Our Graves

You hung to my every word trying to derive meaning out of each vowel and consonant

As if my feelings were constant

but they sway back in forth between unrest and silence

so quiet

you try to trace the words as they roll off my tongue but nothing comes of it

You kept me sharing though each of your seconds translated to another minute of my guilt

searing the depths of my heart raising blisters filled with lost tears on my lungs like

they never found worthy eyes to fall from

but you listened as my every breath poured my story out

Then my head began to throb and my cry for help made your ears go numb

You try to listen but by engaging my demons you bought them like

the fine china you broke in the store and can’t part from

The metaphor ends there because you can’t share my secrets

though they were harvested by your hands but life isn’t china’s communism

You embraced me with hands that never physically came near me

Fearing the broken piece of glass in my grasp would shred your genuine concern

But you’re left dodging shards as they pierce my heart and it’s permanent

only my skin would bare the signs of the sharp end of it.

My skin is scarred and hands calloused from digging my own grave

If only my grip would just slip from the ledge of guilt I cling to

But my insecurities are a noose around my neck and there’s no where to escape to

Now I’m left hanging by the ledge over the same grave that I dug for you.

Because once you’re involved you can’t back out and

before I could warn you, you stuck your neck out and

fell victim to the silent words that I said

and now we’re hanging side by side over two graves

swinging back

and forth

I wish I was here

as if we were already dead.

We Are Not as Small as You Think

This clip was shown in english class my sophomore year and I couldn't stop thinking about it so I started writing in the hopes of someday presenting something just as bold as it..

New Pet Peeve

I've always liked reading though I rarely make time for it. Spring break gave me a chance to pick up books other than textbooks for the first time in what seems like forever. I finished a few books I started before leaving for college and then read My Sisters Keeper by Jodi Picoult. I liked her writing style and thought I'd try another one of her books and went to the bookstore. I left Barnes and Nobles with one called House Rules about an autistic boy who stands trial for murder because it seemed to be longest book of hers and I hate when decent books end (because then I have to find another one).

Well I found another thing I really don't like about books... I hate when they leave you with questions about the plot. It's okay to leave you wondering what your view is on a particular issue or thinking about why someone would invent "anti-matter" in the first place (from Angels and Demons- one of my favorite books) but why would an author choose to leave the one question you've been waiting the whole book to find out, unanswered. But I guess that is what poetry is, leaving people with questions as to what the poem is about, and I like poetry so maybe I'm just being hypocritical... None the less, I am still annoyed.

I'm All Grown Up

and some parts of growing up are definitely better than others!

-I signed a lease on a town home and it wonderful but now I have an electric bill and the first payment is due in a month or so UGH but I still beats living in the dorms.


-I know longer have a room at my parents house which officially means I am a guest when I stay there. It's a weird feeling but I'm OK with it (until that means their food is off limits too).


-I have my own car! It's shiny, sporty, and does well in snow which is a MUST (this too comes with a payment)


- My bank account has some (enough) money and I've earned all of it nannying, being a camp counselor, and my stipend for being on a soccer scholarship. I am completely self sufficient but I REALLY appreciate it when my mom makes me lasagna or fills my car up with gas.


- I've had to make some big decisions regarding some friends who are a little too distracting and fun things I like doing but unfortunately keep me from getting work done too

Though this summer I was considered an adult by law I didn't feel like any of my responsibilities had changed but now I FEEL more grown up and in the words of my mother I am "maturing surprisingly well." -thanks mom

Too Many Hours in a Day

There are too many hours in a day

Truth seeps down my face washed away by a fake smile. Trials. I can tell you don’t understand. Your hands clasp each other as you bow your head mumble words and then say

Amen.

24 hours isn’t enough for you. You had more things to do. For you.

You see to do lists that ran off the page kind of day, forgot to buy eggs and milk before the your bed calls your name kind of a day, skipped breakfast to make it to work early kind of a day. But you were still late that day

You think 24 hours will never be enough

You see a sunset as you throw back another one

You go to bed wake up and wish you hadn’t poured that last one

Sometimes I wish that were my day.

I feel other people’s pain everyday. I read the newspaper and think about car accidents, suicide bombs and the obituary that’s not there because no one cared everyday. I cry when someone goes missing like it’s my brother or mother as you wondered what happened at Charlie browns baseball game that day. He lost, in case you didn’t read up that day.

My heart is exhausted and its beats are not strong at the end of the day. People are still dying because others hated them today and children are orphaned by AIDS everyday and I rest knowing the next day I will feel the same pain

But that’s OK

My heart breaks for a reason and my tears are good for something. Someone fills me up so I can pour out. When my well has run dry ironically I cry out. I wish days were shorter because then

I would have had more time to pray that day.