Xanadu
 

When she loathes me, I know it. Jabs and slurs: her  rapturous melodies. Her words are harsh and unyielding,  but they burn in front of me in full view. Even so, she  fences with a ghost assailant, cutting right through me  but never landing. Still, she slices away, leaving nothing  to the imagination. She is unrelenting, tells me I am  evil and quiet, calculating and uncommunicative, there  but not. At least, she says, you know my pain. At least,  she says, I share it with y

I want to be skis. Narrow and sure, Whispering down your path. Edges sharpened, waxed bright, Cutting fine lines through the powder Gliding through the wind. The Snow crunching beneath me on the mountains where I may roam Powdered trees raining as I pass Broken logs blocking my path Following the pipes made of brass Slipping on ice and falling on my ass The top of the mountain is where I observe all day So much to take in, I don’t know what to say The scenery taking my breath

School is supposed to be an escape, but instead it is the  anxiety. The constant need to an A, on my dreaded Calc exam. Otherwise, I'm a failure.  It becomes so unmanageable, I forget who I am.  Having to keep a smile— When the words you hear, all just sound like air. Piercing eyes and neglect,  from your peers. The whisper’s of “so and so did this,” and “did you see what happen to…” Followed by the lies and drama that foam out of their mouth like a dog with rabies.  Too weir

How can truth survive When smothered by pride And stained by false pasts. My truth is fragmented And stained by the the pride of others. Truth is a key. The key to understanding. I lay on a grass field that once held a park Now it holds the barren memory. Before the park there was something And something before that. The truth of the land, its history Has always been yet it is still unknown. I seek to learn that history To find the truth buried by time. Once I find that truth

Running home from school, unicorn-printed backpack strapped on firmly, I run to my father — launching myself into his warm arms.  “I made a new friend, daddy!” I yell, excitement painted across my face. Smiling, he carries me home, inquiring about this new acquaintance of the day. Slunking into the car, eyes half shut and mascara  streaked across my face. Silently we drive home with his hand holding mine. Getting out of the car he hugs me, then grabs my bag from the back seat

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

-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.

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