Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin

Underneath my skin is my heart

Underneath my heart are dreams,

concealed by the darkness of my future,

by the expectations of others,

whose constant bombardment is almost too much,

building the pressure like a geyser waiting to explode,

or a volcano before its violent eruption,

they think they know best,

like a politician blinded by his own ambition, and greed.

Do I deserve to bear the weight of so many who have vested so much into so little?

Do I deserve to carry the burden of others past in hope to change the future?

They say the grass is always greener on the other side,

but once you finally climb that imaginary fence,

the grass seems to turn into dirt,

dry, gritty, dirty,

dirt extending into the never ending horizon,

just like the list of problems I face,

once I get over one, more seem to take its place,

like walking on a treadmill,

you feel like your getting somewhere,

when in fact

you’re just walking an endless track,

repeating itself over and over,

like a record player stuck on a song,

life is the eternal process of walking everywhere,

yet getting nowhere.

Onward and Upward by Alena Kiel

(aka the Bennington poem, or what I call “anti- slam poetry”)

It’s days like today that feel ripe with hope.

The sun is out and shining,
cloud-windy days are far
and away gone past.

I’m done with the back and forth.
I’m through living my life parenthetically.

I want to walk down these streets
with my head held high
because I know soon
so soon
I’ll be where I want to be.

What will it matter that I’ve never fit in?
What will it matter that I’m the most
socially awkward person I know?

I can trail those old days behind me
like ribbons, the ones when the
weight of the world hung on me
like ten ton cobwebs, achy and dirty
and disinterested.

I want to run,
free and unabashed
and unafraid
into all these days ahead.

Come on world.
Throw me everything you’ve got:
hope’s on my side.

oh Hai, Ku

It is raining now

I really wish it were nice

Megan loves giraffes

The title of this poem is about as long as the actual poem.

Some say brevity,

is the heart and soul of wit,

but I am just lazy.

The Dishwasher’s Night.

Do not fear the splatter of food.
(Though the pureed chop-suey looks like cat vomit.)
But don’t get the diet aides wet; they think that’s rude.


A bucket of thrown away food sloshing about can ruin your mood,
That mush used to be a biscuit.
Do not fear the splatter of food.


The coffee containers are stained black; too long brewed.
Half of the stuff you see seems like it could be the home of a maggot.
But don’t get the diet aides wet; they think that’s rude.


An earring was dropped into the bucket, could it be rescued?
Never expect a respite.
Do not fear the splatter of food.


The milk seems to have been spewed-
You agreed to all this when you signed that packet.
But don’t get the diet aides wet; they think that’s rude.


Stuffed into the teacup, the napkin has been corkscrewed.
The juice, water, and milk makes a rivulet,
Until the entire platform is strewed.
Do not fear the splatter of food.

A Stormy Eve

It pounds against the euphoria of the night.
A blaze dashes across the starry dome
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

Waves roll forward to reveal their foamy tips at twilight.
Rushing out, vanishing every flaw in the sand.
It pounds against the euphoria of the night.

Where the moss covered steel glides into the sleekness of the light,
Slicing a path towards a sanctuary.
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

The children flutter around in their fright
Snatching all their sea treasures gathered at day.
It pounds against the euphoria of the night.

The seagulls look for shelter in flight
Cawing, gazing at the skyline for guidance of their journey.
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

The view is spectacular at the nautical lighthouse's height
The melody of the storms collide.
It pounds against the euphoria of the night,
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

If You Could Look Into My Memories

If you could look into my memories,
maybe you could see.

The way that my eyes saw you,
lying underneath those trees.

The things we told each other.
You said you’d never leave.

I told you that I would come back.
It’s a promise that I’ll keep.

But now I can’t remember,
My memory has let me down

The only thing I that remember,
is how you cut me down.

If I could look look into your memories,
what would I see?

If I could look into your memories,
would you remember me?

Safe

I am running all alone

Accompanied by the sullen drone

Of my broken heart.

Then you saw me go by

You know that I am shy

And that my heart is falling apart.

I fell right to the ground

Without the slightest sound

Completely filled with hate.

Then you helped me to my feet

And our eyes do meet

You’re not a second late.

Tears falling from above

Because of hate and love

Quickly rolling down my face.

You standing close to me

The one thing that I see

Bringing me on to a better place.

You holding me so near

Easing every fear

That disrupts my mind.

You talking very slow

Just to let me know

That good we always find.

You take away the pain

The truth is very plain

You heal using your love.

You genuinely care

Much to my despair

I’m the one you’re thinking of.

You tell me it’s ok

Not to fear the day

Because you know I will.

When I’m wrapped up in your arms

I’m safe from any harm

And time seems to stand still.

We stand there for a while

Never with the slightest smile

You just holding me.

Not saying a single word

But your voice is heard

A better day there will be.

From the Perspective of a Prostitute: Written by an Average-Looking American Girl Who Hates Walking By Victoria’s Secret

I look at my skin and see a pallid dish cloth

stained from overuse and too much rinsing.

My hair is snaps and my bones are curl.

Contorting into shapes only seen in center-folds

Night after night after night after night.

What I wouldn’t give for their daily attire

To become formless and billowing in

those heavy robes, cloaking my over-moisturized body.

To become a shadow. Wrap the burka over my shame

looking through mesh and not mascara.

And there isn’t always an eye-covering, sometimes those women are only eyes.

Hands, cloth, and eyes.

1. Eyes

My mother always told me I had beautiful eyes.

Shiny gray, like the clouds’ silver lining.

To remind you to look for good of every circumstance, she’d say.

Somedays, when the sun glinted inside them at just the right angle,

my eyes were pale blue, like the foam of a receding ocean wave.

To remind you that somedays you may feel washed away,

but there will always be another wave to bring you back to shore.

I know you had high hopes for me, Mother.

That you love me for only my eyes, but I hate to break it to you lady,

the world wants more than that from your baby girl.

And I give it to them

Night after night after night after night.

And every morning I feel washed away,

but there hasn’t been a wave to carry me back for a long, long time.

I’m caught in a rip-tide that pierces my side

and the salt water goes in

and spills out of my eyes.

So I think.

Why do those women, across this wave-less ocean,

get to languish behind their veils, knowing

that although they won’t experience our ideal romantic courtship,

or experience any of our ideals, for that matter,

they know that man they have been arranged to marry,

he probably thinks her eyes are lovely. Maybe they’re silver like a cloud, and blue in the sun.

2. Hands

Or maybe her eyes have been covered. Whether by netting or by prison bars,

he has watched her hands. He sees tough, hard-working hands,

beautiful hands,

that will forever serve him and their nation’s God.

Men have seen my hands too I suppose,

though I doubt it has been considered if my hands serve God,

as well as mammon.

My hands are also tough, working in the dark.

And in the morning, also clasped in prayer.

But my hands blend in with the rest of my exposed skin.

3. Body

Those men, you know, the one’s we’re at war with,

we curse them and their bearded scowls and road-side bombs but

they must love their women.

Think about it.

Yes, they take away their speech, their individuality, their free-will

and thats just the beginning of the inhumanity, but to me it seems that the epitome of humanity is respect for the human form itself.

And that is what those women are allowed to keep.

Their form.

Maybe hidden under a burka, but it’s theirs.

Here in this land we have our freedom of speech, our freedom of press, our freedom of religion, freedom of assembly, freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom.

Except freedom of body.

But wait, that is a bad way to put it, because here in this land a women’s body is free.

Free to be exploited. Free to be commercialized, advertised, amplified and digitized.

To be displayed ten-times life size on a public wall

for toddlers to stare and grandmothers to glare.

I cry for the women on that wall.

Because maybe a hundred men have paid for a small piece of my body,

but I remember each time.

The women on the wall will never know how many people carry her body in their head,

how many teenage boys have her on a screen in their pocket.

The masses point fingers at those men across the sea,

saying that they’re the ones who

are trapping their women in a cage.

But perhaps there is something to be learned from the people

we never seem to stop fighting.

Because they must love their women.

They protect them.

Their IED’s blow our tanks, but our lack of sacred appreciation for a woman’s body blows their minds.

I want someone to marry me after only seeing my eyes.

I want their protection.

I want their love.

I want it all.

Without showing my skin.

As They Seemed Before

Woke up this morning and

Things were not as they seemed before.

My alarm clock was broken, and

My room was thrown upon the floor.

But its okay, cause I bet it was a hell of a night before.

I woke to see these for walls staring right back at me,

An unspoken accusation to my broken proclamation

And who’s to blames in a situation where both sides are at fault ,

The fire or the fire starter?

The fire or the one who lit this godforsaken match and burnt this all down,

All of our hopes and dreams.

Leaving nothing but a scar on the land.

So who here is to blame?

I woke up this morning to see,

I had no clothes up and around my room.

So I went to see if they’d been thrown, upon my lawn in a cliché fashion.

A suitable punishment for actions speaking louder,

Than any words that I could ever say to you.

But when I got there not a sock was to be found.

Where did you all go?

Was it my fault for not seeing it there, or

Your fault for not leaving the light on to guide me home?

Only You by Liz Rockett

Since you left me I've been lost.

Loss surrounds me as your arms once did.

The heart that once felt warm, now feels cold and

Dead.

Looking in the mirror,

What didn’t you see?

What imperfection turned you away?

I see a girl, almost a woman, insecure and torn.

Blue, green, gold, black eyes.

Crystal clear from the tears running down

those flushed cheeks.

Memories, laughing, crying, screaming.

Somehow I still love(d) you, despite your imperfections.

The many I saw never once turned me away.

Wishing you could put down the bottle,

or that you didn't need to disappear into that world.

Wishing I was enough, that I could take you away

from everything that hurt you.

I see your dreams surpass your reach,

as you dig yourself deeper,

and deeper,

and deeper still.

Somehow my help wasn't helpful at all.

Somehow it pushed you away,

further with every “I love you” exchanged between,

You and I.

You and I are no more.

But whose choice was that?

Was it you? Or was it you in that other world?

Only you will ever know.

Only you.

This is an Addiction as Well

A chill

burns in my bones. My 

limbs are sediment, still and

silent, propped, framing this log 

of a body

who is cold, cold permeating deeply

and not allowing the warmth of

the fire in to crackle and steam 

away the tired, tired blanket

of lethargy that lifts only at night, in a dark room lit

by two lights, one high and yellow one

close and impersonal, and these legs 

are pillows for elbows, 

these bones are fags 

for the flame. 

Cheers

Here's to bravery.

Here's to a house of peers, bitter and

callously sprawled, ready to pounce. 

Here's to making them laugh--

with you.

Here's to dancing alone

while your friends gossip.

Here's to your own damn drummer.

Here's to walking alone in the city.

Here's to stepping alone

into the dark room for

the light switch. Here's to

facing the demons on the

outside, and then looking in.

Here's to opening up.

Here's to looking up.

Here's to looking your enemy in

the eye, and smiling. Here's

to sitting kitty corner to the beast

(and knowing the wolf put you up to it).

Here's to your courage

Aye, I'd drink to that.

The Rock That Rolls by Ian Hawkes

The Rock that Rolls

It all started with the King.
Come sleep in the Heartbreak Hotel
if you wanna hear, or wait, is that Hotel
in California? Nah. Screw the Eagles,
the British are Coming the British are
Coming in Submarines of Yellow through
Eight Legged gardens and their High
with Help from their Friends, boys
Sticky Fingered with Brown Sugar and licking
the states back to patriotism and avid
reading. Rolling rolling stones. Rolling
rolling rock. Old Time a Rockin‘ Roll,
kinda music just soothes the soul of
the lady who knows the stores are
all closed. This snowballs rolling
faster and faster, on this Highway
to Hell, on this Leftoverture Journey
that started with a million hey hey
Monkees pounding on the fret boards.
Where will it stop? Or will it?
As far as I can see these Barenaked
Ladies are all about Californication,
and if we can shake our heads with
Neverminds and cover Alices
in Chains we can certainly endure
the Slipknot. Its a Chemical Romance
thats too good to give up, a Bullet
for Your Valentine that looks like
it is Saving Able, and even if it
was Breaking Ben-jams and Yeah
Yeah Yeahs through her Radio Head
I don’t think we could even stop.
London is Calling.
The people need their music.
And to those about to rock,
I still salute you.

Rotten

Something is rotten in high school.

The students are candid and raw

Like a slab of rank meat

That has been sitting on the counter for a few days.

The meat is unavoidable.

Something about talking is rotten.

They talk and don’t consider.

Or they consider too much.

They don’t consider that other people talk.

It isn’t just them.

No one keeps secrets.

Caring is rotten.

They talk about things that are useless.

They care about things that don’t matter.

They pry and they tell and they spread.

They don’t

Want to be out of the loop.

Being out of the loop is rotten.

They care because they want to be a part of something.

They want to be involved.

They don’t want to be alone.

They don’t

Want to be out of the loop.

Something in the teenage brain is rotten.

That gushy pink slimy material that should be housing questions

On why the sky is blue and

What happened in history during the 1930s in Senegal is instead

Housing questions on why that girl was crying

In the hall today

Between third and fourth period.

The societal brain is rotten.

It has been poisoned.

It has decayed.

Growing up is rotten.

It is just a stage of growing up,

It is our society growing from infants

To men and women.

It is our society growing down.

Is our history rotten?

Were

Teenagers decades ago acting the same way?

It could be a generational thing.

This is a part of evolution, or better yet,

The beginning of the apocalypse.

An apocalypse would be rotten.

The girls become savage

Like in “Mean Girls” at the fountain.

The whole globe breaks out into a fight.

Knives thrown,

Guns shot,

Girls and boys wrestle and punch.

In fifty years I hope our high school won’t be rotten.

My dad reminisces on the good ol’ days.

High school has changed.

The girls were still gossiping and doing hair

And make up back then.

The guys were still flirting

And trying to be men.

Something is high school must be rotten

In our day and age,

In our society,

In our teenagers.

It can’t be cleaned up.

I am from by Mo Clements

I am from a falls girls team were the passion to win drives us.

I am from that feeling you get when you step on to that field before a big game.

I am from tough practices, over eating team dinners, and the victory of winning.

I am from one team one dream.

I am from two best friends who are my sisters.

I am from a friday night football game.

I am from a driven sister, a hardworking brother and a open minded younger sister.

I am from a good women loved by a real good man.

I am from a strong religious strong moral’d family.

I am from a sinful brother who's younger sister looks up to.

I am from walking on the edge.

I am from a girl who has grown and learned from her mistakes.

I am from a girl who tries to make everyone happy by taking on way to much.

I am from alway's taking in that person with a broken wing.

I am from over coming the impossible.

I am from achieving my goals.

I am from knowing what I want.

I am from a rusted out maroon pick up.

I am from blasting country music with the windows rolled down on a hot summer day.

I am from sunday afternoons fishing with my grandfather.

I am from the most important thing is family.

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin

Underneath my skin is my heart

Underneath my heart is veins.

Underneath my jacket is my favorite t-shirt

Underneath my t-shirt is my skin

Underneath my skin is my heart

Underneath my heart is a warm hearted person.

Underneath my car is rusted out parts.

Underneath the rusted out parts is my old engine

Underneath my engine is something that still runs after a hard 15 years on the road.

Underneath my gloves are my hands

Underneath my hands is rough skin.

Underneath my rough skin is a hard working man.

-Anthony Griffin

Something is Rotten in the Life of that Child.

Something is rotten in the life of that child.
Not that you could see it,
hidden beneath her long and baggy clothes,
Yet if you go looking you could not miss the signs.
The finely raised lines that move up her wrists like rungs on a ladder.
Getting a step closer to the pain that is building inside of her
Or the burn marks from the fatal end of a cigarette.
Each representing a new level of hell,
much worse then Dante could ever describe.
Something is rotten in that child’s life.
Not that you want to see it,
behind the close doors, or the late nights.
Yet, clearly something is wrong.
those fine lines and burn marks came from someone.
If you continue searching you will find a man or woman
disguised as a parent, but far from it.
with a cigarette in one hand, a bottle in the other
and never without snide remark -
that hurts worse then the cigarette ever will.
There is something rotten in this child’s life.
Not that you will be able to believe it.
One day she will grow up.
she will become an adolescent and realize
this is not right. not normal. I am done with this.
Still trying to win the love but just wanting to get away.
Love is so far removed from this equation now.
When that next swing is swung towards the face
That will be the last straw.
There is something rotten in that child’s life.
Not that you could miss it.
Today the courts are involved.
She is getting out. Emergency Emancipation.
This child’s future is bright.
No one will take that away every again.
That rotten stench of a wanna be parent -
finally is starting to subside.

Memories of My Past

I am 12
I no longer cling tight to my mother’s side
yet, I am still timid and shy
entering middle school, this is the biggest step
no longer a tom-boy
but not quite a girlie-girl
too old to play with toys
too young to wear the lipstick that glides across my mother’s lips
now at 18, I want to relive those familiar days
I still long for a sweeping good-night kiss from my father
and the security of clinging tight to my mother’s side
I want to stop in my tracks and reverse,
to spend all my $2.50 at can-depot
catch fireflies on a warm summer night
to lace up my Air Jordan’s
and run out of the locker room, basketball in hand
just one more time
but relishing on my past will do no good
these days will soon blend together
it’s time for a new chapter

Underneath

Underneath my mask is the face of the little girl I used to be
The little girl who never judged nor harmed
The little girl who danced around the tree on Christmas eve with glow in her eyes
The little girl who could brighten your day with the touch of her hand

Underneath my tear drop is a hidden key
So hidden, not even the receiver knows the answer
So hidden, confusion becomes an issue
So hidden, the world can not understand

Underneath this shy girl is someone waiting
Waiting, for the right moment to shine
Waiting, for someone to understand
Waiting, for things to change

Underneath this mask hides
The girl who dances in the mirror when no one is watching
The girl who sings in the shower thinking no one can hear
The girl who loves life and wants life to love back

The Arranged Marriage

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

Be careful, frightened one, with whom you share,

Emotions are the hardest things to hide,

Because you know he's cheated and he's lied.

And when you settle to lay it all bare,

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

And he'll be drifting to you. In the tide

His grisly arms will catch you in their snare.

Emotions are the hardest things to hide.

And you will someday be a haunted bride,

So saddle up and fall into his care.

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

It's not easy though I know you've tried

To split your mind and from your feeling tear.

Emotions are the hardest things to hide,

Your feelings may be hard to set aside.

And though you want to kick your legs and swear

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

Emotions are the hardest things to hide.

Thin Air

I

Don't let me alone. Don't

let me alone in the shadow of the rain.

Don't give me a token;

an umbrella to envelope this damp body. I need

the human form to shield away

the fog.

II

It's time, again, for the bomb to fall. It's time again

for this plane, this little fly in the great ethereal blue

to drop it's charge.

Clocks stop.

Castles, skyscrapers, compounds

crystallize and sink, like dust,

into the ground.

Across the river stands a sentinel,

silent, still, watching

as the airborne assassin eats the city whole.

III

In Japan, after the acid rain has fallen

after the flowers have withered into brown decay

There remains a small box

mummified in the ruins. It contains

a book, perhaps a diary

a dress, folded four times

perhaps belonging to a geisha

and a figurine of a child in a baby swing,

with chipped jade eyes.

Perhaps this enigma belonged

to a girl wrapped in the residue of catharsis.

I am

I am 18 years old

& I am making my future,

while relishing in my past.

One step closer to the end, and one step closer to

a whole new beginning.

I am 18 years old

& yet I want to be 10 again, to be a carefree child

with not a single worry in the world,

knowing that the future was a whole world away.

I am 18 years old

& there is something due everyday,

a paper

a scholarship

an essay

a decision.

I am 18 years old

& I feel like that indecisive 15 year old,

but this time my decision is not about

waffles or pancakes.

I am 18 years old

& all I want is to spend each day with my father,

knowing that these are the last times

I will be able to come home after class and have him ask how it went.

I am 18 years old

& I am realizing that the person I am going to miss the most is my dog,

who may not be there to greet me the next time I come home.

I am 18 years old

& I cannot even fathom my life outside of my small town.

I am 18 years old

& all I want to do is sleep in MY bed one last time.

Lovely to Meet You

I will always love someone,
and that someone
will probably love another,
and the one after that
will love some other,
and the one after that.
Well, that’s up to them,
Just as it’s up to me.
To keep on loving
until I find that someone
who will love me back.
For he, or she, or whatever they may be,
Was loving all along.
Just to find me.

Equality

I am not of your expectations.
I am me. Not just anyone, Not everyone.
Just me.
The things I like, and the friends I love are just like the things you like and the friends you love,
with a few variations in between.
But, that’s what I am, and that’s what is this country, and this world.
We are all just variations of the same thing.
A spectrum of the human being.
Religion says we are all born from Adam and Eve,
Science says we are born from the same microscopic atoms left by stardust.
I like to believe it’s both.
So don’t go on your high horse thinking you’re alpha among this wolf pack,
because,
I’m right up there with you buddy, right up there among the other 6 billion people, who are all the same but not.

Sunset On A Kingdom

I wish we could play again.
Just like we used to,
on the rusty old swing set behind your house.
I’ll push. And you pull.

Like Mona Lisa, your smile is ambiguous.

But then, every thing about you seems like a Renaissance painting.
The soft strokes of tea-stained hair and porcelain skin.
No blemishes. No mistakes.
Just perfect.

You are perfect.

Remember when we skipped rocks across that lake we found?
No one was around,
so we danced along the shore, threw sand and dirt up into the air, and yelled at the vibrant sun,
claiming this land as our own.
And when our lungs couldn’t bear any more strain,
we collapsed and laid next to one another.

You whispered to me,

“I wish the sun would stay forever,
that way the night would never come.”

But,
God has gone with the sun, and has taken what is dear with him,
what was dear to you.

The purity of perfection is gone.

So
I’ll be the puller.
And you?
You are the pusher.

Cobwebs in the Corners

When I was little
Evil lived next door
as a stranger
with good intentions

His house was made
of rickety planks
sagging together
all painted a dull shade
of sadness

One day he invited me in
and I stared
at the broken promises pickling in jars
and the lost hopes cobwebbing the corners
and the faded dreams
scuttling beneath the floorboards

But mostly I stared at his gnarled hands
which he told me were once
as beautiful and pale
as my own
but they had rippled and twisted
with each failed attempt
at doing the right thing

And then he asked me
if I’d like to stay with him forever
and twirl in his dances
of sinful delight
where I’d taste a freedom
that the good never know
but though I knew his words to be true
I ran out the door and tried not to look back because
I remembered
his tortured hands

just enough to get by

this poem consist of nine words.

it still counts.

Replacement

Everyone looked at me,
“You are just like him.”
Cherry pie, lights on at the dinner table.
They clung to the common similarities.
Desperate, hoping for one thing that could bring him
Back.

But it didn’t, I wasn’t him.
He was gone.
So I stayed strong, hoping that would be
Enough
For my family to move on.
But they didn’t.

Tears continued to fall,
Depression lingered in the corners
For years, never fully
Escaped.

I tried to be what everyone needed.
To banish the sadness and stop
The cycle of salty water rolling
Down their faces.
They cried. Yet I couldn’t.
And no one noticed.


I am 17

& the whole wide world is open for me. College, gap year, military or work. There are too many choices to pick form. Mom , Dad, Aunts and Uncles, Teachers and Friends are telling me, make the choice. Make the choice of what you want to be, who you want to be and where you want to be. And all I want to say back is

I am 17

& I want to be sneaking out of the house to my boyfriends, having a party when my parents are away. But I don’t.

That is the key here.

I don’t because I have their trust and I don’t want to loose it. I don’t because I listen to what they have to say and I respect when they tell me no. I don’t because they raised me right. But still Mom , Dad, Aunts and Uncles, Teachers and Friends are telling me, make the choice. Make the choice of what you want to be, who you want to be and where you want to be. And all I want to say back is

I am 17

& I don’t want to be at home filling out applications. I want to be driving too fast, spending too much money and being with friends. But I don’t.

That is the key here.

I don’t because I know that my future matters. I don’t because I know that college is expensive and I know my family doesn’t have a lot of money to pay for it. I don’t because they raised me right. But still Mom , Dad, Aunts and Uncles, Teachers and Friends are telling me, make the choice. Make the choice of what you want to be, who you want to be and where you want to be. And all I want to say back is

I am 17

& I know my life matters, I know that I need to fill this out and sign that. But if you want me to be successful and live my life, they let me be me. Let me sneak out of the house, let me throw a party and get caught, let me drive to fast, get a ticket, spend all my money on one thing and then learn the value of work and let me be with my friends. All I have left with them is this one summer. But I don’t.

That is the key here.

I tell them,

I am 17

& I am going to kick college’s ass. I am going to spend late nights in the library studying and writing papers. I am going to attend all my classes. I am going to become a vet, have a family and make a lot of money. But as for right now, I am going to sneak out of the house to see my boyfriend, throw a party when your away, drive to fast just cause I can, spend all my money on expensive coffee and hang out with my friends, just for one last summer. Then I’ll make the choices. What I’m going to be, Who I’m going to be, Where I’m going to be.

High School Career

My high school basketball career has come and gone
My last game in my maroon and white
Players sitting, heads bowed
Sweaty jerseys covering eyes
Anguish in our hearts
Yet no one wants to show it
Silence in the locker room
Then Coach walked in
We picked up our heads and caught his eyes
He stood for a moment his gaze pouring over each of us
He had emotion in his eyes, when he spoke emotion in his voice
He spoke of our season, of the Gorham tradition
A tradition and brotherhood of which we were all now a part of
He didn’t dwell on our dismal record nor our lack of accomplishments
Rather he spoke of our effort, our work ethic our pride
Tears in his eyes cracking of his voice
He was proud of us, no other team did he wish he could coach
Those words meant the most to us as a team.

I Don't Know

A poem for English is due today,
Yet nothing has come to mind I must say.
Soccer, baseball, skiing are all a thought,
So is the time I made the winning shot.
But when it comes down to it I don’t know,
I might as well write one badly, so-so.
Here it goes my effort exuded,
All nouns, adjectives I know included.
Pets, sports, hobbies, no idea where to start,
Maybe instead of thoughts I’ll try my heart.
Hmm feelings, maybe I’ll give them a go.
Pain, sadness, happiness from head to toe.
I think, but nothing comes, oh darn what next?
Damn! Herlihy says it must be complex.
Well there goes my thoughts along with the bell,
Out the door I go knowing I’ll hear hell.

Shelby

You sit there weeping begging for me to come back to you.
Waiting for me to kiss you as you tie your shoes.
Ready for me to attack with kisses upon kisses.
You act as though I’m not with you, as though I have left you for good.
I can see the pain on your face with me gone.
I am with you every hour of every day.


You think back to times we shared.
Going on walks in the neighborhood when we were both young.
Laying in bed together falling asleep.
Playing in the snow with you throwing snow balls at me.
Me tackling you into the snow with all the force I have.


I follow you through the day always by your side.
I watched you as you became victorious in something you love.
I watched as you lead a group of young kids to something very rare.
I watched you as you spent nights wishing for me to come back.
I stand beside you now as you write this poem.

Late Night Talks

I am from a father whose only income was picking potatoes, from a mother who took care of 7 other siblings.
I am from dirt roads, back woods, PBR, and Jason Aldean.
I am from a society where Sunday is just like any other day.
I am from trips to the County, cribbage, and family friends that are as good as any.
I am from a household where the person you thought you resented most, has taught you the most about life.
I am from a 19 person sisterhood, win together- loose together.
I am from a team that was expected to win that semi-final game. And Didn’t.
I am from a childhood where visiting the same town when you’re younger means life, laughter, and love. But going back as you get older only means death.
I am from bonfires, Chadbourne Ridge, Middle Rd. and a great group of friends.
I am from Gorham PD, Buxton PD, Groville, and the mini mart.
I am from a father who opened his own fishing tackle, archery, and hunting shop called ‘Barnes Outfitters.’
I am also from a father who gave up his two stores in Freeport and Portland, to be with his oldest daughter.
I am from long nights scooping ice cream with my Beal’s girls.
I am from an Uncle, 4 Grandparents, and many more, who were buried in the Presque Isle Cemetery.
I am from mud on my jeans, long nights, trees being chopped down, and loud trucks.
I am from a daycare where I thought the kids were my brothers and sisters, and our provider was our mom.
I am from a little girl, standing over her Grandparents casket's, at the age of Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
I am from a desire, a dream, and a vision in 2009.
I am from a Polaris 550 fan cooled super sport snowmobile; it gets me there.
I am from teachers that have taught me the world, and some that have taught me the classroom.

Thanks Kevin Rudolf!

I am 3 and I am speeding down the road in my bright pink Barbie jeep, the warm sun kissing my shoulders, my mother chasing me as I drive away, feeling the 3 mile per hour wind in my hair.
I am 4 and I have a baby brother that I am supposed to love but the only feeling that I have for him is jealousy, jealousy of the attention and the love that was once mine.
I am 6 and I am what they call a late bloomer. I am finally ready to take the plunge and remove my training wheels, no matter how many times I scuff my knees on the tar. 
I am 8 and I have transferred schools 3 times, making and losing friends as I go, hoping that one day I will be able to enjoy the feeling of stability like the other kids.
I am 10 and I have a slip and slide in my back yard. I glide across the hot blue plastic in my pink polk-a-dot bathing suit, crashing into the refreshing puddle that greets me at the end.
I am 13 and I have finally grown the nerve to stand up to my Father. I have finally decided that enough is enough, and I will not allow him to bully my brother and I as we sit in fearsome silence.
I am 16 and for the first time I have realized that my actions affect others more than they affect me. Reality has officially given me a slap in the face and has told me that it is time to grow up.
I am 17 and I am finally at the place that I need to be and God has graced me with a life that has prepared me for the future that I must handle alone.
I am 17 and my maturity tramples that of my Mother.
I am a child forced to abandon the days of jumping on the trampoline in the summer sunshine for a boring job.
I am 17 and even though there are things that I wish I could still do, I know that the decisions I make will be worth it in the end.
I am 17 and I have made my motto for life, “Go big, or go home!”
I am 17 and I’ve made it.

the key to understanding this poem is in the title.

This entire poem is a metaphor

for an idea that you simply are not deep enough to comprehend.

because there must be some reason for me to say

that “the tree had embraced me with smooth, cool gray branches”

instead of saying “I was in the tree that was cold and gray.”

the tree means something, doesn’t it?

I mean maybe I’m dealing with the loss of a beloved pet,

or maybe my mother never really loved me,

or maybe I had just acheived something great.

I must have been experiencing a lot of pain or happiness when I wrote this.

any analysis of this poem should consist of at least 450 words.

all misspellings and grammatical errors are intentional artistic choices made by the poet.

so you should probably say something about that in the analysis.