this one's not a poem

it's roundabout, circuitous, 

imprecise,

and not quite what I want to say at all.

(poetry)

it's very hard to talk about things in terms of other things, today.

probably because I'm doing it for a grade.

Weight

Somewhere nearby

there is someone else cutting their losses.

To sever that which no longer

functions in conjunction with the mass,
or that acts as an anchor in the

grand scheme of things

is always the strong way;

Preferential to being seized by the

slaughter of a fairy tale ending, anyway...

but it's not easy.

My window sills have a few inches

of deep snow on them—the silt of

the downfall—and the sight

of the pane is making me stop

and think about it all,

and how I want you to be the crux of it,

but you are so stubborn, and I

am wanting to sleep

because I can't run out and distract myself

from my livelihood or lack-thereof

like I usually do.

The branches on my trees outside

are weighed down by the aftermath of the storm,

and so am I.

This is how sad it is when somebody goes

Mornings do not feel

the same without you here.

"Something" spins around and around

on the stereo,

I keep it on repeat to remind me.

The only thing that is missing the noise waking

you up, like that time I was making

pancakes and you woke up, startled and without me,

and instantly you were scared that I had left you.

Like I’d ever leave you.

All of the things I have painted mean nothing
without your approval.
The coffee can't hold a candle to your coffee,
and the trees I see on 64th Street
driving to work
aren't pretty at
Christmas time anymore,
at least not to me, driving without you.
I hardly even acknowledge it all,
or the premonition that you
might not come back.

This is grammatically rough and needs a new title but for now its "Youth"

Spinning in circles until plummeting onto the soft grass,
going back and forth on swing sets and dancing

unconcerned about how it looks to others;

Blowing bubbles with wands and pink bubblegum,

this innocence that sparkles but they say tends to fade quickly.

We make wishes on eyelashes and stars.
We get hurt, but only when we trip and fall. And the pain doesn't linger longer than it should.
Dandelions are flowers, not weeds, and
crushes never strain us.
We were too ignorant to hope that this would never fade or becomes something else—we just blew out our birthday candles and wished to grow.

Hannah

At my day job,
on the floor,
there sat a
grey, plastic bin
for Christmas donations.

The words
FOR HANNAH
60 Years Old
Size 9/10
were scribbled
in timid,
grey lead.

The bin was empty.

My eyes began to well up,
and I thought
"Poor Hannah."

Old, and Unfinished

It's the truth, I feel so far away. It's similar to the inescapable nature of my worst nightmare, but something deep inside of me lingers--a small shred of hope tugs at my heart and says that you could shake me. You, and only you could wake me up. My God, if I could only speak the syllables; if I could form this crazy mess of emotion into words that actually mean something to someone else, that they could intercept and take to heart--I mean really understand and accept--I'd be relieved, satisfied.

I need a release--I'm feeling like it's long past due. I fear I'm hoarding it all, like an old widow keeps dusty, photographs of a love that has lived and died. Faded like the photographs, she goes through the motions of life, missing what once was and feeling helpless in hoping in this silly, ungratifying way. Hopefully this is fleeting, I think to myself.

I would like to remind you of ethereal beauty and bliss, the unattainable attained, radiating throughout your one-track mind. I'd like to build another track like the ones under the trains that once carried me across this state, only this time, sturdy. I'd like to be indelible, engraved, pure, irreplaceable--it.

Always. I remember the words and how imprecise they were. There was so much more I needed to hear, and I can't help thinking that perhaps the door swung both ways.

I perseverate on the idea that there is more, that it's still there. All of it and more. We have just been too stubborn

to admit it.

Poise

My ballet slippers have aged;
The lace yellowed,
The bottoms torn.

They once fit me flawlessly,
My tiny feet empowered by these little slippers,
As I dreamt of being a pristine ballerina.

I yearned to be graceful,
And to point my toes just so.
I wanted so much to be dainty,
And raise my arms above my head like Clara.
I'd prettily twirl, all dressed in pink.
I could twirl for days and days.

My dream plummeted into the piano upon which the teacher was perched,
As she played Mozart and Bach.
I was clumsy, and my toes refused to stand up.
I could not hold my arms up like the other girls seemed to do so effortlessly.
Why? Why couldn't I be just like the ballerina in my jewelry box?

I twirl, clumsily, clumsily.
I dance in circles, round and round.
Quickly, like a carnival ride,
So my legs give out and I tumble,
And the room spins eternally, like I just got off of a carnival ride.
I am unstructured, undisciplined.

I am not a ballerina at all.

My Roses

I nurture endless rows of the reddest roses,
And attentively,
Carefully,
Meticulously,
I make sure that they thrive.

The products of my care and concern,
If they dwell in my garden,
They will never be at a loss.
They will always have what they need.

In the rare instance I cut one off of the vine,
It either wilted,
Or soaked up too many of my resources.

I will always wonder if it could have been saved,
Or just what it would have blossomed into.

MIscommunication- this is a work in progress

"Do I know you?" I inquired,

as his thin arms pulled me into an 

embrace; an embrace unfamiliar,

but an embrace I didn't think I disliked.

Embarrassed, he rescinded his arms back to his sides.

His aged eyes grew sullen,

my reaction robbed him of the cheer that was there just seconds before.

Nervous apologies spewed from his thin lips.

"It's okay," I said,

startled by the sudden burst of affection,

I couldn't think of the right thing to say

to assuage his embarrassment.

I got back in line and waited for my coffee.

I couldn't stop thinking about the old man

who thought he knew me.

Who was this person he mistook for me?

What was she like?

I noticed, out of the corner of my eye,

he was ashamed. He felt all eyes

on his back, I'm sure.

His face and the back of his neck were getting hot,

his glasses fogging up.

He looked downward, his hands folded,

the only way to keep it together.

"Carol!" he had exclaimed, "so good to see ya!

How have you been?"

But I was not Carol.

I was sorry for not being Carol. 

Deep down, I knew Carol is a real sweetheart--

a genuine, nurturing person--I was sure she would've know

exactly what to say in this situation.

And at this moment, waiting for my coffee, I wanted more than anything to be Carol.

As I left, I bid him good day--the only thing I had to offer

him as an apology.

The old man still embraced me just the same,

as if to say,

it's okay, 

I love you anyway.

Disorder

Perfect ringlets shine,

Strands coated in glass.

Expressive eyes meandering, 

For what?

A pair of fragile lips move,

Struggling to give reason to the clamor upstairs.

The words strained by the barricade--

The wall confining the brain, regulating the mouth.

A heart, oversized,

Longs to thrust its contents,

To spill itself forward,

To make itself known.

The lack of explanation befuddles bystanders,

Who know not what it all means.

And neither do I.