You use to catch grasshoppers and frogs,

When you were younger,

To seal inside glass jars.

 

you loved putting,

“Mine,”

On them,

But I am not a grasshopper,

Or a frog,

 

Am I?

 

 

Wheelchair

I once saw a girl in a pink wheelchair,

But I don’t think anyone else did,

Always looking away as if was a contagious impair.

 

She was trying to act normal,

And keeping really still,

Trying to control her arms and legs,

That always moved against her will.

 

And I wish I had enough courage,

To walk up to her and say,

“Don’t try to normal,

Just because you feel like running away.”

 

I’m sorry your legs don’t work like mine,

And I never appreciated it before,

But thanks to you,

I’ll never over look it anymore.

 

I’m sorry people see your condition,

Which is not at all of you,

But people never see that,

Because their point of view.

 

You can never run away and hide,

Like I can always do,

And when there are games to be played,

I wonder if anyone invites you.

 

It must be hard watching from the sidelines,

And watching actions seem so effortless,

And I don’t think people even realize,

The extend of their unkindness.

 

But as for me I now know,

I’ll never look at you differently,

Because I now understand,

How hard it must be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas lights,

And tulips,

Are nothing alike,

But they are both considered beautiful,

 

So why do you not think,

Me beautiful?

 

So why do you not think,

Her brown skin is beautiful?

The sad part about losing you,

Was that you lost me first,

And I not only lost you,

I lost sleep,

Tears,

Months,

Laughter,

Smiles,

Inside jokes,

Secrets,

And myself somehow.

 

“This is our culture,” You said spreading your arms wide.

“Never trust anyone, never drink out of cups, and never in anyone confide.”

Is this all that the world is, to you?

Because it can be so much more, as long you try to make something out of it.

For D.

 

Can’t you see what they are doing to you?

Immaturity, cuss words, bad actions,

When did this start,

And when will end?

 

I don’t want to see another newspaper report,

But this one has your name.

 

I don’t want to have to search backpacks,

Or pockets anymore.

 

I”m tired of what they are doing,

But I can’t stop it.

Self Portriat

I did a self-portrait today,

And when I looked at it,

I cried.

 

The girl I painted there,

Was not one I ever thought,

I would be,

When I was younger.

 

I thought I would be happy,

Neatly organized,

Perfectly aligned,

Full of technique,

And brillance……..

 

But no,

My self-portrait was different.

 

 

It had a girl,

With crazy hair,

A freckled nose,

Colors swirled on her skin,

Eyelids,

And cheekbones.

 

The colors like bruises,

Bright,

And strange.

 

And I wondered,

Why I painted myself so.

 

Then words came flooding back,

As if a dam had been broken.

 

Thoughts,

Ideas,

“Friends”,

And words filled my head.

 

But there were not good words,

They were dark words.

 

Bad words.

Horribly words.

And words that were used,

To describe me,

By others who never cared,

To know me beyond my skin.

 

And then I knew,

My self-portrait was so crazy:

I was crazy.

 

I was not going to fit into lines,

Squeeze into techniques,

Or fold myself into harsh shapes.

 

I was going to wild,

Colorful,

Exciting,

Full of brilliance,

And purely myself.

 

So when I painted bruises,

That is ok,

Because we all have,

Wonderfully colorful bruises,

From words spoken behind our backs in halls,

Or to our faces by “friends.”

 

I have bruises from words,

Do you?

 

Break her Heart

It has been over nine weeks,

And boy,

She stills talks about you,

As if you were,

The only boy on the earth.

 

And one day,

I hope you realize,

Who and what you left behind,

When you decided that weird,

Was not cool,

And that she,

Was not worth it.

 

I will smile with her,

And make her laugh through tears.

 

I will agree with her,

When she says you were not all bad,

But I just want you to know,

What you did to her.

 

You gave her seven weeks of bliss,

And now nine weeks of heartbreak.

 

Boy,

Don’t bounce back and forth,

From girl to girl.

 

Stop and see the damage you do,

Every time you treat them,

As if they are the only girl that matters.

 

Or when you call them silly nicknames,

Hug them “Just because”,

And give them promises you will never keep.

 

Because boy,

You sure did something to my best friend,

And that was:

Break her heart.

 

 

Hurricane

We are all hurricane’s,

With lightning dancing across our skin.

And darling,

Don’t let him down-size you,

To only a tropical storm,

Or a drizzle,

When you have the power,

To do so much more than that.

 

3 Years

It makes me feel sad,

That by age fourteen,

Girls curl their hair.

 

They wear make-up,

Talk about “foundation,”

“Mascara,”

And “Stranger Things.”

 

Who is boyfriends with who,

And what clothing stores have discounts on Wednesday.

 

 

 

That makes me feel sad because,

We were just little eleven-year-olds the other day,

Trying to figure out how to fly kites,

Escape the house with an extra cookie,

And other acts of childhood.

 

What happened in those three years,

That made boys, TV shows, clothes, and make-up,

More important than the wonderful things in life,

Like family, games, pranks, and living?

I once met a boy,

That I loved more than postcards,

Vintage photographs, looking up at the sky with my telescope,

Calligraphy, watercolor paintings, highlighters,

Loopy gold cursive “L”‘s, brown and blue Ilama socks,

British accents, creamy pasta, my vibrant yellow pastel crayon,

Seashells, lollypops, black hair, names that start with “P” or “R”,

The number “32”, peonies, dimpled baby hands, the word “aqua”,

Hot cocoa, 7:34 a.m, cookie dough, yellow ribbons, happy tears,

Metallic pens, abstract art, sea glass, robins, slides, coca cola’s in glass bottles,

The year 1955, cactuses, lumpy soft pillows, dark green bedsheets, breakfast toast,

Ice cream, pop music, mysteries, the smell of an old book, lemon and honey tea,

The month of May, Narnia, cute mugs, creme pie, recycled light bulbs,

French braids, wildflowers, fairytales, bonfires, pizza, blue and grey beanies,

Record players, typewriters, garden gloves, fresh cucumbers, feta cheese,

The word “Someday”, baggy sweaters, brown paper bags, purple roses,

Turtles, neon letters, Ireland, journaling, hippie grunge, marble, yellow sunbeams,

Velcro, Switzerland, butterflies, charm bracelets, dream catchers, soccer cleats,

Quotes, easy math equations, Literature papers, perfectly thin and grey skipping stones,

Cold lakes, the word “Smitten”, paisley designs, crepe cakes, scrambled eggs, marshmellos,

And,

Myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And he,

A boy with sandy blond curls,

And sea green eyes,

He,

Only loved me as much as he thought he could,

A curly haired dreamer,

With blue-green-gray eyes,

Whose mouth was always full of opinions,

And head full of words

 

But somehow,

That wasn’t love,

That was trying,

And he (The boy),

Only hurt me,

In the most tragic wonderful way possible.

 

And in the end I finally realized my mistake,

I loved him entirely too much,

Because I forgot to love myself,

Along the way.

 

I grew out of my jeans today.

I have been wearing them for over two years, and somehow I still feel like I grew too fast.

I wore them when they tightened around my waist and thighs.

I wore them when they squeezed my calves and ankles.

And I wore them because I was in denial that I needed new jeans.

Some people would consider it funny, how others hate getting new jeans.

It is not the fact that I spend money on denim, but the fact that I grew.

My waist got bigger, and my thighs probably did too.

Which means while I have been avoiding the scale, I have gained weight.

No, it is not the denim.

Or the squirmy feeling in my stomach when I pluck size six jeans off the rack.

It is the feeling of the failure.

Like I have failed myself somehow.

All the days I only ate one meal or less.

All the days I tried.

All for nothing, because I grew out of my jeans today.

And I cried when I folded them away.

I know my little sister might never wear them because her thighs don’t touch.

And she doesn’t hate the scale.

So I will fold away my jeans that I grew out of today and perhaps never see them again.

Goodwill might have them in a few years, or make I will make so new DIY craft out of them.

But the fact is: I grew out of my jeans today. And I cried because that means I have somehow failed.

I don’t know why or how, but I do know that I feel like two years is not long enough for a pair of jeans.

Darling,

Don’t let one thing define you.

 

Don’t just be the girl who wears pink,

And blue striped socks.

 

Or the one who doodles on her hands and shoes.

 

Don’t take your wonderful¬† mess,

Of large hips,

And wild words,

And try to squeeze it,

Into a 2 by 4 square,

Labeled,

“Quirky,”

Or “Wierd.”

 

Don’t take the normal adjectives,

You have always heard,

And place them a label,

Right below your name.

 

Because darling,

If they were ever used to describe you,

They have been overused.

 

No one could simply sum you up,

From your bright painted toe-nails,

To the roots of your curly and frizzy hair.

 

 

Take crazy words,

Like paracosm,

Logolepsy,

Waldeinsamkeit,

Resfeber,

And iktsuarpok,

And throw them around like confetti.

 

Because darling,

Don’t trap or squeeze yourself,

Under a one word subtitle,

Underneath the word “Me,”

When you are,

So amazingly magnificent.

 

 

So darling,

Be a never-ended scrapbook of old thoughts, obessions, feelings, and emotions.

 

Because that is the best way,

To live as yourself.

 

“You are not like the other girls.”

 

Never say this. Those “other girls” are my friends and more. When you say that, you imply that I am more than others. I am more perfect than my mother, who raised me from a red wrinkled bunch of flailing arms. I am more desirable than my friends who are part of my large family. And I have more talents than my extraordinary sisters.

 

Don’t tell me that, and expect me to take it as a compliment. I won’t because it is a veiled insult. Don’t call me more, then the people who helped make me, me. Don’t call me perfect, because if that is all you see in me, then don’t bother at all. I am like other girls, and I want to be like other girls. If you want to compliment me, call me strong, brave, independent, exquisite, alluring, divine, lovely, fair, radiant, stunning, dazzling, breath-taking, enchanting, magnetic, striking etc.

 

Never tell me I am more than my friends, my mother, their mothers, all the wonderous people I have had the pleasure of meeting. The people who have influenced me in life when I was at my worst. So don’t call me that, if you simply want to compliment me.

Subtle Pastel

She was not made,

To be a subtle pastel.

 

No,

She was made to be vibrant and bold,

With colors like fuschia,

And tangerine.

 

She caught your attention boy,

And she held it,

But though you noticed her,

When she was bright,

You wanted her to be dim.

 

You wanted her not to be enthusiastic,

About things she loved.

 

You wanted her,

Not to laugh so loudly,

And love so much.

 

You wanted her to be a pale pastel,

Even though it was her vibrant colors,

That drew you to her,

In the first place.

 

Don’t be a hypocrite,

And want her to change,

Just because you were attracted to her colors,

But didn’t like,

Her personality.

 

This is a sorry,

That he should have said,

To all the women,

He called “pretty.”

Because darlings,

You are more than that.

You are brave,

You are intelligent,

You are extraordinary.

Your spirit could crumble mountains,

And your hope could rein in the sun,

So don’t stick with him,

When all he calls you,

Is pretty.

I told my body,

I wanted to be it’s friend today,

And it gave me a smile,

Of all crooked teeth,

And brightness as it said,

“It took you long enough.”

You can raise your girls,

To sing sweet praises,

And meek words,

But I will raise my girls,

To breath fire,

And talk ice.

I will teach them how to survive,

And how to live.

I grew up in my body

I grew up in my body,

Just like I would a house,

But never learned to love it,

The way I should.

 

So when I turned fourteen,

I didn’t like it at all,

I hated my toes to the roots of my hair.

 

When I was sixteen,

You told me every day,

How wonderfully beautiful I was.

 

I started to love myself,

But was all the more foolish,

Because of it.

 

Silly me,

Why did I only start to love my body,

When you said so?

 

You left,

And I realized,

I never needed you,

To tell me how beautiful I was,

Because I needed,

To figure that out,

All on my own.

 

I grew up in body,

The way you would a house,

And I love every bit of it,

Because to me,

It is perfect.

Dear Body

This is an apology letter,

That I should have written,

A long time ago.

 

Instead of saying sorry,

About myself,

I should be saying,

To myself.

 

Dear Body,

I’m sorry,

For hating on your every second.

 

Dear Stomach,

I’m sorry,

For all the nights I made you go hungry.

For the days I didn’t eat on purpose,

And the days I kept going back,

To the scale.

 

Dear Nose,

I’m sorry,

For seeing you as imperfect.

For hating your freckles,

And the slight lump,

You have the middle.

 

Dear Back,

I’m sorry,

For never being proud of you,

And always slouching,

Because I was ashamed.

 

Dear Toes,

I’m sorry,

For not liking you at all,

And tucking you away in shoes,

Or socks.

 

Dear Cheeks,

I’m sorry,

For seeing you as chubby,

And hating when you flushed red.

 

Dear Shoulders,

I’m sorry,

For every time I wished you were,

Less broad,

And thinner.

 

Dear Arms,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you had fewer freckles,

And splotches.

For drawing on you in class,

Because I was scared,

Or worried.

 

Dear Eyes,

I’m sorry,

For wishes you were green,

And not such an in-between color.

 

Dear Knees,

I’m sorry,

For being ashamed of all your scars,

Instead of wearing them like medals.

 

Dear Thighs,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you didn’t touch,

Or jiggle.

 

Dear Chin,

I’m sorry,

For not liking your cleft,

And wishing the family mark,

Had crossed me over.

 

Dear Fingers,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you were thinner,

And elegant,

And long.

For wishes my finger nails,

Were more pretty looking,

And that my pinky finger,

Wasn’t so dreadfully short.

 

Dear Ears,

I’m sorry,

For hiding you behind my hair,

And not liking how small you seemed.

 

Dear Hips,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you were less wide,

And freckled.

 

Dear Figure,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you were more thin,

And perfect.

 

Dear Wrists,

I’m sorry,

For only loving you,

Because you were narrow,

And finely cut.

 

Dear Elbows,

I’m sorry,

For hating how bony,

And broad you were.

 

Dear Self,

Start to accept your outward appearance,

And not seek to change,

Anything,

Because there is a beauty,

In imperfectness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pretty Girl

I once knew a girl,

Who was told,

When she was small,

“Pretty girl,”

Whenever she wore,

A beautiful dress,

A bejeweled hat,

Or a pair of sparkly shoes.

So when she grew up,

And went into high school,

She picked every outfit with precision,

Because that made her a “Pretty girl.”

She didn’t believe in comfy clothes,

Because she had been never called “Pretty girl,”

While wearing them.

So each day she made herself “pretty,”

By wearing the clothes,

Everyone else who was considered “pretty,”

Wore.

She bought beauty products by the dozen,

Because in middle school,

The day she wore lipstick and mascara,

Her parent’s cooed,

“Oh, what a pretty girl.”

And so,

She tried to become a “Pretty girl.”

She wore heels,

And cute strappy sandles,

Because in her last year,

Of middle school,

When she wore a pair,

Her parents told her,

“Oh, how grown up and pretty you look!”

She drove herself to be pretty,

Using everything she thought made her so,

But oh my darling,

You’ve been beautiful all along.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bully

Don’t tell me,

That he liked me,

When I came home,

From school,

With bruises on my skin,

In the shape of the knuckles,

That “falling down the stairs,”

Could never,

Have made.

And don’t tell me,

He was trying to protect me,

When he locked me in,

The supply closet.

I don’t want to hear,

You defend him,

And make up more excuses,

Of why he did,

Horrible things,

Because the truth is:

He was a bully,

And I can only hope,

To forgive him,

For being that,

Instead of a friend,

When I needed one.

 

 

Sorry

You don’t deserve,

Her “sorry,”

Because she doesn’t even know,

Why she is saying it,

Anymore.

Is it her singing voice,

When her favorite song,

Comes on the radio?

Is it her messy ponytail,

Which she always,

Runs her hand through?

Or is it her crazy laugh,

Which draws people’s attention?

You can’t just,

Hate some things about her,

And claim to love the others,

As if that,

Makes up for,

The millions of “sorry’s,”

She says,

When she is apologising,

For a part of her,

You dislike.

 

Grow Up

All my life I was treated,

By my older brother’s friends,

Just like a tag-along,

Younger boy,

So I guess I never learned,

Like other girls did,

That once you pass age ten,

You can’t be who you want any more,

You have to be different,

And say different things,

And I guess I never noticed,

Even when my brother’s friends did,

That I was growing up,

And I couldn’t play with them,

Anymore.

It was like a rule,

I had never learned,

While romping in the woods,

With them,

Or tapping my pencil,

On my desk,

In a classroom.

It was puzzling,

Because they stopped treating me,

Like they always had,

And started treating me,

Like something totally alien.

There now was a wall,

I couldn’t breach,

Of words and thoughts,

All about crushes,

And coolness,

And thing’s I’d never learned.

I guess this happens,

To every girl,

Who grows up with boys,

But I just didn’t expect it,

To happen so fast,

I thought I had more time,

To be me.

But,

Other things were in play,

And I had to grow up,

And leave my friends,

Behind,

In the world,

That I had once,

Occupied.

 

 

 

I once knew a girl,

Who loved her mirror,

More then anyone else,

In her life.

Every day,

She would stand in front of it,

Wearing fashionable,

And beautiful clothes,

And she would say,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Am I pretty at all?”

And the mirror only frowned,

And said to her,

“No.”

So she cried,

Then dried her face,

And went to school.

Everything seemed fine,

Picture Perfect almost,

So no one questioned,

When her clothes started,

To hang off her,

And her eyes sunk into her face,

As she asked,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Why do I feel so small?”

The mirror said,

“You are not small,

You are fat,

And big.”

So she cried again,

And went to school,

Wearing baggy clothes,

Because she thought,

That those hid her figure,

And while her fashionable friends laughed,

And everyone stared,

She kept her face to the ground,

And didn’t say a word.

The next time she asked,

Was two weeks later,

When she was wasting away,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Who will listen when I call?”

The mirror only said,

“No one. So don’t.”

She didn’t even have,

The feeling to cry,

As she stared with empty eyes,

At the mirror,

Which had dictated,

Her life.

She took a deep breath,

Then another,

Before saying,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Why do people stare in the hall?”

The mirror reply was,

“Doesn’t everybody,

Stare at something so ugly?”

Her head was down,

And she didn’t seem,

To have any hope,

As she remembered,

The words her mother,

Once told her,

“Don’t worry about the mirror,

Don’t worry about the looks,

Because people only stare,

When they see something,

Completely beautiful.”

She wondered what,

Her mother would say,

If she saw,

Her daughter now,

And with that thought,

In her mind,

She said,”Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

I don’t believe you anymore.”

She wondered why,

She had failed to realize,

That a mirror,

Twists ones words,

And thoughts,

Just like it spelled,

The words on a piece,

Of paper,

Which she held up,

Backwards.

“I am beautiful.”

But now,

She actually believed it.

When she went,

To school again,

She wore the clothes,

She wanted,

And said,

What she wanted to.

She let her opinions out,

And made better friends,

Her grades rose,

And her spirirt did too,

So now mirror,

Were you correct?

Was she nothing?

No,

“Mirror Mirror on the wall,

I don’t believe you at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

Liar

Yes,

I saw you gossiping,

With your awful,

All-the-same friends,

So no need,

To act like you are my friend,

When I need someone next.

You don’t have to pretend,

That you didn’t write,

Horrible things on my locker,

In sharpie,

And tape hate notes on it,

Every other day.

Some people call me naive,

Because I look for the best,

In every one,

And that may be true,

But it still hurts,

That I trusted you.

So when you and your barbies,

Laugh at me next,

And spread rumors around school,

I hope you know,

That no one I care about,

Is listening to those lies.

Because all my friends,

Who I truly trust,

Never met you.

Mainly because

I made them,

After you left me,

Down and in the dumps.

They didn’t laugh,

Or tease,

Or judge,

They covered my locker,

In positive sharpie writing,

And doodles.

They do funny things in the hall,

And have piggyback rides,

To the car line,

Which makes me laugh,

More than your sickly jokes,

Ever did,

So,

You never won,

Because I,

Got the greatest treasure of all:

Friends,

Who never believed,

Lies that were spread,

By a liar.

 

Beautiful

I get weird looks,

When I wear my baseball cap,

And favorite baggy sweatshirt,

Like there is some unwritten rule,

In this society,

That says girls should only wear,

Form-fitting clothes,

Like skinny jeans,

And crop tops,

That show a little skin.

Tight shirts,

And short shorts.

It’s like the clothes you wear

Equal your beauty,

And you’re nothing without.

Your wild laugh,

Your crazy hair,

And the little skip-jump way you walk,

Is nothing,

Because apparently,

Your body is what is,

Suppose to be beautiful.

There’s no questioning why,

Because I’ve tried,

And it seems that the answer,

Is obvious:

Your body is deemed,

The most beautiful part of you.

So flaunt it for show,

Do what is expected of you,

And never question why:

Society says,

Your body is,

The most beautiful part of you.

If you don’t fit in,

And wear funky clothes,

That are full of personality,

And quirk,

Then it is clear,

That you are not,

Considered beautiful.

You might be considered bold,

Or perhaps spirited,

But no one will really think,

That your body is,

The most beautiful part of you.

I wonder when things because twisted,

That you are not beautiful,

Unless your body is skinny,

Or curvy,

Or flawless,

No one likes freckles,

At least that is what,

I’ve been told,

And they only mar your skin,

To take away,

What beauty they might have seen.

I’m tired of seeing certain parts of me,

As imperfections,

And seeing others shot down,

For the same reasons,

Because I think it’s time to question,

Why people don’t consider me,

Beautiful,

Because I weigh more,

And freckles are on my skin.

And my friends I’ve seen cry,

In the bathroom,

Because they wear different clothes,

And have different colored skin.

Because their eyes are a little slanted,

Or their face not powdered with make-up.

Why are they not considered beautiful?

I wear comfortable clothing,

And will not change that,

For anyone,

So if society doesn’t think,

Me beautiful,

Then I know,

My friends do,

Because I’ve seen,

The dark corners of schools,

Where the outcasts cry,

And go about with empty eyes,Beautiful

The people who dye their hair,

Because it wasn’t considered beautiful,

When it was natural,

And who cake on make-up,

Because they are not considered beautiful,

Without.

I’m tired of finding,

Beautiful people in the corners,

Catching dust,

When they should be,

Allowed to feel beautiful,

And be themselves,

Without having society,

Saying no.

Tilt up your chin girl,

You have a beauty,

That can’t be mocked,

Or hidden away.

Don’t worry about what they say,

In the weight room boy,

Because the football team still stinks,

While you are in Honors.

Don’t listen to society,

When it picks and pokes,

To find the ones,

Who it thinks can shine,

When they don’t see,

Being fooled by the brighter shine,

That you were beautiful all along,

And you just have to be,

Yourself,

In order to see that too.

 

 

 

 

Society

Have you ever remembered,

Who you where before society,

Decided who you should be?

I’ve seem the people,

Walking through the halls,

With bland faces,

And empty eyes,

And I wonder,

What happened to them,

To make them that way?

Because we where all,

Where children once,

Fighting our battles,

With wooden swords,

But what happened since then?

Society.

A girl in my English class,

Is told she is skinny,

But three years ago,

Boys called her fat.

Anorexia happened to her.

A boy who I had in one of my classes,

Last year,

Use to sit quietly in the back,

And he stuttered whenever he talked.

He can tell you the definition of lonely,

And unloved by family.

It happens all the time,

And I want something to blame,

So why not society?

If people cared more,

And looked up from their screens,

They would seem him silently struggling,

And they would have seen her,

Not eat anything at lunch,

But they don’t.

And I blame society.

All Because She was A Girl

They asked her to described herself,

Using only three words,

And on the paper,

she wrote,

With a blood red marker,

“I defy all rules.”

The boys during PE,

Told her she couldn’t play,

On their team,

Because she was a girl,

And that meant she was weak.

When she scored highest in her Math class,

Some people said the grading was wrong,

Because she wasn’t smart enough,

To get a perfect score.

Because she was a girl.

And when she was elected class president,

Two boys said she didn’t deserve it,

Because she was a girl.

When she got into college

She thought things would change,

But boys protested when she pasted physics,

With flying colors.

All because she was girl.

Never be ashamed of who you are,

Because no matter where you go,

Someone will always find fault,

Who you are,

And what you do.