Grief Written

In loving memory of the poet Death by overdose of ink to the heart Murder by poem before she wrote it Unspoken words causing a coughing fit The rhythm inside unable to start In loving memory of the poet When she fell it was achingly quiet and the syllables inside fell apart Murder by poem before she wrote it With nothing to fill the sorrowful pit She fell tragically to her own art In loving memory of poet A flame extinguished that cant be relit Meeting a tragic end before its start Murder by poem before she wrote it Since the strongest emotion is regret In her name these praising words we impart In loving memory of the poet Murder by poem before she wrote it

I'm bad at talking about myself, but you asked me to. So here's a post filled with too many "I" statements. I'm currently sitting in my car when class started thirty minutes ago. I woke up late. Or rather my alarm went off and I ignored it. I could've been here earlier but my step mom told me to eat breakfast. She has this weird thing about breakfast. So I eat breakfast now. My school has a stricter tardy policy than absence policy so most days I just skip when I'm late. I really should go to class because I missed a lot this week, I had the flu. My nails are painted blue, but a light sky blue. They're chipped of course. I was in a play last semester. I'm in another one this semester. I'm pretty sure my track coach hates me because I've missed so much practice. I miss playing rugby, they don't have a team in park city. I haven't decided where I'm going to go to college.  Some little girls just passed my car on the way to the ele

I'm afraid. Terrified, really. I've got fears bottled and lining my shelves like numerous beauty products. Donning and dabbing and adorning one or maybe all everyday. To be honest, I'm scared to tell you I'm scared. Because often I'm told you're too young, too brave, too strong to be afraid. Like my braveness or strength or longevity take away the fact that, sometimes, I'm afraid to take a breath because what if it doesn't return? You might just laugh, shake your head, ponder about the morbidity of such a lovely girl. But things leave, people leave and you wont expect it. You'll wake up one day and it'll be gone. You can wake up and all of the sudden the air doesn't want to return to your lungs. You'll lie there gasping waiting for it to return but it refuses. Then you'll understand as your lungs ache and long for it's sweet fragrance that life has a fragility in even the most constant things. I'm terrif

My father is black digital alarm clock with white numbers My father is a worn leather wallet with my baby pictures in the back And the empty brand new wallet that sits in the drawer for years that I bought him for Father's Day but he never used because there wasn't a place for pictures in the back.  He is plaid shorts and band t-shirts that don't match, stained and holey jeans, and a nice business suit with a fancy tie. His hands are the deck he built and stained all by himself.  My father is a suitcase and a briefcase but not in a bad way. He is the man whose lips have never tasted a curse word in front of his children. My father is business shoes that he has worn for years, black leather with black laces.  I would compare him to a tree or a skyscraper but my father is above those types of cliches.  My father is a calm voice, A patient tone, A middle name when he's lost both. My father is a black digital alarm clock with whi

On the back of a chopsticks wrapper: We just met each other, but it wasn't awkward. You made me laugh. Like the can't breathe gasping for air laugh. You fed me sushi, it wasn't romantic. It was nice. You were nice. It was a nice night. A good first of firsts. 3/6/16