her braided hair
in the lamplight
and daylight

The words that you’ve forced upon me are sad
I’ll take them anyways but you should know
That you can’t take them back

With acrylic I paint the crumbs on my plate,
the dregs of my drained coffee mug,
the torn and crumpled tissue beside it.
The best cup of coffee ive ever had,
the perfectly buttery toast, still warm,
reduced to traces, ugly remains.
I paint a sad still-life to remember,
with hindsight clouded eyes
the flavours I couldn't taste
before they touched my tongue.

The sky above me

Exploding with colors

Eyes filled with awe

The ground shaking beneath my feet




But when you close your eyes

And hear the exploding bombs

It reminds me of

The war

They fought

For our country







A document signed

on the fourth of July

A pen gliding

across such

an important piece

of our history

our lives







A birthday celebrated

across the states

does anyone

stop

to think




How did we get here?

It has become a curse to remember so vividly,
those moments, simple yet profound.
Like smiles, the sound of breath, and the warmth of their palms.
Loving, I’ve realized, is often about memorizing.
Attending to every detail whenever you can.
Their presence becomes integral, no matter how scarce,
So you rely on all your senses to keep them alive.

And when it’s time to leave, everything falls silent.
The glass feels more half-empty than half full
You realize, that their absence, too, hangs in the air
A feeling you don’t just remember, but live in
And you’re left wondering,
why their absence feels more permanent.

For the young,
the gut-wrenching ache
of love lost
Remembers.

The old witches know:
it forgets,
for memory is the reward—
a gift for having known
a twin in this world
(even if only for a short time).

The end of Memory
Hard and dull, matt surface
Plaster white and bitter
Tasting of no return, no reruns
Just a passing out of reach
Animate to inanimate
Clockwork spring extending

End of memory
Not forgetfulness of a Lotus eater's gape
Nor distance crowded out
With noise and meaning filling
All the gaps
The spaces left for colour and
The lines that merge in a single
Perspective point

Of memory
Gradual fading and graduation
Stutters of old strangeness
Pretences of identity
Nighttime of distant blues
Past sunsets
Or mountains drawn
Childish grey pyramids
Sinking in childish grey sands

Memory
Unspoken and
Matt and
Linear and
Lunar and
Lastly
And

A sledgehammer kills,

or it may loosen a thought,


something from the past.

For my English III class
             Mr. P
had sprawled                        out
S
       T
    A
                  C
       K
S
       of books       in t h e front      of his
                 classroom.
He had a short lecture and introduction to blackout poetry, then
everyone shot out of their chairs to find a page they wanted

I was the last to go up, the first book I found had a beautiful picture and I decided to use it

                             Months later
the assignment was completed and in the gradebook, he said if we wanted we could keep them

Now as I lay in my room at 2:34 AM on a
  Friday I sit and think about it.
   It wasn't long ago when I created it,
       but it also had been enough time for me to leave the public school entirely to could be                    
                          homeschooled
The­ only thing I regret was not saying goodbye to him
       in person


                    And getting that poem