The poet examines her work
leafs through the crumpled papers
watching handwriting change
from entry to entry
sometimes within poems
as if emotion dictates scrawl-
lighthanded, looping, or harsh and flat

She stops on a few
drawn in by memory
or lines like dreams
where she imagined sleepless nights
or the end of a life
anything her mind could imagine
fleshed out with the fluidity of a stream

The words had always been in
her brain. It is impossible to know
if they would have disappeared
with nowhere to go
if she hadn’t guided her pen to paper
everyday, writing about whatever
or whomever. Like the sketch artist

she has gotten better everyday
the words appearing quicker and quicker.
This might be due to English class
it’s hard to say
regardless she has grown-
like a tree budding in Spring
learning everything has a purpose


The poet is not just a poet
she catches snippets from novels-
the dialogue or introduction or
internal stream of consciousness
clanking around her brain
She once wrote a fairytale
about a boy who spoke to trees

All of them are precious-
they are pieces of her soul
spread out on lined paper
calling out for a life that imagines,
wonders, feels free,
does not stand still-
floats on the breeze like the eagle

She has learned a thing or two
from Sylvia Plath:
the good stuff
the quality of dissonant language
the stanza-length-decision
Before she would write whatever
sounded nice- she might still

The poet, satisfied, closes the journal
imagining that one day
her poems would reach into the
minds of the world- gently
drawing out dreams-
inspiring words like she has been inspired
And she closes her eyes with an exhale

A mountain full of pressure,
Close to pouring at the seams.
A tree full of ants,
And those ants running with seeds.
A cliff upon an overlook,
A beach upon a sea.
A life left perfect,
A life wasted on me.
No point in trying to end it,
If you waste that perfect life with me.

Swollen eyes, dark and deep,
Hollow pits from lack of sleep.
Rolling down her porcelain cheek,
A single tear, helpless and meek.
Downturned lips kept tightly shut,
Holding back thoughts and words that cut.

Bitten nails wrapped into fists,
Battle wounds curve round her wrists,
Hate and shame across her skin,
She learnt to hide it, she learnt to fit in.
Insecurities lurk beneath tattered clothes,
A world of secrets that no one knows.

The looking glass shows her broken, afraid,
And to herself this is how she’s portrayed,
But to lens and to eye this girl cannot be seen,
To the world she appears as any other teen.
Surrounded by friends she laughs loud and smiles wide,
So no one will know the pain she suffers inside.

She sits on the air, and talks with the breeze.
She walks with that style, and mocks me as I freeze.
I swear she stopped a rain storm,
And you could swear she just said no.
She's a mountain of power, and an engine of burning coal.
Those eyes sharp as glass, and slicker than some ice.
I swore to her I'd stop, but I kept it going on thrice.
I never knew she felt, I didn't think she could.
But I saw her there, weeping, and tugging, and pulling out her hair.
I knew then I was nothing, nothing to her, but pain,
taking away the joy, of her. My Beloved rain.

I built a prison of paper,
But I willingly let it stand.

To keep my self tethered
To these words only I can understand.

It keeps out the angels,
And keeps my demons in.

So no one can be affected,
From the enemy hidden within.

It's a fortresses built on lies,
with foundations crumbling down.

But I'm happy with being crushed,
As long as you can never frown.