You were a tourist attraction
That I held in my hands
My fingers, constantly tracing the outline of your smile in photographs
A memory
A tourist attraction, is visited by thousands every year
But I, I knew you’re story
Where the bombs struck most
Where the guns left the most bulletholes
In your forgotten love life
I remember you like the Alamo
Broken, but still standing
You were the tourist attraction,
And I was the snow globe
in your gift shop
Shaken.
Stirred.
Removed.
But I still carried a part of you inside me
You were the Golden Gate Bridge
From hipster photographs
But I knew, your workings
Like how you keep your ropes loosen
To avoid constricting
Breaking
Throwing away
Tourist every day photograph your beauty but I,
I was the civilian
who framed you in my doorway
Statues are not freedom, they are committed to their solidarity
Unwillingness to move
The freedom is found in the boys eyes
Who walks away with the snow globe
Something new in his hands
An attraction.

We can be different, you know. We do not have to stand behind society’s shoulder, figurative mascara staining our cheeks; cowering away from the world—we can be different. We can shine like a billion snowflakes on pavement, melting in the wind perhaps but immaculate all the same. We can stand up against the hurricane of second choices and broken opinions; we can diverge from the neon path of shattered hearts and clichés and we can go to sleep and let ourselves heal and sometimes we can decide that 24 hours is far too long to be conscious of our mistakes. We can be different. We do not have to write about wars or dragons or space we can write about the freckles on our palms, or the blue of a stranger’s eyes. We can skip all we want and we can breathe through our hearts; we can pull the lilies from our garden and water the weeds ‘til they bloom and we can watch Barney until we turn seventeen because it’s okay to be different. We are allowed to bury everything we have ever been told and learn things for ourselves because if “seeing is believing” then experiencing must be a gold star and a half—don’t tell me I’m wrong. We can be different. The only people who have ever said otherwise are hiding among us and the reason we have listened for so long is because we’re afraid that we are one of them. We are afraid to step out of the crowd of painted souls and rummage in the future for a color of our own. And we don’t understand that if the brushes are all taken, and the watercolors of individuality are dried up or used we can mix our own or use our fingers or stain our reality with melted crayons—it doesn’t really matter. Because it’s okay to be different. And every time we cut off our own voices, or burn our love letters we are encouraging the wind to whisk away the snowflakes plastered to the pavement, crushed under feet of people determined to be the same.  -Me

The truth will settle everything if you refuse to
leave.

And I finally understand “purple mountain majesties,”
as I sit here on my perch.

And behind me: that woman with the white hair,
like sails of the boats in the bay, or wings of the swans in my mind,
red pocketbook;
red lips dripping with hope.

I think someone forgot her.

Or maybe she is content.
Maybe she sees the world’s majesties, too….

But her swiveling head tells me otherwise.

I ask if she has a pen to lend me.
Her eyes become glass
as her third eye scrunches into an asterisk:

“No, dear, I’m so sorry. I don’t….”

My teeth and tongue lick the air with sympathy:
“No worries, ma’am. Thank you.”

I slide back to my rock and ask the slivered moon for her company.
I feel regret that everybody leaves with the sun,
as if the show is over.
But with skies still blue,
and moon always dancing,
it has only just begun.

I sniff the cold in.
Vicinity barren;
If I were to fall, nobody would know.
I would slip beyond this world
and find an orchestra of
silence in the sea.

I sit here wondering where the birds go.

Turning my head right
vertigo lops me upside the head.
The waves have rocked my mind to the point where I feel
I might
actually
fall.

Somehow,
that would be alright.
Somehow,
I would be okay.

Because maybe then
I won’t have to see
the vivid pained look in people’s eyes.
Like that beautiful abandoned woman
with the wing-white hair
and her hopeful red pocketbook.

If we were allowed to sing a Pagan song
With our drums in the open
No people telling us it's wrong
With paupers and dancers
Bonfires burning, nights are long
Maybe we could get closer to our peace
Maybe we could love one another
Maybe we can finally say
We really are just sisters and brothers

What can you escape when the ground becomes your feet
Taking you to places you had never thought you'd be
If I tell you something would you say you understood
Even if the sun was down and we became the woods
Here we are in front of it, the world between our heads
Making us susceptible to holes inside our beds
I have fallen many times because of holding on
To paralleled uncertainties you've hidden in your palms
Cover up the tracks and it's as if I wasn't there
I'll continue walking til I'm physically impaired