Letters In Our Heads

by

An empty casket,
Full to the brim with memories,
Draws the eyes of many,
And the hands of many more.
In silence we sift through faded photos,
Letters we wrote, only in our heads,
And words we spoke into jars,
Before we sealed them up and,
Tossed them too, into the casket.
Maybe I–maybe we–should be sad.
But this,
This is not a funeral for mourning death.
This is a day for celebrating life.
No.
No, we will not forget,
Not today. Not tomorrow.
For each of us will take a photo,
Or a letter,
Or a jar,
And tuck it away,
Across the threshold of our hearts,
Each our own part of the puzzle.
Our puzzle.
And we alone do not feel fear,
For we know the truth of death.
Isn’t it death,
Who hides in dark corners?
Who is cunning and rash?
We stride onto our lit streets with pride,
And boastfulness on our chests.
Death crouches and waits.
And maybe death is wise.
But maybe death is also…
Afraid.
Nothing is permanent.
Death has taught us that.
But if nothing is permanent,
Then death itself must end.

Hades? Whiteboard? What?

by

Wow- it feels like a million years since I last posted. School has been taking up most of my time lately. But that is my topic tonight. In English we are doing mythology projects, where a group of 3-4 draws a life size god/goddess who we drew randomly from a stack. My group got Hades. I just wanted to say that contrary to popular belief, Hades is NOT the god of death, that is Thanatos, who, in the Iliad, is also the bearer of dreams with his brother Hypnos. Just thought I would put that out there. Pictures of the finished poster to follow! I also wanted to say to any of my small pool of listeners who may be having family troubles–I have found that talking with them about how their behavior affects you and writing inspirational poetry on their white board is incredibly helpful. Love always to the one who gives me grief and joy simultaneously! I know you won’t ever read this, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. And to everyone else who has been super supportive for me, not just now, but always, thanks.
That’s all.

Poems: She Listens and Feeling When You Fall

by

She listens
And though she is right beside me
She is a million miles away in thought
And yet she listens
She still somehow hears what I say
Even though
She is a million miles away in thought
Her emotions are paper thin
And her charade is opaque
She is easily broken
From her mindless stupor
And yet she listens
To the troubled words of a troubled mind
And yet she listens
To the sorrowful twang of teenage vanities
And yet she listens
To the colors and the smells of burning candles
She listens to the feel of skin on paper
She listens to the cloyingly sweet emotions
Drifting off where no one else can hear them
And yet she listens
To taped-back-together-but-so-far-apart souls
Desperate not to be blown away

Writers need inspiration
They need a source of wonder
To tap into their pen
They need the perfect string of words
Aroused from just a glance
They need a sight so beautiful
And that feeling when you fall
They need that sense of danger
Prickling behind their soul
They need a dash of wisdom
That flashes by unseen
They need a dose of clarity
To reach from within
They need to search under their dreams
And find the words tucked away
Writers need inspiration.

The Tear Theory

by

I have a theory. I have a theory that our tears hold all our memories. When I was little, the tears would leak out of my eyes but never fall, rather they could cling to my cheek like a child to mother. Now, my tears rush down my cheeks as if they couldn’t be happier to be free of me. I think that memories weigh them down. I don’t think we lose the memories, I am not so naïve to hope for a moment that our saddest thoughts could be shed. But I do think that these tears reflect our memories, and these reflections pull the tears down to their inevitable shattering.
–The Poetess

Merry Christmas

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I hate when some girls just go into the school bathroom to use the mirror, and you have to tell them, “Move people I actually have to use the bathroom!” Seriously, do they ever actually pee, or just fix their hair and makeup? But one time I went into the bathroom and the line was almost out the door. Without even thinking I said, “Is this the line for the mirror or the toilet?” Slowly, every single girl wearing 12 pounds of makeup turned to look at me like, “Who is that non-pop and why is she talking to us?” I turned around and muttered “maybe the other bathroom will be vacant…” and I left (ps: they were just waiting for the mirror). But anyways, I’m proud of myself for standing up to those walking makeup salons, and I’m hoping that other people will stand up to them too. They have no right to treat us like we are inferior to their clown-adjacent faces. MERRY CHRISTMAS!
–The Poetess

Velvet Stars

by

I used to find pain
Behind every withered memory
Hiding under every word
Creeping alongside my laughter
But I have been opened
And the pain that lingered inside
Has taken flight like a startled crow
A black shadow against the black night
I appear to have been opened
And sweet things are trickling in
Where the pain used to be
They fill my soul
Not make it deeper
They touch my wounds
But do not hurt them
These sweet things that taste of honey
Smell of spring
And look like life
Repair my withered memories
Enhance my every word
And laugh alongside me
I don’t know what the sweet things are
But they grow on me
And do not consume me
Now I have forgotten the pain
I remember what the sweet things are
They aren’t love, they aren’t happiness
They are little pieces of velvet stars