Teaching Her The Alphabet

She was a small girl, with choppy brown hair that never fit properly into a ponytail.
Her eyes were blue, her face was pale, her mind was cluttered.

Animal crackers, Avada Kadavra, Amanda Please...

And every morning, they would tickle her awake, singing songs she didn't know with lyrics she didn't understand, by bands she'd never heard of.
That didn't matter. Love spun from every note. Even though she hadn't the slightest idea that those inclinations and rapid falls were “notes” at all.

Butterflies, Bookworms, lost Bags of Boxtops...

On the twelfth day of first grade, she hung upside down on the monkey bars, staring into the laughing eyes of her best friend; a girl she didn't even know the name of yet. But they shared a language, invincibly young on a playground that shrank with every year.

Cats Cradle, Corduroy Overalls, CD Players with headphones...

She would run very fast, the little girl with brown hair, and her golden locked friend. They rode bicycles down hills as tall as the Eiffel tower, whatever that was, and had to clench their fists very tightly over the handlebars as the wind tore their eyelids open. It is so hard to slow down, when you've caught yourself accelerating. Impossible to stay calm, when the fear of sharp turns shakes your muscles.

Daydreams, Diary entries, Is the Devil real, mommy.....

Daddy always used Ticonderoga No.2 pencils. They were the best, of course. The astronauts used them on the moon, he told her. One small step for man.
They played a game together called Rock Detectives. She carried a little denim knapsack, and he always wore a tattered green ball cap. She wanted to be just like him.
They would bend down in the gravel driveway, and bury their fingers in layers of the past, the present, and the future. She would find a stone much prettier, much shinier than the others, and she would win the game. And that would be that. And he would not argue. Just kiss her forehead. “I love you, Little Bear.”

Easter eggs, the English language, Emory boards that chip my nail polish...

Grandpa came to dinner every Sunday, and her mother would be clumsy, and she would try very hard to please him, but she never could, because she didn't cook as good as well Grandma, and Grandpa missed her very much. So the little girl would kiss him goodbye, and paint her last picture, and ride her bicycle very fast down the hill again, scared of speed. Whispering secrets that never really mattered to her golden haired best friend. Just for the joy of telling a secret. For the laugh and the idea of thinking that maybe there was something special she knew that no one else did. Something important.
But it was never important. She could not have known.

Follies, Fairy tales, Feverishly reading big books with Fervent words....

She wanted to be like the princesses in the movies, who would gracefully perch on elegant balconies, staring at stars so vast they could not count. She wanted to whisper her secrets to the night, to the moon, to her daddy, to anyone who would listen. Because they weren't secrets, at all. Just words that made her feel bigger than all of those stars not even the princesses could make sense of. But as she whispered to the clouds, her voice would catch. And she tried to look graceful, her feet would stumble. And as she tried to tell her daddy how much she loved him and how much of her hero he was, his ear would always be too far up for her to reach. So she tried counting stars.
But everyone knows that that's impossible.

Guitar strings, Guessing all the wrong answers, Going too fast down the hill...

She had no secrets to keep or to share. She had no lies to tell, and no truth to run from. She had open books and windows that were always polished, and everyone thought they knew what the view was, when gazing briefly through them. They thought she was just another awkwardly pretty face, with funny jokes and big books and mismatched socks.
Maybe they were right.
She wished they weren't.
She craved diversity.
She longed for a nightmare to haunt the dreams she took for granted.
She could not have known.

Hair bows, Is Heaven close to Home, daddy?, Harry Potter will take me to Hogwarts someday...

Everyday, the sun stood still for her. Wake up and live and eat and play and dance and conquer fifty more pages, go to sleep and dream of all the possibilities, all the stories, all the maybes. Gasp at the vividly preposterous anecdotes her dirty blonde best friend would sneeze out at her, but have nothing to share in return. Nothing ever happens to her. Everything is right, and everything is calm, and her head is cluttered with lives that do not belong to her and words that she never said or wrote.
“Matti has a new boyfriend.”
“We're all mad here.”
“I hear that Olivia still has a bedtime.”
“Kill all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em.”
“Did you hear what happened to Rachel?”
“And miles to go, before I sleep...”
“Will you help me with my math homework?”
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
“The new boy has cute hair.”
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good...”
“Best friends for ever.”
“Promises are made to be broken.”

...Cloaks of Invisibility, Imagination, living by the rules of Inkheart...

And so she smiled through each day, because nothing was wrong. She wore clothes with bright colors, just like everyone else, and she straightened her hair to a crisp, like she was supposed to. Her daddy told her every day that she was beautiful. And as she grew taller and taller, that little denim knapsack did not fit around her shoulders anymore. They paved her gravel driveway. The math got harder. The bikes got sturdier. The books got thicker. The speed did not scare her. The secrets still thrilled her.
Late nights, with long braids and plaid pajama pants. No secrets to share, just laughs and memories and dreams, staying up all night with that golden haired best friend. Whispering into the dark about God knows what, never anything important, never unimportant, just the talk of growing girls stealing air and clutching hopefulness.
“I'm so scared to go to high school.”
“And I, I took the road less traveled by...”
“At least we'll have each other.”
“Dulce es decorum est.”
“I love you, daddy.”
“Curiouser and Curiouser!”
“I love you, Little Bear.”

Jello with not enough sugar, Jet planes, Jargon we thought we understood...

So she got a new backpack, a green one that fit the all the big books her head was cluttered with, and all the heavy ones she only carried because they made her.
It fit gym clothes and cell phones and crumpled essays and lip gloss.
It did not fit bicycles with streamers.
It did not fit pretty rocks that she found in her gravel driveway, now paved over.
But it did fit Ticonderoga No.2 Pencils.
The best in the universe.
One small step for man.

Her head was cluttered with locker combinations and English literature and algebraic equations and, tell me, how is a raven like a writing desk, where was the first battle of the Civil War, if two trains leave Chicago at ten A.M and another from Boston at six, lyrics to Paramore songs, Quoth the Raven “evermore”, that boy is stoned, that one's hungover, it's only high school, stop moving so fast, we're still so young, don't you remember rock detectives?

Killers in thriller novels, Am I the only one never Kissed? Is it Karma? Did Keats write poems?

She forgot to tell her father that she loved him.
She forget to tell him that she would be nowhere without him.

She forgot to say “Please. Don't leave me, daddy.”
She forgot to say “Please. I don't know what I'd do without you.”
She forgot to say “Please. Can't you see I need you?
She forgot to say “Please. Don't you remember rock detectives?”

Long division won't give me an answer, Was this a Last Resort? Losing him, losing me, losing everything...

He did not say “It's a rumor.”
He did not say “I would never do that to you.”
He did not say “I'm making a mistake.”
He did not say “You're all that matters to me.”
He did not say “Things won't change for us.”
He did not say “I'm coming home.”

He said, “I love you, little bear.”
He said, “But this will ruin your life.”
He said...
he said...
he said...

Mistakes, Monopolies, Memories I can't reach, My world is turning upside down...

Oh my God, he said it, he said it, and now it's over, it's over, and I must be the only one who still remembers Rock detectives I must be the only one who remembers his mustache that tickled when he kissed my forehead I must be the only one who remembers how he was my hero and all the stars in the sky and that little knapsack and bedtime stories and wishes and dreams and homemade macaroni and it's over now....it's over.

Nothing left to say now, Nowhere left to go now, Never the same again...

“I have a secret to tell you.”
“Two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.”
“But you have to promise to tell no one.”
“Promises are made to be broken.”
“I will always be here for you.”
“All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.”
“He lied to me.”
“A dream is a wish your heart makes.”
“I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say.”
“Nothing is ever impossible, Charlie.”
“Please just tell me everything will be okay.”

Open books no longer, smiling on the Outside, it's Only an Ostentatious Oracle...

So the little girl finally had a secret to tell. She finally had a book to close, a window to fog, a page in her life to turn. She had a number to reach for when counting the stars, a destination to aim for when ambling blindly through daydreams, a secret, a secret, oh God, remember how I wished I had a secret, remember when everyone knew everything there was to know, remember the stupid jokes and games? Remember hanging upside down on the monkey bars? Riding too fast down steep hills? Remember when all that mattered was tomorrows outfit?

Popsicles finally melting, Parents that don't want to be together, Parties you don't want to go to...

And she finally, finally, had a story to tell at sleepovers. She finally, finally, had a glimmer in her eye that people didn't understand. Se finally, finally, had more to her than just fairy tales and makeup and high top tennis shoes. She finally, finally, finally, finally was different. Finally not the same boring girl with blessings taken for granted. Finally, finally, the daughter of a man who lied to himself. Finally, Finally, finally, broken enough to write it all down, with finally, some sort of meaning. Finally. Was it worth it, little girl? Is this what you wanted?

Quietly crying, Quickly pretending you have allergies, Quit pretending you're okay when you're not...

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with brown hair and pail skin and blue eyes.

Run away before you Regret it, Race down the hill again, Remember Rock Detectives?

She dreamed nightmares she could not wake up from, and remembered what it was like to be tickled awake in the morning by two pairs of hands and two off key melodies, and a day of promise and mystery and love, and all those things little girls take for granted while they still believe they are invincible as they hang from monkey bars.

Slowly healing, Silently remembering, Somewhere over the rainbow...

Once upon a time, the little girl told her story to that golden haired best friend she'd known since her life was easy, and her book was open. Tears swam in her eyes, her big blue eyes she inherited from the father she still loved, despite it all, and her tale unfolded. And her friend, she cried, too. Because that is what friends are there for. And she held the brown haired girl, the broken little girl, as she cried and cried about all the lies she had heard and all the stories she still hadn't written, and all the things that were going to change.

Tell me a secret, Tomorrow is just another day, mommy crying into the Telephone, Ticonderoga pencils...
The little girl got her wish.
Was it worth it?

Underlying truth in every lie, Did you forget Us?, Uttering you're sorry, understanding nothing...

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with brown hair and blue eyes just like her father's. She loved him to the moon and back. She gave him every pretty stone she could find in her gravel driveway. He told her all of the secrets of the universe. And she believed him.

Venom in the wound, Vacation homes in Ireland, Veer away from me now...

“You got what you wanted.”
“I have a secret.”
“Once Upon a Time...”
“Remember all those things you took for granted?”
“It's a nightmare I can't wake up from...”
“There was a little girl with brown hair and blue eyes...”
“I'll be here for you through all of this.”
“Call me if you need to talk.”
“She loved him to the moon and back.”
“I don't know what to do.”
“I miss you, daddy.”
“And she believed him...”

What happens when we grow up? Where do our tears go? Why can't I remember what It Was like? Was it worth it? Why won't you answer me? Where are You? Was she worth it, daddy? Where are you? Why is this happening to me? Where are you where are you where are...

The hills are not scary anymore, to the little girl. She doesn't even have to clench her fists.

Xylophones are colorful, I never met anyone named Xavier, X marks the spot, I'm drawing lots of X;s, X's over everything, X's over Rock detectives, X's over the songs you used to sing, X's over it all, you've drawn lots of X's, Daddy...

The books aren't as thick anymore, to the little girl. She barely counts to pages.

You used to tell me bedtime stories, You used to tweak my nose, You used to yell out lines from John Wayne movies, You used to wear Yellow ties with blue shirts...

The secrets weren't a mystery anymore, to the little girl. They really are not as fun as they're made out to be.


And once upon a time, there lived a little girl who took a lot of things for granted.
And once upon a time, life was just a daydream to her.
Once upon a time, the little girl told a story.
And once upon a time, this story was about a little girl who made all the wrong wishes.

Was it worth it, little girl?
Was it worth it, forgetting how lucky you were?
Was it worth it to replace Rock Detectives with Truth or Dare?
Was it worth it, daddy?
Was it worth it?
Was it worth it?
Was it worth it?

Nothing starts with the letter Z. Nothing ends with the letter Z. I'm sorry I can't end my story right. Z. But I don't think it's over yet. Z. So I'll keep trying to grow. Z. Until I find the proper ending. Z. Z. Z. Z. Sleepovers with that golden haired best friend. Z. Z. Z. Riding downhill too fast. Z. I'm trying, daddy. Z. Z. Z. I love you, Daddy. Z.Z.Z.Z.ZZZZ.......

I love you.

Sonnets Sang on Roller-coasters

She stumbles, and she blinks.
Torn up pages of Sudoku books.
Cocks her head, and stares at stars.
She breathes, deeply.
But she does not have enough fingers
for any of it to make sense.
She never learned to play Scrabble.
Or Solitaire.
She likes to yank bushels of purple phlox
just after it rains
so that teardrops still settle on the fine silk
and she can wipe them away, and know that sun
always comes
in time.
The thimble never wins a game of Monopoly.
And strategy, they told her, is everything.
At Five A.M she jump ropes
and she counts until she runs out of stars.
And unreadable notes of overgrown daydreams
dance in the fireplace, until she runs out of jumps
to count the beat.
Because Candy Land was always just a dream.
And she never saw the point in Shoots,
if she had a Ladder.
Stolen ballet slippers
and torn hair bows
and chipping nail polish
and empty tea cups.
When her moon is heavy, she tilts the little cup
very low
and the last inkling of a drip fall to the rim of the saucer.
And now she can see her reflection.
And it's like playing Clue, if only she'd ever learned.
Because it's such a game, it is,
staring at herself, swimming in the blues of her eyes.
'Cause she never learned The Game of Life.
And I hear there are lots of tricks.
Maybe someday, she'll ride a unicorn
and understand why there are mirrors on every merry-go-round.
Maybe someday, she'll comb the knots out of her hair
Wipe the mud off her toes
Get to the end of the maze before she runs out of ink
to count the corners.
Maybe then, rules won't exist.
No one ever reads the directions anyway.
And the objective, is the stars.
Too bad she ran out of fingers.

Momma, When'd The Road Grow?

I was looking through the YWG blog, and found this. I completely forgot about it! It was written months and months ago. Anyway, I hope you like it.


Momma, when'd the road grow?
Baby, try to use your words.
...Talk the truth, see no lies.
Let the sun shine.

Momma, when'd the sky shrink low?
Love, i'm sure i just don't know.
...We've lost alot, these weeks soon pass,
I'll try to get it back.

Momma, when the grass gets cold,
...Will the stars forget to glow?
Forget to glow, forget to grow, forget about
everything
we
thought
we'd
know.


hangin' on by ropes, my child

sweet dreams, to all below.

momma's gone where tears don't fall,

where God makes all moons glow.


sing a song, a lullaby,
wipe sorrow from
the lost babe's eyes,
and don't let go

and don't look down

the sky is shrinking...

"momma, how fast will it go?

how far until i land?"

Momma, when'd the road grow?
Baby, try to use your words...

Love, i lied, the sun won't shine,
these paths, they're getting shorter.

the path to you,
the road to me,
afriad, they intersect.

they never swing.

they never sing.

they never bring

two
hearts
to
one.

Momma, when'd the sky shrink low?
Love, i'm sure i just don't know.

so, tell me, momma.
can you touch the moon?
if you climbe, so high, so high...

momma's reached that limit, child.
she's grasped the highest branch...
and she's so
afraid, afraid to fall...
momma's so afraid to fall.

Momma, when the grass gets cold,
...Will the stars forget to glow?

well, baby, seems i've told a myth
a game, perhaps, a folly.

for momma was a star, they say
who forgot, by chance, to glow.
no more brightness left to show.
nowhere safe now left to go.
just a song, that now one knows.


momma, i still love you,
wherever you may be.
when youth rode on behind us,
you told your tale to me.
you said the stars, they'd always sing
the sky would always stretch.
you said the ice would always melt,
a new chance now to catch.
grab on, momma, we're swingin' low
and i don't want you to fall.
for when i was small, you held me close
and it was the best of feelings.
and when the light squeezed,
out of you,
i felt so, free, so, lost.
a falling star,
put it in my pocket,
i'll send it on back home.
another holy land we roam.
your arms, the safest dome.

now, momma, where'd the time go?
Baby girl, its thrown away.
....we've lost alot.
these years soon pass,
another catch to throw...
to throw,
a star,
to glow.
fallen down,
no place
to go,
jsut a song.

that no one knows.

Things Unsaid

Disclaimer: I did NOT write this. I found it on a Potter blog, and they broke my heart. So, so touching. I know this blog is for my writing, but I couldn't resist posting.



Regulus Black, to Sirius Black
I tried to do what you would have done, in the end.

Peter Pettigrew, to James Potter
I wish I could take it back.

Gideon Prewett, to Arthur Weasley
You take good care of our Molly, you hear?

Merope Gaunt, to Tom Marvolo Riddle
Grow up strong like your father, Tommy. But learn to love.

Dobby, to Harry Potter
Harry Potter is safe now, sir. Dobby has repaid him.

Quirinus Quirrell, to Sibyll Trelawney
Travelling will bring great peril, indeed. I’m sorry I laughed.

Cedric Diggory, to Amos Diggory
I won, Dad. Aren’t you proud?

Colin Creevey, to Dennis Creevey
I died like a real wizard, Dennis. Isn’t that cool?

Kendra Dumbledore, to Ariana Dumbledore
I wish I could have fixed it. That’s what mothers are supposed to do, right?

Fred Weasley, to George Weasley(Fred's final words)
Don’t worry, George. I’m going to heaven. Guess how I know? Because we’re the Holy Spirit! Get it? Because you’re holey and I’m… dead. Please don’t cry.

Severus Snape, to Lily Evans
I tried to protect him, Lily. I can do no more.

Helena Ravenclaw, to Rowena Ravenclaw
I’m sorry I left, Mother. I’m not like you; I’ve always made stupid choices.

Hepzibah Smith, to Hokey the House Elf
Never trust a pretty face.

Bertha Jorkins, to Rita Skeeter
You’ll never believe who I met in Albania, Rita!

Igor Karkaroff, to Severus Snape
I vish I could haf had your bravery.

Gellert Grindelwald, to Albus Dumbledore
I killed her, Albus. And I’m sorry.

Mrs. Crouch, to Barty Crouch, Junior
Be happy, sweetheart.

Rowena Ravenclaw, to Helena Ravenclaw
I miss you. Please come home.

Fawkes, to Albus Dumbledore
I’ll be back. I promise.

Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, to Remus Lupin
It was all too brief.

Albus Dumbledore to Aberforth Dumbledore (The last words)
I'm sorry if I dissapointed you, Abe. I love you and I'm proud of you.

Impressionism.

I wrote this during a Creative Writing course last year, but recently edited it an awful lot. The original prompt was to look through a newspaper, and choose a picture that stood out to you. The picture I chose was actually the obituary picture of an art museum curater in Paris, who had recently died. She was holding a painting of a ballerina, standing outside in the cold. Her eyes were what stood out to me. They were a painting, of course, but they could see right into you, I swear. I wish I knew what the painting was called. So anyway, enjoy. Thanks for reading.

It is Paris, 1774.
The shrill winters breeze caresses a trembling hand across our ears, robbing any remaining inklings of warmth, and replacing our skin with the frail, frozen petals of a scarlet rose.
I am ten years old, thin as the final branches of a waning autumn tree, my cheeks losing more and more of their pigments, once vibrant with the colorings of life, as the brittle air slaps us, again and again, and we grow numb.
As I stand shaking, melting away from my own thin bones, a thousand painted faces pass us, all wearing the same numb expressions. Their cheeks lack the luster of life, of purpose. It is feigned, the ambition in their eyes of clay and plaster. They walk with the same stride, of false ingenuity.
And I know that when you look at me, my dear artist, you will not see them. They are but a piece of this interminably frozen background.
But I, however, am not. Even though my artist molded me in too small of a stencil. Even though I cannot grow, and the people of my world, were built to be much taller. And they cannot see me, standing so low.
But you of all souls, my artist, understand that the important things, are not the big things.
Painted to my alabaster skin, is a thin pink dress. It hangs loosely from shoulders that bear no weight, no substance. The colors are muted, and the onslaught of a gentle snow turns the scene to a pallor of icy blue. And I am cold.
In my arms, I clutch a small, torn pail pink pair of point shoes. I don't wear them, though I crave to. I desperately desire the obscure, curious feeling of the fine satin, resting against my toes, warming the ground in which I stand.
My dear, Artist. This was a thoughtless thing to do. I am frozen. So frozen in this time and place, in this ice, and the gaze of my superiors.
Now, freeze.
Remember everything my frail body has told you. Remember the look in my eyes. Remember my thin dress. The shoes I am forbidden to wear. The world I'm not tall enough to be a part of.
Remember this.
Remember me.
Paint my picture, in your hungry minds.
It is a pleasant scene before you, I assume. The bright lights of Paris. The steam from the baker's windows. The charm. The imagery, of the City of Love.
And your heart swims.
You can smell the baguettes.
You feel the snow on your nose.
And then your eyes open, and you see me. I stand against a towering, rusting gate of wrought iron. My stare is fixated unto the very fringes of your wandering hearts. And from my perch here, worlds and ages away from the gallery in which you must be standing, your breath stops for a moment. Your voice catches in your throat. And you regret your happiness, and you are guilty to have been so blessed.
You see me, and though I am gazing at you, I cannot see you. I just pretend. I try very hard, so that maybe, I am remembered.
Are you painting this, my artist? I hope you are. I hope you paint my picture, a thousand times, and send it to every corner of the big planet you inhabit, in which I will never roam. The planet I am too small to reach, to touch. The earth that is too hard for the feet I cannot feel, the dance floors I'll never see.
I'll clutch my ballet shoes, torn and small, and every time you think of me, every time my eyes appear in your midnight musings, I will dance.
So paint this.
Keep me warm.
Keep the image of my gaze, as I stare into you, planted in the depths of your preoccupied minds. And you'll walk taller than me, and see things I'll never see. But I'll be there with you.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
And I am counting on you, my artist, to show me that the world out there is much larger than this corner of an ancient Paris.
And everyone will see me, and when they dance, they will think of me.
For now, I remain forever frozen, but thank you, dear artist, for seeing.
Remember this when it is cold in your heart.
Remember me, when you freeze.
Thank you, artist.
You are free to melt.

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.