You paint,

Using sky blue,

Making his eyes,

So blue,

That you could,

Drown in them.

Then you look,

At a string of photographs,

Stuck to your corkboard.

Then you paint the girl,

With blue eyes,

And a jean jacket.

And above it,

In gentle strokes,

You paint,

“Will you remember me,

In ten years?”

Because,

While you were drowing,

In his eyes,

He was barely swimming,

In yours.

 

 

She is a free spirit,

Living above an art studio,

Somewhere in Illinois,

With an iron balcony,

Twistedly covered in ivy,

And morning glory.

Her apartment,

Is full of skylights,

Which she keeps open,

All day,

And all the sparrows,

Go to her kitchen window,

Because she feeds them,

Sunflower seeds,

And dried cherries.

She is a photographer,

And her pictures,

Cover the walls,

At odd angles,

And advantages.

Neon signs,

From the small downtown,

Spell out,

In neon yellow letters,

“Friends.”

And pictures of hippies,

From the artsy side of town,

Show people wearing “1970,”

On their t-shirts,

And holding yellow balloons.

And a painting,

Hanging perfect straight,

In her bedroom,

Sayings in bold,

White letters,

“You have quite a mind, darling.”

And she did.

 

She is not,

In the 115 weight range,

And her tattered jeans,

Are held together by,

Safety pins,

Decorated with tiny glass beads.

And patches,

Are sewn over the holes,

In the back pockets,

And knees.

An old record player,

Full of static,

Plays jazzy tunes,

In her quirky bedroom,

And badly taken photographs,

Cover her walls,

All of them showing her,

Freckled,

With lively green eyes,

But they also show a boy,

With black hair,

A dimple,

And brown eyes.

She had always been warned,

About blue eyes,

But her heart broke,

Because a pair of brown ones.

 

 

 

She leans against,

The chainlink fence during lunch,

Wearing a black hoodie,

And combat boots.

Her jade colored eyes,

Sweeping over the crowd,

Measuring them up.

Who said,

There was no calculation,

In chaos?

Her favorite memory,

Of the two of them,

Before things went bad,

Was made in a playground,

In the middle-of-nowhere-Illinois,

When they sat on the swing set,

And looked at the stars,

And she had told him,

That she was chaos,

In a raw form,

And he had said,

With a lopsided smile,

“I accept chaos.”

But he couldn’t seem,

To except her calm,

As much as he did her storm,

And they had fought,

Memories shattering,

Like broken glass,

Fragile and sharp.

And he had yelled,

“You want a battle? I’ll give you a war,

Chaos’s Child.”

And he never could understand,

How she was calm,

And wild,

Messy,

And kind.

He gave her a war,

And she gave him battlefield.

Your jeans are the baggy kind,

With ripped knees,

And frayed cuffs,

And your hair,

Is the prettiest brown,

Black,

Barely going past your shoulders.

You often wear white cotton t-shirts,

Which are always stained,

By ink at the end of the day,

From your black typewriter,

With yellowed keys,

And well-oiled metal parts.

You have a black yarn bracelet,

On your left wrist,

Which has one word,

“Evoke.”

Your bedroom,

Is a wonderful mess of old books,

Thick paper,

With half-finished calligraphy quotes,

And thick knitted socks.

Old mugs that once held hot cocoa,

And warm milk,

Sit on your desk,

And your favorite,

Once-white chunky crocheted blanket,

It hung over the desk chair.

Thick and squat mason jars,

Hold your collection of pens,

With varying points,

Of thickness,

In colors like deep ruby red,

And inky midnight black.

One mason jar,

Which is slightly dusty,

Holds a few arrows,

From your old archery contests,

And an old hunting horn,

From your great-grandfather,

Sits on a cluttered bookshelf.

A paperweight of a ship,

Pins down a few stray papers,

On one side of your desk,

While half-finished projects,

Occupy the other half.

There is some sort,

Of method to this madness,

Because you find your way around,

With practiced ease.

And you seem to always,

Drift back to one project,

Which you are working on,

In a ruby red pen,

With a thin tip,

As you write,

“Don’t let your happiness,

Depend on something,

You may lose.”

By C.S. Lewis.

And you know,

That as soon as it is finished,

It will be shoved into the spare room,

In the eves of the house,

Because your wall,

Only has enough room,

For so much,

And it is already full,

Of poetry,

Quotes,

And illustrations,

About a land,

Which you only find,

Inside your head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let her play her music,

Let her play her 1 Direction playlist,

(Which you hate,)

On repeat all night,

And you know what?

She will love you for it.

And whn things get rough,

Put on that same playlist,

And waltz her around the room.

She will love you more for that.

The question she asked herself,

Every day was,

“Why hurt a girl,

Who never hurt you?”

Because she never called you names,

Like you do her,

And she never made you feel less,

And lower then the sidewalk,

So she asks herself,

Why do you do that,

To her?

You told me to quiet down,

To bottle up all my opinons,

Thoughts,

Dreams,

And songs.

To push them down,

Deep in my belly,

But silly boy,

Haven’t you ever heard,

That fire,

Cannot be put out?

And haven’t you ever learned,

That opinions are beautiful?

Because I have,

And that is why,

I let the fire boil up,

And spill from my lips,

Like flames,

In the form of words.

You sat with a girl,

From science,

And watched your friends laugh,

On the other side,

Of the gym.

Your homework from Latin class,

Lay open in  your lap,

But your pencil wasn’t on paper,

Because it was hard,

Watching them act,

Like you didn’t exist,

Because you chose to sit,

With a “nobody.”

People had told you,

That they were fake friends,

And that you were,

Just a pity case,

But you ever believed it,

Until today,

Because to them,

You didn’t exist anymore,

Just because you sat,

With a “nobody.”

And it made you wonder,

Why some people were so mean,

As put others below them,

Because they chose,

To treat everyone,

Like they deserved to be treated.

 

Her room was painted,

A dark shade of violet,

And her black bookshelf,

Made the silver writing,

On the spines of her books,

Shine with an eery light.

Her closet had,

The same color pallet,

All year round.

With dark purple boots,

In the strange color of sangria.

Black skinny jeans,

And ripped shorts,

In varying shades of purple.

Black and white t-shirts,

Mixed in with ones,

That where all dark colors,

Of purple,

And black.

And her constant necklace,

Was the mineral amethyst,

Which was clasped around her neck,

On a thin silver chain.

Her dark brown hair,

Had a few purple,

And silver streaks,

Which she had gotten,

The day she turned sixteen.

And whenever the sky,

Was split open with lightning,

She would tell her cat,

“Relax….It’s only magic.”

And on the cleariest nights,

During summer,

She would get out,

Her grandfather’s old telescope,

And map the stars,

Whispering,

“Leo the lion, Gemini the twins,”

And other constellations,

Which she knew by heart.

And then,

She would often fall alseep,

In her silver chair,

By the window,

Murming one last time,

“Good night world,

Full of universal purple magic.”

 

 

 

 

Of you can’t respect her art,

And her need to be alone,

Then you don’t understand,

Or deserve her.

So that is how I knew,

That you where not for her,

Because you never understood,

Her creative spirit,

And longing for freedom,

And space,

So in truth,

You never really,

Understood her at all.

 

The best thing,

About sleepless nights,

Are that your thoughts,

Are clearier,

Then they have ever been,

And the best ideas,

Always happen at 5:00 am.

Every time at school,

When she felt like she didn’t belong,

She would draw something,

On her left hand,

And by 3:45,

Her hand was covered up to her elbow with,

Heart-eyed emojis,

Cactuses,

Moons,

And Roman Numerals.

She had star constellations,

And Zodiac Gemini signs,

Mixed in with arrows,

Of every color and design.

And when a boy once said,

That it was weird,

And stupid,

Her best friend said,

“Leave off.”

And another friend,

From Science class said,

Holding up her own hand,

With a cross drawn,

In black sharpie,

“At least we have the courage enough,

To exploit our insecurities,

In a form of art,

Instead of bringing others down,

Because of the excuse,

‘It makes me feel better.’ ”

No one said anything about it again,

And when doodles overlapped,

The colors mixing,

And contrasting,

Her hand looked like a painting,

Because all the doubts,

Were slowly fading away,

Only to be replaced with new ones,

In the form of doodles.

Flowers,

Diamonds,

And stick people.

And at the end of the year,

She washed off her doodles,

And put her insecurities into words,

Which where published,

And heard all over the world.

Because sometimes,

All it takes,

To find courage

Is to show,

Your insecurities,

And wash them away,

Like marker designs,

Because life is better,

When we all have courage enough,

To face our fears,

And exploit our insecurities.

She never believed,

That she was art.

She drew,

And painted,

And expressed herself soulfully,

But she could never believe,

That she was,

Just as pretty,

Unique,

And beautiful,

As that on canvas,

And on drawing paper.

Whether with harsh lines,

Of dark charcoal,

Or softer,

Vibrant tones of acrylic.

She never believed,

Or tried to,

Until her art teacher,

Said for her to paint,

Herself,

As she saw herself.

She used all her least favorite colors,

Like mustard,

And bright scarlett.

She used dark black,

And grainy grey.

She painted a girl,

With her head bent,

And hands nervously clasped,

Around a number two pencil.

A girl with dark gray eyes,

Pale and drawn face,

With freckles,

That seemed uglier,

Then her least favorite colors.

She painted a shell of a girl,

Because that is what,

She thought of herself as.

Her teacher looked at the painting,

And frowned slightly.

She picked up a paintbrush,

And dipped it in maroon.

She used long strokes,

And bright colors,

Until the canvas,

Was colorful,

And the girl,

Was beautiful.

The teacher then,

Smiled at her,

And said,

“Art is not meant,

To hide beauty,

With dull colors,

When the real person,

Is so much more than that.”

 

I wish I was,

One of those girls,

Who are like bouncy balls.

You throw them down,

And they bounce right back up.

They don’t seem bothered by anything,

And I once asked,

My friend Faith,

Why this was,

And she laughed,

And told me,

“With the knowledge that your wings,

Are broken,

But you have claws.”

 

We’ve been friends all these years,

And you still don’t know…………

My mouth doesn’t say,

But what my brain does,

And you when you asked,

If I thought of you as a friend,

I kept it cool,

Kept my cover,

And told you a white lie.

Because if I told you the truth,

We would probably never talk again,

Because of the teenage akwardness,

That happens,

When you have a crush,

On your friend.

 

She is a poem that breaths,

And you have been wrote in a footnote,

On her page margin,

Because she only adds people,

When she wants them in her lines,

More then her next breath,

And I guess she does you.

 

If I could choose one person,

Who I would want to know better,

I would choose her.

The most popular girl.

People seem to think that she is immune,

To all the barbed insults,

And whispered rumors,

But she isn’t.

She can hear them,

And just because,

The majority likes her,

Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have haters,

And I know she looks stunning,

While wearing makeup,

And crop tops,

But you should see her,

After school,

When she washes off,

The makeup,

Puts her hair in a ponytail,

And wears her older brothers t-shirts.

Because then,

She is something far more beautiful:

She is herself.

 

Dark green beanie,

Black clunky glasses,

Do you know him?

You’ve probably seen him around school,

The “misfit,”

The kid who slams his locker shut,

A bit too hard,

And the boy who stumbles over his own feet.

There are others too,

You probably don’t notice,

Don’t even spare them a second glance.

Like the girl who is called “dirty,”

Because her clothes aren’t always washed,

Because her family doesn’t always have enough change,

To wash their clothes.

The boy from the chess club,

Who has austism,

And says what he thinks.

Honesty is a trait  they said,

That skipped our generation,

But not him.

He calls the girl from AP English,

“Beautiful,”

Because she once said hello,

And she always has,

One less cut on her arm,

Because of that.

Don’t call them mifits,

Or act like they don’t belong,

Because the only person who doesn’t belong,

Is you.

Because you are so insercure,

That making them hurt,

Is the only way,

You feel like you truly belong.

They,

And the other loners of the school,

Are not the mifts,

You and others like you are,

Because you will never gain confidence,

That you suck from others.

 

 

Why am I concidered a nerd,

When I only want to do well in life?

Because my all A’s,

Will get my further in life,

Then your bullying mouth,

Someone once told me,

To write the thing,

You fear most.

But I don’t know.

Because I fear death,

I fear oblivion,

I fear falling down,

Into that deep, dark well of sadness again.

I fear,

Fear itself,

Amoung many other things,

And so I can’t write about,

What I fear most,

Because even if I had one fear,

Nothing as large as fear,

Can be trapped inside a single piece of poetry.

Do you know the people,

Who sit in the back of class,

Who walk quickly in the hallways?

Well,

They are simply existing.

I don’t want to be like that,

And one of my friends told me,

When I confessed this,

“Then, by all means,

Exist loudly. Wear a white t-shirt,

And black pants,

With gold and yellow bracelets.

Take your slice of universe,

And alter it,

Because all the best people,

Decided to become who they are,

In the best way possible,

By deciding to let go,

Of all the fears,

That once held claim over them.”

And so I did.

I wore contrasting outfits,

Raised my hand more in class,

Smiled at everyone,

And I guess,

If I were to sum it up,

In three words,

I would say,

“I existed loudly.”

And I did.

My mom tells me to socialize,

And to make more friends,

But I do have friends.

I have my pillow,

And my couch,

And my Latin book,

And all the college football teams,

Who don’t know I exist,

So yeah,

I have friends.

And if you want a human friend example,

I have Harry Potter,

Who is very much human,

Even though he is in a book,

But you don’t need to know that.

She knits,

The silver knitting needles,

Sliding through the blue yarn,

And she smiles.

But she is the kind of girl,

Who will knit you a sweater,

And stab you with a knitting needle,

And trust me when I say,

You do not want to get on her bad side.

He pushes the hair out of his eyes,

And stares across the room.

A couple jocks laugh,

And punch each other,

In the shoulder,

Pointing at him.

He doesn’t know why,

But his skin itches,

As if the entire school is staring at him,

And he wonders what they said,

And who heard,

Because nothing can kill a man faster,

Then his own head.

She was in the library,

Her dark brown head,

Bent over a book.

You could tell,

That this was the place,

That she belonged.

Sure,

She went to school,

And laughed with fellow peers,

But in the library,

She found her home in the pages,

Of thick novels,

By Jane Austin,

And Lousia May Alcott.

And anyone who saw her,

Reading a book,

Could tell that she was never complete,

With words echoing in her head,

And a book in her hand.

She cried,

Her shoulders shaking,

As she leaned against,

The hard concrete wall of the school.

She was the new girl again,

A new town,

A new school.

And she thought she had left,

All her fear of that,

At a school a year ago,

But she was wrong.

The stares burned into her back,

And she could see them questioning,

Who was this new girl,

Who started four months into the school year?

Some didn’t care,

She was just another a new girl,

And those came and went.

But as she cried,

She didn’t care about some small smiles,

That some girls had given her,

Because she felt so alone.

Then she heard a voice,

“Beautiful Girl,

You can do hard things.”

Her eyes where red and puffy,

Her cheeks splotched,

As she blinked up at that boy,

Who had found her hidden hiding place.

Then he held out a hand,

And said with a smile,

“Austin.”

Her hand shook his,

Trembling ever so slightly,

As she said,

“Constance.”

He smiled again,

And said,

“C’mon Connie.”

Friends are not given by chance,

And the best ones,

Creep up on us when we need them,

The most.

 

I think I get scars,

From touching certain people.

I can’t see them,

But I know they are there,

Maybe a warning,

That they will leave scars,

But you where worth it…..

Someone once called her midget,

And her best friend said,

“Short might be a lil difficult,

But she can beat your butt,

tic, tac, toe.”

They gained a new friend that day,

And I should know,

Because I still beat her at tic, tac toe.

People say that boys like,

Girls who always agree,

Girls who are meek,

Quiet,

And never speak out of turn.

Well,

Let it be said that no boy,

Will ever like me,

Because I can’t be quiet,

When I know the truth,

And I can’t laugh at jokes,

That I don’t understand,

And I will never change,

For any boy who wants,

A meek girl,

A quiet girl,

And a agreeing girl,

Because I will never be one.

I will laugh uncontrollably,

At the strangest things,

And add in my opinon,

When I feel it’s needed.

I will never be a girl,

That people say boys will like,

But I guess I’m ok with that.

Because some boys,

I hope,

Like strange girls,

Not the most beautiful girls,

Girls who have laughter in their hearts.

But if no boy does,

I won’t change,

Because it would be too hard,

To dim the rebel fire in my soul,

And completely change myself,

Just for a boy.

 

If someone asked her to describe herself,

She would pause,

And think.

She was a metaphor,

A poetic “mistake,”

An ever changing piece of art,

And a girl.

But she could not say that,

Because why make a picture with words,

And change herself into a carbon copy,

If she was only to change again?

Last week she loved Adele,

This week she loves Coldplay,

Today her favorite color is emerald,

But tomorrow it will be different.

Today she writes sad poetry,

But tomorrow it could be mellow,

Or mad.

Why describe herself,

And try to be that girl,

When she doesn’t know who she is?

She is ever changing,

Trying to find the right smile,

The right clothes,

And the right girl to be.

And when she knows who she is,

She still won’t say anything,

Because life is full of change,

And a lot can happen in a day.

 

In elementary school a boy told me,

That I couldn’t punch,

Because I was a girl.

I broke his nose.

And when my dad picked me up,

He told me,

“Don’t let anyone hear this,

But he deserved it.”

Then he told me to say sorry.

But the boy said,

That he deserved it,

And girls could punch.

My bestfriend,

Is the boy who said I couldn’t,

And I still prove him wrong,

Every day.

She use to strive for perfection,

In her clothes,

Her hair,

Her grades,

And the way she acted,

Until she wasn’t her anymore.

She had the same eyes,

But they where darker,

More knowing in a sad way.

She had the same dimple,

But it was almost covered in make-up,

And she didn’t smile enough for it to show.

She had the same freckle on her right ear,

But the fancy gold earrings all but covered it.

No-one ever once told her,

That she was born to be real,

Not perfect.

After school,

She treks through the woods,

Behind her house,

To a small meadow.

She takes off the bag,

That was sitting by the front door,

And she drinks lemonade,

And plays the guitar.

Life is simpler in the woods,

Who wouldn’t want to be there?

People are always judging,

And sometimes I hate it.

I walked into school,

With my hair a little bit messy,

And I could feel the stares.

The unasked question in the air,

But I wonder if it ever accured to them,

That I don’t wake up an hour earlier,

To do my hair and make-up,

But instead enjoy that extra hour.

And I may not look as good as them,

But I have no regrets.

I wonder how she thinks she looks,

When she finishes a painting.

Triumphant.

Sad.

Or a mix of both.

Because I bet she thinks about it,

When she putting her paint away,

That if this event was ever caught on camera,

She would have no hastags to go with it.

Because sometimes,

Single words cannot form the intricate web,

That is called emotion.

I wonder if I am the kind of girl you see,

And never forget.

The kind of girl you are desperate enough,

To try yellow pages for,

I wonder if,

I’m the kind of girl who is worth a second glance.

She always use to sit in the back,

And she never raised her hand,

But one glance at her notes,

Told me she knew the answer.

She was always quiet,

And never talked out of turn,

And wore ordinary clothes.

Nothing was really special about her,

That could be seen on the outside,

But she once whispered to me,

That the darkest minds,

Could have the simplest appearances.

On Monday she didn’t come to school,

And on Tuesday the announcement,

Was made in the gym,

But the only word I heard was,

“Suicide.”

Such a horribly normal word,

One that could be hidden in the crowd,

And someone couldn’t even notice.

I wish I had understood,

The tally marks on her notes,

And listened more carefully when she talked,

Because she might have seemed ordinary,

But someone once told me,

The darkest minds,

Have the simplest appearance.

 

She is sitting on the curb,

Her mom is late again,

But she doesn’t really care.

Her favorite book is open on her lap,

The inspiring words of Jane Austin,

Echoing in her head.

She would make a pretty picture,

Sitting there.

Her hands clasped loosely,

Wearing a black and white stripped shirt,

And a jean jacket,

With a pair of black skinny jeans,

And yellow vans.

Her reddish hair braided loosely,

And her glazed over,

In a different world.

The world of reader,

Entrapped in the black and white,

Dreaming.

She’s Tumblr-worthy cute,

And she doesn’t know it.

Yesterday she wore a white long-sleeved sweatshirt,

With a cute cartoon cactus,

And the word “Hug?” repeated in different fonts.

She wore a green skirt,

And her favorite pair of Burks,

With a bunch of pink bracelets.

She went to Starbucks before school,

And got her usual peppermint hot cocoa,

With a chocolate croissant,

Which she ate on a parkbench,

Watching people stroll by.

And I know that today,

She is wearing a blue fuzzy sweater,

With a couple long silver layering necklaces,

And her favorite pair of jeans,

Which has a barely noticeable bleach stain,

Near the bottom right cuff.

And I know that because,

I have her in first period,

And I use to jealous of her,

And so I watched her,

Wondering how she could be so perfect.

But then I wasn’t jealous,

Because she is kind,

And sweet,

And you would never guess,

That her father lives in California,

With her health nut step-mom,

And a step-brother,

Who is 18.

And I only know,

Because I found her,

Crying in the bathroom,

With a torn piece of notebook paper,

Saying in black sharpie,

“Misfit.”

And it was then I understood,

That she is tumblr worthy cute,

And has the most unique personality,

But instead of being jealous of her,

I should ask at what price,

Does she express herself.

Because she is bullied,

Because she chose to be different,

And unique.

So I told her,

That she is tumblr worthy cute,

And that she shouldn’t listen,

To the people who are too afriad,

To express themselves,

Like her.

They told her she couldn’t bike,

And that the dirt track was no place,

For girls.

They told him he couldn’t dance,

And that dancing was for girls,

And that he should just quit.

But they showed them.

She turned up every day at 5:00 am,

To pratice,

When no one was on the track.

He praticed long into the night,

And in whatever he did,

He was dancing.

They where told they couldn’t,

So they did.

 

She changed her social status,

Back to single,

And a little part of him broke.

Because what had started out as,

A summer fairytale,

Turned into a winter heartbreak.

 

I think it’s funny,

How you didn’t notice me,

Until I was “pretty.”

Until I bought all the clothes,

That other girls wore,

Like skinny jeans,

And thick sweaters.

It was then you noticed me.

But at that point I didn’t care,

Because you only noticed me,

When I changed for you.

You asked me to described a writer,

But I can’t.

Because I don’t write 300 hundred page novels,

Or world famous poetry,

And that is kind of writer,

You want me to describe,

And I can’t.

But I can describe me:

A hot coccoa addict,

Often running on five hours of sleep,

Staying up till 2:00 am,

For my best inspiration.

I don’t focus on schoolwork,

As much as I probably should,

And though the thought of a science test,

Hovers in the back of my mind,

My poetry is my outlet,

And therefore out ranking.

The house is asleep,

Way before my head ever touches the pillow,

And most of my sleep shirts,

Have brown stains from coccoa,

On the frustrated nights when it spills,

And my inspiration is stuck in the back of my head,

Not wanting to come out.

I can describe my friend:

Who writes about her one true love,

Horses.

I can tell you about the amazing bloggers,

I have come across,

And the tucked talents hidden in plain sight,

But I can’t tell you about J.K. Rowling,

Or someone else,

And I guess that is who you want,

So no,

I cannot describe a writer.

His bedroom is a mess of gaming controllers,

Random grey and black wires,

And control boxes.

But that’s fine,

Because she can navigate her way,

Through it with ease,

Because she has been doing it for years.

His bed cover is wrinkled,

The navy fabric losing color,

And fraying at the ends.

Black pillows are scattered on the bed,

And on the floor,

For maximum comfort,

And she always sits on black rectangle one,

With a dark hot cocoa stain,

From the sick day he took,

Three years before.

And he always sits on the round black one,

With a strange red dot,

On the left corner,

And hugs a tiny yellow pillow,

He got from one of his aunt’s,

While using his thumbs his move,

And control.

Every day after school,

The ritual is the same,

A snack of orange juice,

And cheese,

With the occasional cookie, he would sneak.

And then they would wander in his room,

And sit on their gaming thrones,

Hunched over,

With a determined looks on their faces.

They had been best friends for so long,

She had her own game controller,

A blinding shade of red,

With black buttons,

While his was black,

With blue and yellow buttons.

And they equal in skill,

So sometimes he would lose,

And sometimes she would beat a best score,

And then they would celebrate,

With whooping and fist bumping,

And playing rock, paper, scissors, shoot,

To see who would get the powerup.

And she would stay for dinner,

On every day but Wednesday,

Because Wednesday was spinach,

And chicken soup,

And she never ate spinach.

But every Wednesday before she would leave,

He would sneak her a snickerdoodle cookie,

And she would happily take that,

Instead of spinach and chicken soup.

After they would play for several hours,

They would lounge on his floor,

Doing math homework,

And talking.

He would lean against the bed,

And she would lay on it,

On her stomach,

Clutching a black pillow,

And laughing until her sides hurt,

When he made a joke.

Things where never awkward,

Because they had known each other,

Since they where five,

And thought of each as family.

So on every day of the week,

Except for Sunday,

They would go to his room,

To talk,

To laugh,

And to do what they did best:

Game,

And be best friends.

She has an airy room,

Tucked away near the attic,

And that is the way she wants it.

A shelf runs on the wall above her bed,

Filled with books of every genre,

Classical, fictional, sci-fi, and novels.

And her desk is in front of the window,

Bathed in sunlight,

All the untidy pieces of notebook paper,

Sticking out of folders,

And the never-ending supply of index cards,

Shoved in random plastic bags.

She has a drawer full of sticky notes,

A few sentences of lyrics,

Favorite words,

And bits and pieces of poetry,

Hidden away in the dark.

And corkboard leaning against the wall,

Holds names of characters,

That she has never written about,

And possible lines from the heroine,

Facing the enemy for the last time.

Photographs of foreign places,

And pictures cut from fashion magazines,

Hide behind them,

Each part of a bigger picture,

One only the writer can see.

Her laptop is plugged in,

Charging before more inspiration hits,

And the keyboard becomes active.

She lays on her bed most days,

Staring through a skylight above it,

Spinning stories in her brain,

And forgetting the rest of the world.

Her “cool” older brother,

Thinks she is weird,

Hiding away near the rooftop\,

With no social status.

But her younger siblings love story time,

As she tells them things that some people dream of,

Such as magical brushes, pastel bunnies,

And wild water horses.

But if they opened her laptop,

They would find a story about a girl,

Who lived near the roof of an old house,

And who could fly.

But they wouldn’t believe it,

Because only writers can,

Believe that words on paper,

Have more power then ones said.

 

She had the strangest laugh,

A mellow sort of sound,

Mixed in a brass and treble bell.

But she didn’t care.

She always wore big dangly silver earrings,

And a black Fitbit on her right wrist.

Her eyes were a pretty blue-green,

Wide with excitement and curiosity.

Her favorite hat accompanied her,

Wherever she so use to go,

The white wool beanie stretched,

And picked from years of constant use.

She had big frame turtiose-shell glasses,

Which she always seemed to be loosing,

Much to the humor of her friends.

She always wore the same jacket,

Unless it was thirty bellow zero,

The jean jacket was from her mom’s “hippie days,

And it smelled faintly of lemon drops.

Her favorite birthday present ever,

Was a Cannon camera,

And she was hardly ever seen without it.

When she was in sixth grade,

She was bullied because,

The color of her skin,

And the way her black hair,

Was twisted into braids,

But her mother told her,

“Just laugh.”

And so when the car came out of nowhere,

And she saw it through her lens,

She told her mother,

“Just laugh.”

Before everything exploded in broken glass.

And every art student,

Painted in their own stye,

Somewhere on the walls of the school,

“Just laugh.”

And all her friends wore jean jackets,

For the rest of high school and college.

Because a person like her makes an impact,

And a leaves a big hole when they are gone,

And I only wish she could see,

Her camera sitting in the trophey case,

Where she said jokingly it would be,

One day at the start of the semister.

She left a hole,

That she would want filled with a laugh.

 

 

Do you the know the girl,

Who wears red lipstick,

And rides her skateboard to school?

Do you know the girl,

Who wears glasses,

Which glow neon in the dark,

Because she hates contacts?

The girl who wears combat boots,

And a yellow unicorn t-shirt,

With a black leather bracelet,

And always uses a neon and black pen?

That girl,

She’s my best friend.

He leans his head against the glass door,

And watches the rain.

He shuts his eyes,

And wishes he could drown out the yelling.

Why me?

He asks.

Why couldn’t his family be ok,

Why did they have to be messed up?

Something shatters,

And he shuts his eyes tighter.

After a minute he peeks in,

And sees a stain of black coffee growing on the rug.

He leans his head on his knees,

And his shoulders shake.

Who says boys don’t cry,

When their life is falling apart?

 

She laughs,

And walks quickly through the halls.

And when her friends ask her why,

She always aviods the left side of the lunch hall,

A thousand silly excuses fall from her lips.

Because they wouldn’t understand.

And while they text their boyfriends,

Before class,

She tries to focus on her notes,

But her mind thinks of him.

She wonders if he ever notices her,

And if he ever glances at her when she isn’t looking.

She always hurries from one class,

To the next,

Because she knows his class is near hers,

And she doesn’t want to see his face,

When it lights up when he looks behind her,

At someone else.

She keeps telling herself,

That this is just a crush,

And she knows that is true,

But for once,

She wished she could know,

How it felt to be looked like that way,

He looks at her.

But she isn’t anything to him,

And he’s only a crush.

 

 

 

Dream small,

They told her,

And turned off the Beethoven playing on the radio.

And she would smile,

And act like it was ok,

That she was told her dreams where useless,

And would in end failure.

From the time she could play,

And find security in the white and black keys,

She had been told,

Dream small,

Because failure was not acceptable,

And trying wasn’t worth it.

But when nobody was home,

She would turn the radio channel on,

And let her fingers run wild across the keys,

Trying to copy the work of the greats.

At night when everyone was in bed,

She would bring out the old book of music,

With yellowed pages,

The edges slowly crumbling into dust.

And she would trace her finger over each name,

And each note,

Savoring it as if she could hear it her head.

Bach, Mendelssohn, Dvorak, Mozart,

And the other greats.

Sometimes she would peer longingly,

To the door of the music room,

At school,

To hear each note hit in perfect harmony,

By each student.

And how she longed to be there,

Up on stage,

Instead in a big empty house,

Playing the same songs in the silence.

And every time,

She inched in a little further,

Towards the unknown,

With velvet chairs,

And blue curtains.

Until at last,

She walked up,

And let it all go.

It was just the music and her,

With big dreams.

 

 

They say dedication is the key,

And she knows that.

So every morning.

Her alarm rings at 5am,

And the dance studio’s key is in her bag.

She practices,

And it only the music,

And her.

Encased in her own little slice of perfection.

But after the music is gone,

She faces the reality.

Her toes are bruised,

And they cramp after the long hours,

Spent perfecting routines,

And posture.

She can hear her dance teacher’s voice,

Echoing in her head:

“Get it right, Caroline!”

“Don’t slouch!”

“Do you ever want to be a star?”

And then her toes don’t hurt anymore,

And the long hours practicing into the night,

Seem like nothing,

After all,

She could be a star.

Homework piles up,

And grades plummet,

She makes up excuses,

As to why they were not turned in.

“Get it right, Caroline!”

She tells herself in the mornings,

And her legs,

And muscles are bruised,

From falling,

And failure to complete.

She wonders when,

Ballet became an escape,

And something more important,

Then all other things.

She wonders when ballet stopped being fun,

And started being a chore.

Maybe it was when she was 12,

And saw the glittering star college dancers,

From New York City perform,

And she vowed to be like them.

It was then she took more dance classes,

And cut anything she deemed distracting in her life,

Out.

Like friends, TV, junk food, sleep, etc.

It was then that dance became a higher priority,

Outranking so many other important things.

Maybe that is why she made a new vow,

And appeared to ballet class on Monday,

Late.

She walked in,

The dark half-moons underneath each eye,

Slowly fading.

The studio’s key had grown dusty the last week,

Because she finally was able to sleep for once.

She stood before her ballet teacher,

And she danced.

Not the stiff choreographed moves,

That had filled her early mornings since age 12,

But the dance she had held inside for so long.

A dance of freedom,

Wisdom,

Amd maturity.

A dance that was solely her.

And when it was deemed “Horrible,”

She walked out,

A proud smile on her face,

And laughed with her friends,

On the way to her new dance studio.

 

 

Staring down at my iPhone’s screen,

Seeing him with her,

Posted on every social media I follow,

Under all my feed.

And I see all the comments,

How she is so much better prettier me,

And I wonder,

If what they say is true,

Am I really ugly?

She wears bleached skinny jeans,

And cute varsity t-shirts,

And her hair is always perfect.

I never use to feel insecure,

About how I looked,

Until she said,

“All you’ll ever be is ugly.”

She comments on all my posts,

Using all the disgusted emoji faces,

And I wonder,

Why did he choose her?

My hair never really is neat,

All the crazy curls and waves get tangled,

And I wear size 4 jeans,

With all my older brother’s college t-shirts.

I’m not a supermodel,

But I actually use to like the way I looked,

Until he chose her.

I guess I never really was enough,

And he couldn’t handle all my quirks,

He wanted someone better,

Then I guess I could ever be.

I try not to care,

That he thought my worth was so low,

And that I was never was pretty enough,

To fit his expectations.

I started to text him,

To say the things I never did,

To say I was sorry,

For all that I was wrong about,

But I didn’t send it.

My finger hovering over the blue arrow,

The space between said,

And thought.

But then it hit me,

The truth which I had been lacking,

Why I should I be sorry?

Some days I had meltdowns,

Because I couldn’t handle it anymore,

And some days I was clingy,

Because I needed someone who cared,

But if were to do it again,

There isn’t a thing I would change,

Because why should I be sorry,

For me?

I may not weight 115 or less,

Or be considered “pretty,”

But I am happy with myself.

And he couldn’t even try,

To see me the way I do,

Because I never was enough for him.

 

 

 

 

 

Her laptop is opened,

The glowing screen waiting for words.

And a steaming cup of hot cocoa,

Is sitting on a random book.

Her hair is glossy in the street lamps,

That shine through the opened curtains.

And her eyes glitter like lost gems.

The clock on the bedside table,

Says in blinking green neon numbers:

2:00 am.

Her only companion is a slinky grey tabby cat,

Who perches beside her on the seat,

Looking out at the moon.

As if struck by  lightning,

Flashing over the distant hills,

She sits straight up.

Her fingers dance across the keys,

In rhythm to the raindrops.

As a story dances through her brain,

A smile creeps across her face.

2:00 am is the hour of writers,

Poets,

And dreamers.

And she is all of those.

 

She always wears baggy t-shirts,

To hide the heart monitor stuck on her side.

She looks normal,

With long auburn hair,

Bright blue eyes,

And freckles dotted across her nose.

In fact,

She looks beautiful.

But you would never guess,

That her heart isn’t whole,

And the hospital nurses know her by name.

A string banner going across her wall,

Holds hospital bracelets,

And a billion glass beads for every visit.

When she goes to school,

She acts and looks like everyone else,

And even can do some PE,

But really,

She is not normal.

She has a box,

Decorated with stickers and glitter,

Made by her five-year-old self,

Which holds all the painful pictures,

Of hospital visits, she wants to forget.

And sometimes her family,

Just doesn’t understand her.

And on those days,

She retreats into her room,

And counts the glass beads with a trembling finger.

She isn’t normal,

Because has the heart of a lioness.

 

She wore her hair down,

Or pinned up blue hair clips.

She always wore ripped jeans,

Or patched shorts with bright colors.

She never wore any make-up,

And never missed a day of school.

She was so predictable,

And not second glance worthy,

That is,

Until you saw her smile.

Because her smile was extraordinarily unordinary,

And never was predictable.

It fluttered here and there,

Sometimes not seen for weeks.

But when you did see it,

She wasn’t ordinary anymore,

She was extraordinary.

Memories

She wears baggy t-shirts and too big glasses,

And a beanie which use to be his.

Maroon fingerless gloves are tucked away,

In a bedside table,

Because whenever she touches them,

Memories explode like firecrackers,

Underneath her closed lids,

And she is reminded of the times,

When he held her hand,

And told her everything would be ok.

One of his thick winter sweaters,

Still hangs in her closet,

And a pair of his green socks found their way,

Into her drawer somehow.

They were a winter lovestory,

With cozy memories,

All but forgotten by others,

But froze inside her brain,

Like an enternal winter.

 

When I met you,

You told me a story of a girl who always use to watch her wieght.

Who never ate pizza, icecream, or brownies,

And never really lived.

But she was popular,

And her friends all loved her.

But she never stopped to ask,

What was the cost,

Of living this way.

Always watching carbs,

And worrying about the number on the scale,

Because she wasn’t living,

But moving through life.

And when I met you,

I gave you a slice of pizza,

Cried over your story,

And shared a brownie.

Because it takes one,

To know one.

Andrew

Everyone laughs at his jokes,

But no one sees his uncertainy.

He has friends,

But they never question the doubts in his eyes.

And he seems ok,

Because he is always smiling,

But just because he is popular,

Doesn’t mean that he is ok.

 

I adore everything that you are,

Your crazy nonsense jokes,

Your quirky sense of fashion,

Your wierd fetishes,

And your never-do-it-right cooking skills.

I’ve gotten too many jokes wrong,

Heard too many whispers of the wierdo,

Fought over all your crazy dislikes,

And ate too many burnt dinners not to understand.

I adore you.

For you.

Beautifully Strong

I know a girl who’s nervous laugh

Is beautiful,

And who’s confidence is hidden behind layers of make-up,

But that is not all her.

I also know a girl who’s voice can make generals cry,

And people hope.

Her hair isn’t always neat,

And never is fixed “fashionably.”

But she is beautiful.

And when the days all through,

I know a girl who cries herself to sleep,

And she is strong.

 

Zoee

I sat beside a girl named Zoee in my history class,

And saw her movie star smile.

I laughed along at all her crazy jokes,

And funny antics.

But I couldn’t help but wonder,

What would I do if I saw her make-up off,

And her smile gone.

And I wonder what I could say to make it better,

When I saw her cry over her messed up life.

And I wonder if I am the only one who notices,

The cracks in her perfect life.

Messy

I want someone to fall in love with my messy heart,

And the unknown emotions I have yet to name inside of it.

And look at me with all my imperfections,

And when I say I’m too messy, and have too many flaws,

I want him to say that bird nests are beautiful

And clouds are not perfect.

And he’d never make me be anything else but

Messy.

 

Wildflower

She belongs among the wildflowers.

Because she isn’t a rose,

Or a daisy.

But something different.

And someone who is looking for something special,

Wants a wildflower.

~M.W.

Covergirl

I’m never going to be a covergirl, or one that you will look for.

But that’s ok.

Because I don’t want to be.

I have a closet full of baggy t-shirts, and my messy bun never seems to come undone.

If you truy loved me, then you  would see.

I’m no covergirl, I’m just me.

~MW.

Pastels

She painted herself with pastels,

And made drawings on her skin.

So all they looked at the colors,

instead of the heartbreak within.

 

~MW.