Xanadu
 

I live in the chassis. Not a four wheel drive but a home with endless memories. Not many are allowed in my chamber of safety. Where I control the movement. What level of gas in the tank– or the way the wheel is turned. Decorated with a glittery rim around the push to start button. The gear shift is coming up and leaving its socket occasionally. Bodies who climbed across the center console to console me. I welcome people in so they never felt like I did. A stranger in a strang

I enjoy my thoughts of dread. I live in my room that is full of nothing. I look to the future and let it pass me by. I despise the draining doubts that I discover when I’m alone. I stare at my ceiling. If I stare longer, harder, more attentively… Will I find an answer? No. There are no answers written on my ceiling. There are no answers found in the folds of my brain. All I see is the hazelnut paint coating my ceiling. All I hear is a droning noise radiating from my al

Where do I belong in a world of hate and pain, selfishness thrives. We remain unyielding to— change. Winds consume me. Overpowering. The sails of the boat hang loose. I fight in vain to sail against its gusts— how futile are the acts I commit to go against. We cannot fight gravity. We cannot fight nature. We cannot fight change. However, there is an end to every storm A light that shines. A bird that chirps with the delight of an innocent child. Though we may try, time’s

Who am I to weep for somebody I don’t know. I was hired to dress in black from head to toe. I was told your name. I was told why you died. I’m not sad for you, this isn’t my first time. I’m expected to sit here and cry for you. You, who I do not know. If only I knew how great of a person you were. I wish to know your hobbies, your job, your relationships. And maybe then I’d feel sorrow for you. I kneel down in shame knowing I'm a faker. People pass by me and empathize with

-after Emily Dickinson Hope is the composition of a musician— Chords progressing over the course of the piece— Decrescendoing to the softest Piano, Then gradually growing to the greatest Forte. Although sharp staccatos stab the paper, The Coda takes us back to the softer section— Where tenutos talk us to a gentle Slumber— While music continues on—forever.

After Emily Dickinson A word is dead. No ligaments connecting each letter, Or blood circulating throughout. Only a collection of letters Laying like bones underground. That word is buried, without making a sound, Sinking into the soil slowly Thinking of what it could have been If it had the chance to speak for a crowd. Then that word would have lived. Each letter lunging into the next. Blood pumping through the curves, ups, and downs. That word created a life of its own By

There you are, Standing in the kitchen. While the warm stench of dinner, lingers in every corner of the apartment. Toys scattered all over the floor. TV shouting laughter and cartoons. You tell me to go clean my room. But I am not done playing make believe. I am not done recording my barbie dolls, as their plastic smiles star in my little world. I am not done hiding in the tent with my brother, where the only sound in the room is our heartbeats. Shushing each other and laughi

The glass is stuck. Encapsulated by calloused skin, unsure if it is still in. But with every stinging step it’s confirmed. The tweezers urging it to leave. The shard grasping to stay. It prays, pleads, and persuades. The cold metal tries but the translucent piece won't go. There is no telling if it is still there unless you take another possibly painful step. I could never understand why it would want to stay if it was being begged to leave.

Face stained with confusion. Comprehension becomes routine. Being overwhelmed provides comfort. Moments of silence instil worry as rest feels unnatural. Undescribably dystopian. Why can’t you take a break? I exist on my fingertips swiftly jabbing each key. I exist in the crease of my hand forming a tight knot, my pencil tightly gripped. I exist brooding at red markings of my mistakes. My existence is tension filled. I am where there is no room to breathe. Fuelling me in an

Pointless. Irrelevant. The words bubbling in my mind, trapped with no escape. I scratch and scratch against the paper. The faint gray lines smudging under the empty tip. My ideas—vibrant, animated, expressive—each desperate stroke, a silent plea for help. Frustration builds as I scrape at the empty page, graphite crumbling like my patience. The dark powder coating my stained fingers, smudging along the page. Maybe the emptiness is the story. The nothingness is all I have left