here go to sleep
because she's already in the nicest, sweetest dream.
Or so I tell myself
because, really, I'll never know
until, finally, it's my turn.
And someday then,
when life's book ends,
I'll get to really do all those things
That I've dreamt of, for all these years.
I'll play croquet with the Queen of Hearts,
I'll battle Captain Hook.
I'll walk a road of yellow brick,
with shoes that bring me home.
And I'll paint a picture, one more time,
with my grandpa, who'd been waiting for me
who'd been watching me, for all these years.
And I'll be home, this time.
Or so I pray.
I'll go to that place, that I've built in my heart,
where my dreams will all come true.
And that's all I know, really,
even when I'm too old to remember all the rest.
And so I hang on
to this cup of ageless tea.
And this journal
where every story ever told
once began, with nothing but a dream.
And that's what I tell them,
when they fear the dark ahead.
I tell them that, really,
at the end of the road to Oz,
When the sun goes down, in wonderland,
when the moon shines bright, in Neverland,
When your mother calls you home, to dinner....
This place, it's always open to you.
And, honestly, that's all we ever
need to know.
So don't forget that.
Please remember.
And don't lose your sense of home.
Imagine one, a place of make believe,
and someday, I think,
you'll really get to go there.
And you'll smile, and you'll fly,
and you'll remember everything.
Everything.
Every moment of your childhood, every breath of your youth,
and you'll taste it all, on your tongue, again.
Forget everything, for now,
because someday, it'll all come back to you.
And in the end,
that's all I ever
did remember.

Something From Nothing

One of my favorites :)
An abstract poem about hope from depression.

All my life, I've watched
with glazed eyes, as the great Earth spins.
I've watched the clouds,
the stars,
the moon.
I've watched fickle time, tickin' by...
tick tock, tick tock.
Tick tock.
I've been counting each passing number.
So that I might see, and remember.
I've watched the sparks of first love die,
I've watched
I've listened
to the colors in their eyes.
To the songs in their hearts.
I've seen children, barefoot children,
running so fast
so fast
and not understanding why...why..
why they cannot
slow down
slow down
slow down, please.
Let me catch up.
All my life, I've watched.
With glazed eyes, I've seen everything.
But yet, I'm seeing nothing.
Nothing at all.
There came a time...
This time, I swear,
glazed eyes of mine, they finally sprung wide.
I saw in the face, of a small child,
that there is
indeed
such a thing
as something out of
nothing.
He sat, swinging back,
back and forth,
The creaking of the swing set, I heard it.
So loud, so loud.
And so, I watched him
with glazed eyes
as the great Earth spun him
round and
round.
And in his face
in his swimming eyes
I think, I remember,
that I saw there, a lion
his roar
so loud, so loud.
And the boy heard it.
A nightmare inside of him.
And it scared him.
It scared him.
In his eyes,
I heard the horrid hiss,
of a cobra, as it pounces
on its pathetic prey.
It took this boy by the neck
by the neck
and told him,
whispered inside of him,
all of the forbidden follies, nature hides.
And what the boy heard...
it scared him.
It scared him.
I watched with glazed eyes
as the curtains began to open, within him.
I saw the crowd, as they jeered
and laughed at him.
Painted faces.
Broken mirrors.
It scared him. So much.
It scared him.
But, when you live a life,
where all you do is watch,
you learn that there is
indeed
such a thing
as something out of
nothing.
Because, while the great Earth spun
so fast
so fast
so fast...
Somehow, God's child did not
grow dizzy.
He closed his eyes
He lifted his feet
and he swung
on that creaking swing
strung 'round that creaking tree.
In the cracks of his tear stained face,
the lion grew tame.
The snake,
grew lame.
And the crowd...
Well, honestly,
It was never more,
than a game.
Because all of us
atop a browning land
dizzy, as the great Earth spins,
see nothing but hope
in his eyes.
From the terrors of the jungle,
to the roaring of a crowd,
there comes a time,
When something must, then,
come from nothing.
And from watching, my whole life,
I have seen that the best of God's gifts,
The hope,
And strength,
and faith,
Can only be found,
in the weakest of our fickle
tickin' minutes.
So, take my hand.
Take a seat in the crowd.
And let's watch.
Let's watch, please,
as something
comes
from
nothing.

Shadows, Yes: But Also Light

Read first as a conversation between opposing forces, but transitions into a poem from a single perspective. Enjoy!


Do you know yourself?
I do.
What's your name?
But it's unspoken.
Is it loud?
It's...soft.
Are you warm?
I'm kind of cold. A little cold...
Are you dark?
I am gray. The fairest, hoarsest shade.
Can I touch you?
You can't feel me.
Take my hand.
But I have none.
Take my mind.
It's run away.
Run away?
Into the sun.
And you can't reach?
No, I can't move. Can't move.
Come out from the shadows. Coem out from the veil.
But the veil won't let me out. I seem to be stuck.
Is it ever gold, a life in gray?
Is it ever gray? A life in gold?
I dare decline. It's always bright.
Must be tight...
No. Wide, I'd fight...
What a sight! The sight of open...
Do you yearn? For more than close?
I only reach, for her, and him.
For her and him?
For those who have moved on.
Away from you.
Away from me.
Where have they gone?
They've gone outside.
And they did not take you with them.
No, they left me. For the light.
Left me here, to fight.
Oh, light...a burning sight.
I'm just a shadow, dark and gray,
lost amid these walls of black, I'll never find my way.
And you, you taunt me, from afar.
You taunt this sallow nightmare, where I have lived apart.
You shine down on this sleepign town,
Yet, you never fail to pass me,
This shadow, tied and bound.
So now I reach, I fly much higher.
And I pray this mold shall break.
I sing a song, of black and white.
Tag along, dusted color's broken kite, I sail,
Never emerging gray, or dark.
So shine down, shine on me bright,
and show to me, this world.
Where all I am, and all I've known
Now can see, that I have flown.
That night stands back,
the day rides on,
and slowly, now, I'll fall apart.
I let go now, of grays and blacks,
of this shadow I once knew.
I left the veil, all hail, all hail!
For I am now set free
no longer shall I be
just the shadow, they can't see.
strung so high, a rope off light.
Bid farewell, to naive fright.
Fly tonight, this hallowed flight.
Shine bright.
Shadow's yes...
But also light.

Fairest in the Land

Poem about finding ones inner self :P
{How lovably cliche...}


Shadow, shadow
on the floor
who am I?
I so implore.
He grants no answers
but asks the questions.
Identical thoughts, of my own conventions.
I tilt my head
he tilts his, too.
Tell me, shadow,
what I should do.
But he speaks no response
he mirrors me, once.
Same wilted posture
a question that haunts.
Shadow, shadow
in the grass
we're running out of time, to pass.
If I am you
and you are me,
Tell me, shadow,
what do you see?
Am I fair enough, to belong to you?
Am I bright enough? The perfect hue?
I can only pray
I'm who I say
but I hope, my shadow, that you agree
and admire the girl, I'll one day be.
I hope you laugh, with your shadow friends,
about all the odds, and all the ends.
And through every barren street we've ran,
I've collected my memories
you've taken my hand.
Shadow, shadow
way down low
my entire life, you've told me where to go.
You've never lead me, anywhere wrong
and through every twist, you've shaped me strong.
So, tell me, shadow,
is this really me?
But he utters no assurance
he asks my questions, limp endurance.
He nods his head
I bow mine, too.
Another inch, my shadow grew.
We've got forever
to seek identity.
And someday, then, we'll clutch divinity.
Shadow, shadow,
on the wall
thank you for carrying me
through it all.

Toy Box

Three Forty Two, just before dawn
still hours remain, for the world to sleep
but alive and wake, in one room
one little white room, the curtains drawn
a quiet yawn...
The beginning, just begun.
and my little eyes, they quavered ever
so slightly, scared to look.
my hand, they took.
stroked to warmth, warmed to life.
and Daddy stroked his baby's hair.
and Momma rubbed, her sweethearts back.
and the doctors hushed, a screaming silence.
so tranquil, so calm, a timeless tickle
of the heart, as its first leap pounds.
and Grandpa hands Mommy,
a little white dolly,
clad in green, bright as Eden herself.
"hang on to that, love." with a kiss on the cheek,
forever, grampa.
i promise.

Three Forty Two,
twenty days past October, on the second year,
a little brighter now, a little clearer, i could see.
time was endless then, forever heaven
in the arms, of my mother and father.
that pail little dolly, her dress is frayed now just the slightest.
her hair, still chocolate.
her gown, still green,
her eyes, still the brightest of blues.
still growing, still aging.
nothing yet waning, and forever had not yet begun.
i didn't understand then, why grampy cried on Sundays,
why he prayed for my Grammy,
who never once held me,
who never saw me with her own pretty eyes.
they said she was beautiful, the best woman in the world,
but death, sometimes he forgets about heart.
and so i listened to grampy,
and i held on to that dolly.
and never, I’ll never let her go.
never grampy.
i promise.

Three Forty Two, Five years in
twenty days past October, so many hours.
and Grampy hands "Wee one" a little paint brush,
purple stick,
tarnished hairs,
stained handle...
so beautiful.
and i watched, with big blue eyes,
as he told me its story, and showed me
the magic it could conjure.
it could show me the world, in just a few strokes,
it could confirm what i had yet to discover.
grampy painted a picture
of a gray, gravel path
and with him, i took the long walk.
It was hot, it was cold
it was endless, it was short.
And it was everything...everything I’d ever be.
And in the future, when I grow old
I bet, that road might just end.
But for now, I’m still young
so much life still unsung...
and I’m still ambling on, in the middle.
I'll touch every stone
I’ll breathe every scent
and in the end, at least I’ll have the memories.
So I hung on to that paint brush,
cause grampy said I must.
And I'll never let go.
I'll never drop it, grampy.
I promise.

Three forty two, nine years sung, nine years shaved,
twenty days past the dawn of October.
And the wind was cold, whispers in my growing hair
like a blare, of winter's first sting.
Grampy, he got older,
and I, I got younger.
But time, time refused the progression.
Little girls down the street, pink bicycles with ribbons,
streaming golden hair, calling out.
And I rode with them, a road so fast
so quick..
hardly a path leading anywhere at all.
I loved, at the time, the clarity, serenity,
of life, when it's not yet begun.
When its young.
Just a kid.
I don't understand, daddy.
I don't understand.
But soon, it was simple.
Death, sometimes he forgets heart.
And his brother, called cancer, fought hard.
The smells of sick, took away everything else.
No more coffee in his breath, just medicine.
No more life in his eyes, just medicine.
No more paint on his fingers, just medicine.
Stupid medicine.
Pointless medicine...
you'll never be the cure.
And I took grampy's hand, while life hung on still, too,
and we held on together, so tight.
And I’ll never let go grampy.
I'll never let go.
I promise.

Three forty two, eleven years.
Twenty days hatched, ten unborn hath October.
My Dollie’s hair, still chocolate.
Her eyes, still blue.
Her gown, still green.
Green as Eden.
My friends, they came closer.
My foes, I had none.
Life was born now, beginning to unfold.
Unfold?
So many more years, left untold.
Untold....
and now, growing up, I’m starting to hear.
I hear mommy and daddy, fighting a little downstairs.
Fighting evil, I suppose.
That's what grampy'd've said.
Daddy used to come home singing
singing silly songs.
And mommy used to come home laughing,
laughing little jokes.
But now, all doorways rings silence,
all laughs stay gray.
All songs stay white, untouched.
And I, I watch, with tired eyes,
as life spins on, spins on...
too fast, I guess.
And we can't catch up.
And it's times like these, when I talk to dolly.
When I make sure she's still safe.
I make sure that her porcelain skin's not chipped,
that her heart hasn't skipped a single beat.
And when she stares back at me, unblinking,
I know that something's missing.
Something's missing.
And so I take grampy's old, tattered paintbrush.
And I take a piece of daddy's pretty paper,
and I make sure, that I’m still me.
And I promise, grampy.
I'm gonna paint, until it's all better.
I'm gonna make this world shine brighter.
I'm gonna remember, grampy.
I'm gonna remember.
I promise.

Three forty two, twenty days past October,
on the fourteenth year...oh, momma, has it really been so long?
So much sung.
So much...done.
This is life, dolly.
This is what all the books are written 'bout.
This is what all the stories tell about.
This is what all the soft songs sing about.
This is it.
But dolly...doesn't understand.
I think, through her small, azure eyes,
she tries too hard to see.
I think, through her pail little ears,
she tries too hard to hear.
And when she does, when she catches a piece of something,
I think it only makes things worse.
She's so confused.
But she's trying, I bet.
I can see it, in the way her eyebrows flinch.
I can see it, when she clutches wordless stories,
and tries to fill them up.
I bet, she's saying something special, in those wordless books.
I bet she's telling the white pages, about everything she's seen.
Maybe someday, I’ll read the words.
And I’ll understand.
For now, let's grow up a little, shall we?
You're too old for toys, close the box now.
Shut her in.
make it dark.
Say goodbye.
Say goodbye, to the barbie dolls, with impossible curves and angles.
Say goodbye, to that little white kitchen set, made of plastic. Made of memories.
Say goodbye, to all those little things, that truly, are nothing of use now.
Say goodbye, while you still have time,
to that dolly with the chocolate hair...
to that dirty, purple paint brush.
To every picture you've ever drawn.
To every dream, she's ever hatched.
Close the lid.
This might not be forever, just give me time.
To grow up.
Because I’m too lost to count on memories,
and I’m too scared to foretell the future.
I'm closing the toy box.
This won't be forever, though, grampy.
I'll come back someday, when I figure it all out.
And I’ll tell you every dream you've missed,
and I’ll paint you every picture.
This isn't it, grampy.
I promise.

Three forty two...
I’ve lost track of the years.
It's been so long, so long, so long...
and life, a once free falling road,
for little girls with bicycles,
is now, so full of hills and bumps, that my feet can't make the walk.
Make the walk.
Make the walk.
And it's gotten longer, the road going backward,
with every step I’ve taken forward.
And I can't put myself in reverse.
I've already put myself in park.
I'm frozen...

The beginning, just begun.
and my little eyes, they quavered ever
so slightly, scared to look.
my hand, they took.
stroked to warmth, warmed to life.

I need some of that, that warmth.
But I don't know where the heat has gone.
Mommy?
Are you out there?
Daddy, please take my hand again.
But what comes to me, is neither mommy or daddy,
but dolly.
And her hair, it's no longer chocolate.
Her eyes, they're no longer blue.
And her dress, has faded.
Faded to brown...
dust covers dolly's face, her rosy cheeks,
and ageless soot rests upon her delicate nose,
and she stumbles, with every step she takes.
“come with me, child. Let's open the box.”

and so, I walk with dolly, of whom has grown so old,
and she shows me, everything I’ve missed,
when life, it started to unfold.

“three forty two, a year unborn.”
and she hands me, a little brown plaque,
with the numbers scratched in gold upon it,
PT 342
my grampy...my grampy's one true home, it had one number,
and years later,
twenty days past October,
it would stand as the number,
in which my life unhatched.
Three forty two, three forty two, three forty two...

“three forty two, the second year.”
dolly gives to me, a tattered teddy bear.
It bears a tag, a red heart, white words.
to “er-bear”, love your uncle and aunt.”
and I stare into its brown button eyes,
and I try to see a little clearer.
But somehow, its still fuzzy, when he opens his mouth,
and says “it was dark in there, child. Why no light?”
my mouth is dry, and I can't answer.
I'm sorry, teddy.
I'm sorry.

“three forty two, three years sung.”
and I am granted, with a pretty pink shell.
Once more, I am walking,
through the endless shore,
my hand, being warmed...
being warmed to life again, by my daddy.
And he bends down, so effortlessly then,
and gives to me, this timeless treasure.
And I rub it to my little ear,
and I imagine, so deeply I try to hear...
and I do.
He says “you've forgotten, child. When you said you'd remember.”

“three forty two, five years lived.”
a briar horse, a golden mane,
frozen in mid leap, mid run...
did I do this to her?
Freeze her.
“Where are you, partner? You've dropped the reigns.”

“three forty two, seven years, seven years...”
in my hand, waits a small, tattered picture.
We're all laughing, we're all smiling,
overjoyed, unconcerned, bright as day...
and I forget, I forget one smile's name...
the smile of a little girl with pail skin,
and light blue eyes,
and chocolate hair,
and a green dress....
and she pleads with me, from the picture,
from the perch in which I have frozen her,
“try to remember, sweetheart. It's on the tip of your tongue.”

“Three forty two, eleven, eleven, eleven....”
daddy sits next to me, steals my book.
Strokes the cover, a small, creeping smile.
He's so proud, of his little girl.
And he hands her a long, leather marker,
transcribed with words of gold.
Pretty, pretty words of gold...
and this, this shred of suede,
would be my greatest, prized possession, as long as time still ticked.
“you lost me, age fourteen, in the halls of that place called high school.
And you cried, for three nights.
Three nights.
But you never found me again.”

“Three forty two, when age....is nothing....”
and my Dollie, she collapses to my arms.
And I hold her...
I cry into her matted, faded hair...
and I embrace the toxic scents of life.
Before its yet,
begun.
And I try to search, in the folds of her gown,
for all the small, little memories I know I've lost.
They're unimportant, tiny recollections,
but they're me, right to the core.
Without them, this dolly, she'd shatter and break,
and the pieces...
they'd never restore.
Without each simple memory...
each promise, that I’ve broken,
my road, this bumpy, twisting road...
would've ended, long ago.

I'm sorry Mommy,
I’m sorry I lost faith in you, for just a little while.
I was young, I was scared...
I think I’ve grown since then, but I’m not sure.
All I needed was your help, your warm, tender hands...
to pull me up. I love you, mommy.

I'm sorry Daddy.
I”m sorry I ask for so much, and do nothing in return.
I'll always be young, I’ll never know, for real, what's right...
I'll always be your little girl.
With the chocolate hair.
And the blue eyes.
And the green gown, green as Eden.
I love you, daddy.

I'm sorry Grampy.
I'm sorry I disobeyed your final request, I’m sorry I dropped the brush.
I've been lost, you see.
So lost, I forgot to ask for directions.
But I can't put myself in reverse,
and no, I can't stay forever in park.
So, I guess all there's left is to move on...
but I’ll always love you, grampy.
I'm sorry I dropped the paintbrush.
I promise, I’ll pick it up.
And I’ll finish that road, you drew so long ago,
when I still, didn't know its meaning.
But now, I think I do, so I’m gonna see where it leads, grampy.
And when I get there, to the end,
I’ll let you know.
And I’ll tell you what a wonderful walk it was.
I love you, grampy.

I'm so, so sorry Dolly...
that I ever shut the lid, that I ever made it dark.
I hope that someday, you'll forgive me,
but for now, lets mend the cracks.
I know that soon, with proper care, I can make you shine once more,
I can turn that chocolate hair to silk,
and your eyes...
they will never too blue.
I'm gonna hold your hand, dolly, everywhere I go.
And as I promised grampy, dolly...
I promise, to never let go.

And...
I'm sorry,
To all I’ve left behind.
I'm sorry to the toy box,
and the life I couldn't find.
I think I’m growing up now, a little more certain every day,
and I think...
that I was wrong, to ever....ever shut the toy box lid.

And now, with stronger, renewed old arms,
I lift the lid once more,
and light pours in,
on all I’ve lost,
been trying...so hard...to find.
There's my barbies, there's my dolls,
there's my teddies, and little stuffed dogs.
There's my story books, and little pink bows,
and there...
there's my dolly, shining, a whole new glow.

Three forty two, a countless year,
twenty days past....what was it?...October...
and I sit here, in this aging home,
in which I’ve always been.
I'm nearing the end, of the path we painted, grampy,
but I’m so glad, so glad the sun is shining.
It'll shine as I cross, the golden finish line,
and fall into your waiting arms.
I'll bring that purple paintbrush, grampy,
and we can paint such pretty pictures.
And this time...
this time, the roads won't ever end, grampy.
They'll go on, forever and ever.
And I’ll bring...
that age old dolly...
and show her, that I never let go, grampy.
I never let go.
I'll show you, that her hair's still chocolate,
that her eyes, will forever be blue.
I'll show you, that her dress, still green...
will never, fade away.
And we'll hang on, all night, grampy.
We'll never have to let go.
Because this time,
the road will never end, grampy.
and the toy box...
will never close.
And so I take grampy's old, tattered paintbrush.
And I take a piece of daddy's pretty paper,
and I make sure, that I’m still me.
And I promise, grampy.
I'm gonna paint, until it's all better.
I'm gonna make this world shine brighter.
I'm gonna remember, grampy.
I'm gonna remember.
I promise.