When I put on socks,
I feel comfort.
Socks
that keep my feet so
warm
wherever I go.
They follow me
all
year
long,
no matter the time.
They follow when the clouds
cover the sky,
and when the sky
turns white
on winter evenings,
and even when the sun is out,
shining
like a mirrorball.
I wake up with the bright light seeping
through the closed blinds.
I get up off of the warm sheets that surround me
and get ready to start my day with a shower.

When I get out of the burning
splattering
water of a shower,
And out of the humid
room,
My feet touch the cold
floor, silently.
They feel strange,
a feeling that lasts only long enough for me to walk
into my room, and pull out a cabinet
full
of
colors.
Socks
of all kinds are in there.
Long and short.
Striped and ripped.
I grab a pair that stand out to my eyes.
A shade of light blue
with bulldogs
Scattered
everywhere.
I slip them on for comfort.
A smile forms on my face everytime,
with those socks.

Vast lockets and chests

inhabit this realm

S  c  a  t  t  e  r  e  d   with the shimmer of a million stars

Deep darkness                                               ever expanding

There exists a well

pools 

        of 

            violet 

                      glitter

                                 pouring 

                                            from the glistening gold treasury

                                            of all I have ever known

The keys have gone

With so many locks left to unlatch

                                           Where did I place them?

A blooming blanket

the shade of a freshly-picked lemon

Beckons me to turn 

towards the growing hall

Filled with chambers          will soon explore

  drifting   with purpose

I swim in the blend      

                                          Between old  and  new 

In the rose silk bow 

Wrapped around the satin box

Of now

each moment's a leaf,

which shall blow away

into the pile

on this crisp autumn day.

for you are a tree,

not a moment to spare,

as one day

you will be bare.

You stare at a blank wall, shaded in grayscale 

A simple shade of white, like the slightest drop of coffee poured into milk

You find yourself staring at it

Over and over, and over, and over 

Each day, at least you think so–

Each day is the same,

How can you keep track?

Counting silently in your head, second by second 

7197

7198

7199

7200. 

Over and over.

Without saying a word, you stand slowly, 

Dusting nothing off your knees.

Walking to a destination of nowhere, your feet finding its own way.

Does your mind think about your feet moving? 

Does it think about every step you take? 

Do you think about it at all?

Walking past a wide window, a panorama of a world you can’t see;

A world you don’t dare to find,

Hidden by monotonous white silk curtains, 

That you maybe could simply open, with a brush of a hand

But you don’t.

Maybe the world is simply hidden by your ignorance.

Do you dare to look farther than what meets the eye?

Wandering aimlessly through the void shaped halls,

Feet hitting the ground 

Should there be the sound of soft footsteps

But the only sound echoing through these blank halls

is your counting, second by second.

7560

7561

7562.

Seconds are passing by. 

You can hear it, even if only in your head.

You keep counting. 

Second by second, number by number.

1, 2, 3, 4.

You tell yourself to count each second, each minute, each hour

To keep your mind busy

For they aren’t the only thing that occupies it anymore.

Seconds have passed by. More than you can count. 

You can feel it in your bones, deep within yourself

As if there’s a change in the world 

Behind those silk curtains.

These days, you are grasping for the seconds you once counted with ease

Holding, desperately clutching the numbers, as if they could fly away without you

You don’t want to admit it. But who is there to admit to?

No one but yourself. 

No one but yourself, and the blank walls of this cursed world.

These days you want to scream. 

Scream at the walls, the ceiling, the sky that you cannot see. 

Scream at the world that is hidden behind those silk curtains.

Scream at the pent-up frustration that you never knew existed inside of you.

Clutching a new pen in your fist,

Filled with obsidian ink,

Savoring its newness; its strangeness,

Its curves and crevices,

Its unlikeliness of the feeling of nothing at all, 

When air flowed through your once empty fingertips.

There is now something to fill the gaps that you never knew existed.

Ebony ink flows out of your brush, painting across the walls that were blank

And although the walls are still grayscale, it’s almost as if you can see,

The tints of color,

Blooming and 

Growing.  

Each day, you paint a new painting. 

And with each one, 

A new color comes.

A rush of blue, of what you once thought black–

Graces your ink,

Spilling through the walls.

The couches and chairs,

Vibrant bursts of 

Yellow

Green

Red

Blue.

Slowly seeping into your world, the world

You were once afraid of.

And maybe, just maybe, 

Beyond those seconds,

Those thoughts,

Those walls you hated so much,

Could maybe turn a vibrant color,

Beyond the world hiding behind those silk curtains. 

Beyond anything that you ever knew.

My favorite time of the day is midnight.

When I was in high school, I worked at a small cafe, squeezed in the crevices of our bustling college town. I was assigned a morning shift, when all the adults rushed in for their daily dose of caffeine. Some didn’t say a thing, and some made sad excuses of small talk too early in the morning that I would’ve rather avoided. But as soon as their orders were made, they came and went, briefcases in their hands and leather shoes clacking on the tile floor. Order after order, I didn’t even have time to breathe.

But at nighttime, no one talked, no one was in a rush to leave. College students trickled in and out slowly, synced with the seconds ticking counted by the mahogany clock hung on the wall; dark circles under their eyes and sighs in their soul. But they sat and stayed silently, typing on their keyboards, headphones over their ears.

Pouring coffee as dark as the silent night into their cups, I could finally breathe.

There is a wolf in the woods.

It is mean, and snarling, and so,
so,
B I G. 

It follows us as we walk, maw open and-
Sharp teeth gleaming from our lantern-light;

We can only see its teeth.

We walk so quietly, so gently, so we don’t set it off.

Anything could set it off. 

But, as long as we are in the woods, 

Something will stop its silent stalking. 

Start its assault.

And I never know when that will be,

But in a way,

I almost prefer it. 

Because then my sobs can flow freely,

As it wraps its teeth around my leg,

Traps me to the forest floor.

Then it whines, and ducks its ears down low.

A tamed beast, or so it claims, 

Vowing to never bite again.

Says it’ll tear out its teeth,

One-by-one, with the pair of kitchen pliers, 

From my grandmother’s house.

And the blood as it runs down my leg,

Blends into my cape, not quite, 

But that’s why I chose the color.

And the red as it tears out its teeth,

Blood oozing on the forest floor,

Blood trapped in my hands-

Trapped in my hands as I try to console it,

Try to ignore that my hands are in its maw,

Try to tell it not to tear out its teeth.

And it listens,

And the woods are dark and winter is here, 

So it lays its big furry body on mine (to protect me).

And we bandage our wounds together,

In the woods, 

And then it smiles that terrible smile, 

Like nothing had happened to its teeth at all.

And it tells me to run from it,

Tells me to come to it,

Tells me it’s already changed.

And I don’t quite believe it,

And I can’t quite hate it,

And the wolf loves me, and wants me to stay. 

And I love it, and want it to stay,

In the woods, 

Where my cape is the color of our blood.

Who are we?

Who are we?

We are not good people

It isn’t true that

We can change the world

Because

Kindness doesn’t matter

Don’t believe if someone says

We can solve these problems

Because

We can’t make a difference 

Don’t assume that

We can fix this

Because

We should give up

It’s wrong that

We are good people

Who are we?

(Now read from bottom to top)

I can’t sleep

And by the time I can

My alarm wakes with a beep

My eyes dance around

Making imaginary images

I step onto the ground

Legs swaying

I walk forward

My mind not obeying

I stumble sideways

My brain foggy

The trance in my eyes parting away

Oh how I long for dormancy

To refresh and reform

That way I could be more dance-y

With renewed energy 

Yet here I am

With this bogus enemy

Vanquished by sleep

Until

My alarm went wake with a beep

flower garden

some of us

are roses, luscious and large

desirable colors like pink, red or white

armed with thorns sharp as swords

some of us are roses

and everyone loves us

children are named for us

bouquets are made from us

and money is paid for us

prideful hands plant us in brilliant gardens

where the other less glorious flowers cower

in front of our blinding beauty

our clear superiority

for everyone loves us

and no one condemns us

but not all of us

can be roses

somewhere, some of us must

don thin sticky petals

the color and disposition of lemons

above stems hollowed out like straws

and some of us 

must fight for our very lives

battle against weed whackers, shovels, and hoes

and frustrated gardeners who just want us to leave

nobody asks to be a dandelion

nobody wants to be weeds

yet though roses are valued

and dandelions certainly are not

its the wild dandelion 

that small sticky fingers pluck

fingers too clumsy to risk the thorns of a rose

and it’s the sweet sticky sap of the dandelion

which stained yellow lips suck

in the brilliant days of smiling youth

and it’s the dandelion's white feathers

which giggling children blow off to the wind

and it is always the dandelion

that takes, and perhaps grants

hopeful, warm wishes from hopeful, warm kids

wishes for love, or for fun, or perhaps

wishes for more hot summer days 

drunk on dandelion sap

and holding fistfuls of bright golden flowers

some of us are blessed

with the title of rose

and some of us, cursed

to be dandelions forever

but it is the dandelion

which influences us first

and it is the dandelion

which grants us the wish

for there always to be dandelions

for the dandelion

will never give up

a shovel may take down a rose

but we dandelions

will never be truly defeated

as long as a child is left

to enjoy us

Live your life

you’ve only got one

teenage years are supposed to be fun

youthful, bright and energetic

But your existence is cosmetic

beauty is the center

and beauty is the standard

beauty makes the world go round 

but without it you can’t make a sound

wired to judge, it’s just how we think

before paper, pen, or ink

faces were for recognition

helping you make your decision

Child

live your life

you’ve only got one

just don’t try flying

to close to the sun

It will melt your makeup 

and take your power

Beauty is your shell 

And if you aren’t a flower

then you are a villain 

So live your life 

you’ve only got one

teenage years are supposed to be fun

youthful, bright, and energetic

but your existence is cosmetic.