Life

Wow, hey, what's up. It's been a long time. I stumbled upon this and figured I should maybe post on it again even though I'm pretty sure it's for no one's benefit except my own. But that's fine with me. 

Maybe I stopped posting because I actually started writing in a diary again. I finished one for the first time in my life. Hype.

I also probably stopped posting creative writing stuff because I started taking fiction classes and it all became some badly written excerpts from novels I may one day write. But I did take another poetry class; maybe I'll post those poems on here eventually, once I'm satisfied with them.

That's really all I have to say. But it's cool to be back. Maybe I will post things sometimes!

Royalty (Color Poem 7)

Royalty

     Purple

When the others whisper about the past,

they remind me I am nothing but a weed.

From where we’ve spread,

I can almost see the old garden

filled with flowers

and the most ethereal are

     the purple tulips

     toad lilies

     meadow rue

     lilac and

     violets.

                     I am younger than the other weeds

                     and I do not understand

                     why we are chopped down

                         stepped on

                     not treated with the care the flowers receive.

                     We are the same color,

                     why can’t we be treated with the same care?

                               They say we are pushed out because we wanted to spread,

                               that we thought if there were more of us,

                               one day we might also be treated with love.

                               But our roots spread too far,

                               and now none of us reach even the edges of the garden.

                               Every year, the roots are all that remain,

                               chopped down to return again the next year.

     We prepare for the day

     that the roaring

          and chopping

          and cutting

          and chattering

     of the weed eater

     tears us apart again.

                                                                                        But this time, the roaring doesn’t come.

                                                                                        All we see is a shadow,

                                                                                        a tall, human shadow,

                                                                                        and then a pale hand and a kind face.

“You’re pretty,”

she says.

Her voice is light,

tinkling like a small bell,

and in her bright smile we know

that finally someone sees us

as more than a mass of

weeds.

Falling Together (Color Poem 6)

Falling Together

     Green

There is a tickle in my vein

and a pulling in my stem.

I cling

     to my tree,

          my home,

the strong, moss-covered branch

where I have grown.

Below, I see a girl

   her legs bouncing,

   wringing her hands,

   staring at a white rectangle

   beside her.

Again, I feel the pulling,

the gentle but assertive caress

of the wind, like the fingers of a small child,

plucking me from the tree as they would

a berry from beside me.

I hold on still

and I watch

and she pulls out something silver

   shining

from her pocket.

     Opening it,

     closing it,

     glancing down

     as if to open it again,

     shoving it back into the pocket.

The wind pulls once more

and I can’t hold on.

So I

     fall

            down,

         drifting,

    further,

and land on top of the white rectangle,

covered in black scribbles.

The girl’s small hands

lift me and she stares, before

looking up with wide eyes

at the sound of footsteps.

Her legs are no longer bouncing and

I see someone else

in her line of sight

and the last thing I see is her smile

like a light from a star in the darkness

closing in before

I am gone.

Pink (Color Poem 5)

Pink

     Pink

he is supposed to be here
     i think
the random words
     what am i even talking about
words pouring out of my mouth
to my friends don't register
because my stomach is spinning
like the wheels of a truck stuck in mud
because

he is supposed to be here
     i know
i am wearing a new dress because today
is his birthday and i know
he is supposed to be here
     but he isn't
and my arms wrap around my middle

as my friends’ conversation

     like the murmurs of talking while asleep

rolls along with the rolling of my stomach

     but my stomach stops rolling
     the tires halt
     and reverse
     slowly rolling in the opposite direction
     back down a hill
     then faster
     picking up speed
     because

he is here now
     i see
and my friends move on to talk to other friends
and i move on to talk to other friends
as the room jumbles like schools of fish swimming through each other
and i try to ignore the yanking urge i feel
to look around the room
     just for a second
and see what he is doing
     and i don't ignore it
     and i look
and

he is looking at me
     i feel
the area under each of my pores
     from my hairline
     to my earlobes
     to my collarbone
     to my shoulders
warms like a marshmallow over an open flame
as his deep
     chocolatey
eyes meet mine.

And I stop.

Taking in a deep breath of air,

I look away,

back to the friends in front of me.

Then, with a sigh,

I start a new conversation,

refusing to look around again,

because

I don’t want him to know

     why I’m pink.

Lemons (Color Poem 4)

Lemons
     Yellow

My hands shake as

I nervously flip the notepad.

“Lemonade,”

the blonde murmurs.

“Just a glass of lemonade.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes,

only stares

at the glinting glass table in front of her.

I wonder if it is normal

to order lemonade so early.

Do we even sell lemonade

this early?

I carefully bring out her drink,

the first order I’ve taken,

noticing the shining sunrise

beaming through the window

causing the white daffodils to appear tinted yellow

- similar to the yellow of the lemon

wedged on the glass in my hands.

“Anything else?”

I ask.

I place the lemonade in front of her.

She shakes her head and still stares as

the sun continues to rise

and the object of her attention

that I hadn’t noticed before

reflects enough light to draw my eye:

a small, diamond-clad band,

lying alone on the table.