#45

I always loved football. For as long as I can remember

Every Sunday morning I heard the whistles.

My Dad and brother's eyes glued to the screen watching NFL.

“No interruptions. The game is on”, they would say.

So I watched. I learned to love it.

But it was nothing like watching my brother

Those late Friday nights.

Where the fattening aroma of popcorn and hot dogs arose

It was loud.

Between the horns, whistles, and sirens in between periods.

The slight feeling of anticipation of who will win.

Fans screamed at the top of their lungs,

even if they know they will have no voice the next day.

It was all worth it, on those late Friday nights.

But then, he went down.

Players went down left and right every game,

only to find out they twisted an ankle,

or got a black eye.

Not tonight. Not this Friday night.

I had a feeling deep in my stomach where

It dropped.

I walked to the fence, only to see #45.

My mom rushed me to the car

with a tight grasp on my left arm.

I saw the panic through her tearful blue eyes.

“He tore his ACL, get him there quickly”

I didn't know what this meant,

but the paramedics diagnosis made my Dad scared too.

They gently helped him to the car,

where he laid in agonizing pain with the back seat put down,

barely saying a word.

He didn't need to say anything, I saw his pain.

The tears ran down my face

I tried to keep quiet. Be strong for him, I told myself.

But as I looked out the window, that dark Friday night,

I thought about how Friday nights changed for me.

After he had surgery, I saw him watch from the sidelines.

Then after the game, when stadium became empty,

light's turned off,

There he stood, at the 50 yard line

crutches hand in hand.

This wasn't how Friday's were supposed to be.

The One

She was perfect,

She was the one,

The moment I saw her, I knew

We would be together for the rest of our lives,

Her beautiful body gleaming in the Texas sun,

The sun's rays reflecting off her,

Like an angel down from heaven.

It was love at first sight.

Some people laughed,

Others poked fun,

Some said she was too old,

But I knew she was the one,

The one for me.

What was a mere twenty one years,

In a lifetime together.

Throughout the following years,

I spent every spare second with her,

I spent every spare penny on her.

Sacrificed what some call a social life,

All for her.

Her name is Lucy,

and she is a '71 Nova.

Butterfly Kisses

He asks me How I slept

I say fine.

He asks me if I am ready for the day

I say yes.

He asks me how my breakfast was

I say good.

He walks away in his gray sweatshirt

that I bought him for Christmas.

He comes home from work

Asks me how my day was

I say good

He asks me what happened at school

I say nothing

He asks me how work was

I say okay

He goes to do his sudoku

and I go upstairs.

I remember the father daughter dance

I'd wear my best dress,

my dad his best suit

we never left the dance floor.

I remember our special kiss

before I went to bed.

I remember asking him to leave pictures

underneath my pillow.

I remember playing outside with him

and making him lift me by the elbows.

my elbows are scraped now

the dress I wore is torn

my lips are chapped and dried

and the pictures are long time gone

and for now the dance floor is empty

but someday we will be back

I in my dress

him in is suit

no matter how long we sit it out

he will always be my dad.

Under Construction

The bump at the end of my road is gone.

Instead fresh soft tar stripes the worn road.

The new neighbors, with their freshly painted shutters,

rejoiced – no more scraping cars or spilled coffee.

None of them realized their new home with blue shutters

would always be “Mr. Stanley's house,"

the man who never refused to buy a box of cookies

even though we all knew he didn't like sweets.

But these neighbors, unpacking vans of throw pillows,

as I graduated from fourth, then sixth, then ninth grade,

didn't know that the same bump which jostled their mugs

and disrupted their conference calls on their daily commute,

was the glorious finish of bike races

the boundary line of exploration

the distance of hyperbolic braggarts:

I can make the shot all the way from there!

They couldn't know how that bump

made me bang my head off the window

waking me after too long car rides

and letting me know I'd soon be home.

They didn't understand how it

scraped my friend's green bug

every time she picked me up for

late night movies, bonfires, or ice-cream runs.

As the families lobbied the town

to fix that god-awful bump in the road,

crying “it's been there for years!”

No one knew “forever” would be more accurate.

To them, it was just a nuisance, a bother, an imperfection.

But that bump was my childhood.

Underneath

Underneath her white tee shirt is her skin

Underneath her pale skin is her beating heart

Underneath her heart there is a young girl clenching her blankey as she falls asleep

Underneath the blanket is torn thread, escaping fluff, and memories holding the pieces together.

Underneath her Redsox baseball cap is her long straight bangs hiding her warm brown eyes

Underneath her eyes is her mind clinging to all the little things from the past day, the rain, the laughs, the stumble down the last step.

Underneath her clumsiness is the fierceness of a dare devil, attacking the challenges of the net, the glove and the world.

Underneath her clumsiness is a smile.

By: Terri Bastarache :)

I'll Always Be Molly Hatchet To You.

There was a birthday,

when I turned twelve

that you were there for.

You came around in your Harley shirt

and pick-up truck,

ducking through my doorway

to call me Molly Hatchet

and make me remember

why you're my favorite.

You didn't swoon over my brother,

but carried in a beat-up old guitar case

and played something just for me.

Then you told me it was mine,

that favorite old guitar.

You remembered as I grew older

and became a high school student,

you wished you could be there

for my musical performance.

You called me on my birthday,

sent a card,

sent an email,

reminding me to keep strumming

that favorite old guitar.

You filled me with a love for music

stronger than any illness.

A love that will prevail

even when you have no voice to sing,

no energy to perform.

You told me once

during a call,

or in a card,

or in an email,

to stay on track

so I don't end up like you.

If only you knew,

that's exactly who I want to be,

always playing that favorite old guitar.

Bus Number Eight

Bus number eight pulls into

the Skillin School parking lot

with Shorty behind the wheel and

he smiles his bad teeth smile and

I can see the sweat gathering on

his shiny bald head but then

the big girl pushes me out of the way

with her thick chubby arms

and takes her place near the front of the bus but then I

notice Ben is sitting near the front and I go

to sit next to him because he's my best friend

but the big girl says

you

are

a

boy

lover

so I sit next to her instead and then

the big boys strut to the back because

they are ten and I am only seven and

they kick my bag when they walk by

and laugh at me until

I make the mistake of opening my bag and the big girl

sees something shiny so she wants it but

I don't want her to want it but she's

huge so I let her take it and

my eyes are filling with tears so I look at Ben and

he yells at the big girl and calls me over to sit

next to him but

then all the boys sitting with boys and

all the girls sitting with girls start giggling

and saying

you

are

a

boy

lover

but this time I don't care because he keeps me

safe

and

I

am

a

boy

lover.

Pondering Too Much Pondering

To think, or to act? That is the question.

Whether tis nobler to ponder an idea and let time takes its course, or to simply to act upon it?

To think first and act later or let impulse take over?

What time is wasted when we think?

What turmoil we cause when we act before thinking?

To think is not an action. Or is it, in itself, an action of inaction?

As time itself slips by with no action, or instead action of inaction.

Time goes by as we sit and think of what we would have done and what could have done, or even should have done.

Or think of what we did which was really nothing at all but sit and think, which in itself is actually an action of doing nothing.

So then is nothing an action of doing nothing?

If I should act and the outcome be disastrous is that better than not acting at all?

Is a poor outcome worse than no outcome, which is actually from no action, which is actually an action of inaction?

What deeds go undone as we sit and ponder the meaning and effects of too much pondering?

And there is the question. Is it possible to ponder too much, or even to act too much?

Tackle Box

The summer I was 8 I received

the best gift of my life.

Fishing lures.

You know the kind:

neon, plastic, ugly.

I woke up one sticky morning

and on my dresser

was a whole box.

Neon green and yellow

plastic...ugly.

No bow, no note,

just a little box of

fishing lures,

sitting next to my

sparkle nail polish

and a Barbie hairbrush.

I begged my father that

spring to take me fishing,

like he had every year with my

brother since practically birth.

Finally, I got a curt 'ok'

and I ran to the house,

as he turned back to pruning

Mom's wild rose bushes.

The day came and I

rose and beat the sun,

snagging my brother's

worn Sox cap and fishing rod.

Dad was actually smiling with his teeth

as we pulled up to the lake

and he grabbed a plastic white tub

out of the cooler.

I had my hook ready

and he peeled back the lid.

Pinched between two fingers,

a living, squirming thing.

I swallowed so hard

and held open my palms.

He silently dropped it into

my cradled hands.

I knew I had to kill it,

this panicked, squirming life.

I bit my tongue and wedged

it onto the hook, but

turned away so my father

wouldn't see my tears.

We fished.

I tried to talk about the weather

and my limited knowledge

about cars, baseball, politics.

I clutched the rod and it

shuddered in my

white-knuckled hands.

My father said nothing.

On the ride home from the lake

I thought about the worm.

I killed it, and now I was going to hell.

We didn't catch any fish

despite our sacrificial slaughters.

My cheeks burned.

I was not a boy.

I did not know about NASCAR

I did not know about grilling

and I did not anything about fishing.

Mom promised that he loved me,

but what good was a daughter

to a man who didn't understand

the importance of

sleepovers, two-piece bathing suits

or Aaron Carter? What is a daughter

worth to a man like that?

The tackle box

of neon, plastic, ugly

fishing lures

had the answer.

A daughter

is worth

a lot.

Wittle Boy

Underneath my shirt is my skin

Underneath my skin is my heart

Underneath my heart lies a lost boy

Not a man but a boy, lost within himself

Underneath the boy, the man he sees himself becoming

Underneath who he wants to become, Success

Not only financially, but in all aspects,

Life, Love, Happiness

Behind all of this restraint

Stress from what is expected of him

From what he expects from himself

Not knowing

Hesitation.

Afraid to bridge the gap between boy and man

Underneath it all?

Who I am…

It's days like today

First grade.
I'm trying to sleep,
and I hear a crash
across the hall.
I see the shadow,
and I know just what that was,
you threw your heavy glass bottle,
and mom just happened to be in the way.

So you left for two days,
and mom cried for two days,
and my sisters and I went to school unfazed.
So you thought.

In second grade, we built our own house.
But you , you were left behind.
And we'd visit on weekends,
if you were around,
most of this time
you'd sleep.

There was a breaking point that year,
when you pulled yourself out of the bathroom by your arms,
tomato faced,
bleeding sweat, pouring tears,
barf bucket in tow,
and you begged her not to take us.
You knew she'd take us.
We saw you less,
and less,
until the court orders told her,
she had to let us go.

You'd fight on the phone each time we were there,
a whole day was to long to watch your 0wn kids.
After the screaming match,
which we never understood,
you'd tell us how crazy she is,
and we believed you.

Because we were oblivious to what kind of a user,
a manipulator, a deceiving liar,
you actually were.
How could we believe you were an abuser?
So you thought.

In fifth grade,
after making it half way up the dreaded rope in gym,
I stopped at the water fountain on my way back to class.
And so did another boy,
our neighbor,
and do you know what he said to me?
He said
"hey, I saw them taking him away today, will he get to keep the money?"

He walked away laughing,
and so did I.
In an attempt to hide
what seemed
boiling hot
tears.

And those next five years,
you missed my middle school graduation
you missed my sweet sixteen
you missed my first day of high school.

And when the phone would ring,
I could always sense if it was you.
For the first time,
I knew exactly what you wanted me to do.
So you thought.

As soon as the monotone recorder came on,
telling me which button would lead me to you,
I hit the button,
the other button,
and I would hang up on you.
Because you hung up on us.

And when you came home,
I never wanted to leave you alone,
and you were different,
and you loved us,
and we loved you.

For a few months.

By tenth grade,
you stopped kissing the ground we walked on,.
And it's days like today,
when I'm putting on my lavender princess dress,
when I wish the court papers weren't in place
to tell you
to stay away.

It's senior year, Dad,
and tonight is prom,
and in a few months
I'm going away.
And you won't be able to catch up on all the lost time,
and you won't be able to apologize,
and you'll realize,
you left me,
and I'm doing just fine,
without you.
So you think.

Part 2

(sorry, i never write anything happy, but i hope you all like this)

I want more than just "I'm sorry"
Have you not taken enough?
Put back the pieces of me you broke
A desire to be whole
Give it back to me
Give me back the heart I gave to you
All you did was spit on it
And when you were through
I stayed broken
When I look at you
Can you see the ghost in my eyes?
My eyes, so dark almost black
Almost dead, from the twisted confusion you lead
I want more than just "I'm sorry"
This is my life
Doesn't matter if I move on, I'm scattered
Waiting, waiting and tired
So exhausted from the exertion
I meet someone else but
my heart is still with you
No matter how much I deny it
Incomplete till the last moment
And you won't even know
Even if I told you
You would not care
But I still wait for when you will
I still wait for when you see my tears
And know that I'm not okay
I want more than just "oh."
I want more than just "I'm sorry"
I want more than just the message on my cell phone screen
Cold and heartless, like you
I don't want to act crazy for your attention anymore
I don't want people to hate me
Because I can't help myself
I deserve more than just "I'm sorry"
But I guess you will never think so.

Idealistic thoughts

(Since I know some of you still will be reading the blog, I decided to put this one on even though many of you have already heard it. I still feel it's my best and I know it's Julia's fav *wink*)

This was how I imagined the conversation to go
Hey, how have you been?
Good, things have been working out well, you?
Yeah, you know how it is. Living the dream.
Good, good. I haven’t seen you in forever!
I know. There is so much to tell.
Yeah, there is. Want to go out to lunch so we can catch up?

And we talked for hours, all the laughs and sighs of a past history
The twinkling and fizzing of a renewed chemistry thought lost
Would I let myself bleed again for him?
Yes. A million times over.

His house, late at night in his bed
Over and over, an insane and wild passion unleashed
I would remember that body, slim and smooth
I would remember those eyes, dazzlingly deep blue
I would never have forgotten the way his neck curved under my kiss
Or the heat of flushed faces and careless little chuckles of enjoyment
Or our lips swollen from touching while I shivered in his warm embrace
The warmth
Warmth was what I would rejoice in
An indescribable warmth spreading to fingers and toes, a fire in my core
A fire in my very being
I would remember our first time,
Ten years later when I met him again
Hiding the pain far and deep
Never
For a moment
Let him see the blood he had drawn
Our bodies so familiar to one another, connected in perfection
And this time he would love me
He would love me still years later
The regrets of not admitting the truth
His gestures would be apologies,
Would accept with no question
Please stay, he would say
The two words I dream of
Curling up into his chest
Feeling soft kisses on my face
Together, is all that I wanted
Nothing but a dream of the future

A wasted wish with no hope
But I couldn’t deny it
If there was a way to cope
I would try it
Unable to let go of the past
Time keeps speeding by so fast
But I hear your whispers to me in the night
And then there is emptiness
You aren’t whispering to me, you don’t even know
Because there’s the undeniable hatred you show
I must wake to reality of hard dawn
Know that you aren’t beside me,
Fake pictures in my head I’ve drawn
I lied to myself for so long
Thinking you’d love me, so wrong
A slap on the cheek
Was all that I needed
To you I’m just that freak
Who never succeeded.

Blog Love

I hope that some of you return here after the haze of prom weekend has worn off. When you do, I want you to take a minute and revel in how AMAZING you are. You have woven a web of words that is full of pain and fear and sadness but also exuberance and joy and survival. It is breathtaking, all of it, and I am so very proud of each of you. So check out the poems and the comments about your work and others, if you haven't already. And keep posting here. Please. It makes me happy and humbled and inspired, not just as your teacher, but as a fellow writer. Have I said how much I love my job? Thanks.

Aches and Pains

This feeling,
this ache
that I have
started out small at first
these thoughts
were just flying, fleeting
surfacing only as raindrops
sticking to my skin
under the
rhythmic pitter-patter
of another afternoon thunderstorm in the middle of July.
This feeling,
this ache
has festered into
the corners of my heart
the split-ends of my hair
the space between my toes
the slope of my hips.
I was twelve.
And it had only just begun to rain.

It started with the scale
with neon numbers flashing, glaring
back at me
changing everyday
making me wonder how I was growing so fast
how everyday I was falling farther and farther away
from the orange-haired
freckle-faced girl
with grass stains on the knees of her jeans
who had size 0 hand-me-down sundresses
waiting in the closet.

And now,
while it's still about the scale,
it's also about the mirrors
the inches
the stores
the sizes
the stares -
Stares that I will never return.
But you will never get to know that
I have been suffocating
underneath the weight of myself for years
that I have been hungry, but never smaller
that I have been anxious, but never afraid
that most of the time I look in the mirror
and do not recognize the thick, unforgiving curves
staring back at me
that instead
I expect to see the girl with grass on the knees of her jeans.

And if I could,
I would shake her and tell her
stop
just breathe, little girl
your soft, speckled skin
and your short, stick-like legs
are beautiful.
If you only knew
it has only just begun to rain.

But that girl is nowhere to be found.
And no amount of sweat, tears, or hunger
is going to bring her back.
But I will never confess to you
that's what I have been
trying to do
to fit into the breath of space
between this size and the next
to shrink back into nothing
to float effortlessly somewhere else
anywhere else
where I can't analyze
the corners of my heart
the split ends of my hair
the space between my toes
the slope of my hips
the destruction scene they have become
and neither can you.

I will speak just this once
vaguely, quietly
so you can't get too close
to the numbers circling in my head
so you can't pity me.
you can only sit with me
and listen
to the pitter-patter of the rain,
the staggering bounce of my breathing
and wait for me to say something
anything
because all I can do
is lie on my back
with my face pointed towards the gray sky
with the rain dampening my outspread arms
with salty tears sliding slowly
silently
down my cheeks,
with my mind drifting in and out of consciousness
dreaming about the day I will walk by a mirror
and yearn to see
what I now despise
and I will tell that girl
stop
just breathe
I think the rain is stopping now
falling lightly now
It's okay to look,
and think about where
this feeling,
this ache
began.

A Haiku For Frank

Frank Smith is the best
He is also a great man
His face warms my soul.

A Day in July

I remember your face so clearly;
distressed, fighting back vulnerability
on the outside
but falling apart on the inside.
You came in first, she was behind you,
but she did not try to hide the pain on her face.
The tears were already forming salty rivers
down her cheeks as
she tried to control her uneven breaths,
but her unsteady hands gave her away.
You spoke first
as we sat dumbstruck,
confused. Even when you told us we
should have known,
should have seen it coming,
we didn't know,
didn't see anything.
You finally allowed the tears to fall
and so did we.
My silence scared you
but I wouldn't speak;
my opinion didn't matter at that point.
I was too young to understand,
too innocent to realize that love could die
and people change
but it wasn't our fault.
What could we have done differently?
was on repeat in my brain,
only adding frustration when I could not
find an answer.
I don't remember how you left us on that
day in July, or if we left first;
or what you said to comfort us
because nothing could.
I do know that was the only day
I ever cried about it;
after that I fought back vulnerability
just like you.

The way it is

Under my shirt is my skin
under my skin is my heart
under my heart is eternal life
that has been promised on paper
and in words.

Under that is a new found joy of life
that carries my heavy body through seven school bells each day.
A joy that disguises the loneliness and instead
shows off my fake toothed smile.

Under my smile is a list of woes
a list that is shortened every answered request
and then lengthened again
at dawn with the new day ahead.

Under each new day is a chance to share what is the purpose of life
a chance to raise my hand when no one else will.
A chance to ask the girl sitting alone everyday
"wanna hang out?"

Under that is an awkwardness erased by the comfort of a powerful spirit
a comfort that slows down the beating of my heart
and allows each of my mixed emotions
to pour out.

Under each mixed emotion is a want for earthly desires
that never last
and never fulfill.
That I forget the next day,
that are beneficial only to myself.

Under the mixed emotions also lies
the question of why no one wants to hear,
what I love to do,
what I want to share.

I want to share what's most important to me
My sport, my hobby, my way of living.
But you,
you turn your head and ignore me,
you want nothing more than to ignore me.

You comment about me when I'm not around,
you've stopped smiling at me in the halls.
I'm a "Jesus Freak" and that's not allowed,
So what,
I hide my passion,
and then I fit in?

Not a chance.

Pilgrim Lodge

Butterflies while driving up the long, dirt camp road

The cookout tables

The fire for marshmallows and song

The capture the flag field

Trees surrounding us

The sign

Holding my stomach to keep it from bursting of nerves

The line of cars, suitcases on the white pebbles

The lodge, the cabins, the swings

The lake showing itself through the scattered trees

Familiar faces all around

Sparkling smiles and excited voices

Running to hug friends who came from a distance

Hugging everyone actually

What is it about this place?

The amazing people, the location

The activities, the atmosphere

The music, the bell

The peacefulness, the excitement

The memories created

Ice cream time

No, not quite…

Just indescribable

Who I Am

I am a walking enigma, even to myself.
I am a person filled with joy and happiness one moment
And I am a person filled with despair and sadness the next.
I am completely normal. But then again, who is to say what normal is?
I am going to change the world, one step at a time, even if it takes more than a lifetime.
I am the son of a mother who has always been there, even when she didn’t know it.
I am the son of a father who has done so much, and still leaves something to be desired.
I am the brother of a boy whose intelligence never ceases to amaze.
I am the brother of a girl who took the focus off of me, and I couldn’t thank her more.
I am the oldest child, the favorite grandchild, and the one expected to do the most.
I am sometimes overwhelmed by expectation, but only that of my own creation.
I am called smart, and I’ve let it get to my head.
I am smart, except I shouldn’t flaunt it.
I am patient when I need to be,
And I am irrationally impatient when I don’t need to be.
I am hours spent in self-examination, with only a few paragraphs result.
I am a man who loves his friends, and it seems the ones furthest away are the closest.
I am not one to forget something if I care about it.
I am trying to be willing to help anyone, to the point of forgetting about helping myself.
I am called to help everyone, to the point of forgetting about helping myself.
I am a Romantic by nature, but rationalist by training.
I am to spend a lifetime trying to find someone,
I just wish I knew who.
I am under the impression that all good things come to an end only because we let them.
I am a reader, if I could only make the time to actually prove it.
I am a listener, because being quiet will do that to you.
I am an observer, but only of the things of which I care.
I am a rocker, or at least I would be if I could play my guitar a little better.
I am a lover and not a fighter.
I am in need, and my only wish is that I am needed.
I am a nerd, but that’s ok, because I know it, and am proud of it.
I am an athlete that plays sports for the enjoyment of having people around me.
I am consumed by music, whether it be playing in my ears or in my head.
I am blessed by my God, but only because a curse is just a blessing with an ugly face.
I am devout to my friends and my family, but to my God first and foremost.
I can do all things through He who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13
I am going to be remembered, whether it is by one person or by the world.
I am no longer afraid.

The Universal Mask

Our true identities are safe from view,
Hiding ourselves behind a mask of cheer.
How long can we keep this unnatural hue?

A mask of happiness covers what's true,
With feelings hidden deep in our own world,
Our true identities are safe from view.

With the masks' cover we are made anew,
A porcelain smile is our cover but
How long can we keep this unnatural hue?

We fear we are watched animals in a zoo.
Inside everybody's hiding something,
Our true identities are safe from view.

The world, unkind, unfeeling, has no clue,
We just want to feel safe in our own skin.
How long can we keep this unnatural hue?

Hiding ourselves behind a mask of cheer,
Our true identities are safe from view.
How long can we keep this unnatural hue?

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,
Do you know who I am?
I'm your son, we live in the same house together.
You're usually working, talking on the phone to an unknown voice
arguing over reports and money.
Do you remember when we stopped being close?
Do you remember why?
All I remember is being young and tired,
and you would carry me on your shoulders.
And I remember walking the dog in the woods with you,
tripping over my shoelaces as I followed you along the path
while you whistled at the dog to stay close.
I remember being excited when you came home from work,
I remember embracing you and feeling safe as I did so.
I remember you and I, Dad.
I remember wanting to be like you, why can't I feel that anymore?
One day you and I will wake up, and we'll be us again.
Until then, I miss you.
Love,
Your son.

The Next Chapter

The “Senior Slide” is beginning to hit,
as graduation looms around the corner.
A major chapter in our lives is about to end
and we don’t know what is next.

I know I am not the only one
scared to leave all of this. Scared to leave
my family, scared to leave my friends, scared
to live on my own, scared to finally have to
grow up. Scared the best years of life aren’t
ahead but behind me.

The next chapter brings what we all hate,
the unknown.
New faces, new buildings, new atmosphere.
It is only human nature
to fear what we do not know.

The next chapter brings the unknown,
but we can't let ourselves
forget the "known."
We all have to remember growing
up together and where we came from.

Layers

Underneath my shirt is my skin
Underneath my skin is my heart
Underneath my heart is a young boy
Full of optimism, “How’s your day going mom?”
Underneath the pleasantries,
are years of heartache and worry
Too much stress from too many sources
School, college, work, scholarships
Looking back now maybe it was just one source.
Underneath that is the constant lecture
Of I told you so’s that seem to rain down like a hurricane.
Underneath my heart resides a vacant spot
Waiting to be filled up by life.
Underneath that is the hope that one day
I can look back and see a journey not a destination.
Underneath that is the belief that the little boy is not lost forever
That at some point the waves of the storm
Will push me to a safe beach where everything is fine.
Underneath my heart lives a question
What do I want?
Underneath that lives a road with so many forks
It appears as if I am in the middle of some vast ocean.
Who knows what direction is right or wrong? Seriously
Underneath that is faith
Faith that someday I will see a sunny beach
With bright blue skies.

Mom

It’s May tomorrow.
The time of year when
Those lilacs you love,
They pop from the buds
On the trees in our yard
Puncturing the stale winter air
With white and purple aromas
And when I was little dad would
Hold me up to the branch with scissors
So I could cut some down for you
And hold them in my little hands
Out to you, under the bright lights
In the chaos of post-performance.
I was barely as high as the top
Of your bunched, pink legwarmers
When you taught me my first step,
You danced through those years
And in the breath of your floral skirt,
I followed you
Looked up at you and wished on stars
And satin ballet slippers
For half of your grace.
You belonged on the stage
But even when you put away those
Leotards and pointe shoes for good,
Hung them on the window where they
Still gather dust,
Your poise followed you always
Through life
It’s May tomorrow.
And 4 Mays ago
I thought I might have seen you
Dance for the last time.
I know I didn’t look at you the same
In that hospital bed as I did on that stage
I know that when I held your hand
Puffy from the chemo
And helped you brush away the clumps of hair
From your pillow
I didn’t seem willing
I didn’t seem caring
I know that my eyes didn’t shine for you
On slow walks through the Gibson wing
Pushing your IV cart
Bringing hospital lunches
And cards
And gifts
But no flowers
Because of the germs
To your white washed room
Like they shone for you
After Ballet Doll or Banana Phone
When I was 5
And all I knew was your light.
And I know that I ran
From what I saw
Robbing you of that brilliance,
My ears still pound sometimes
With the screaming
Shattered porcelain and fights
I never meant to cause
Angry, terrified
Words
I never meant to say
I know I made it seem like
I-tunes and Jake’s party and
High school
Were more important than you
And I’m ashamed
Of all the days I let go by
In silence
When I had watched Dad cry,
Every day was a new battle for you
And it threatened every day
To take you away,
I was scared.
But what you don’t know
Is that I was just as proud
Of your spirit
That jingled in the angel charm
Hanging from your IV cart
That resonated in the singing card,
“You’re a survivor”
That warmed you in the prayer quilt
The church made for you
That fought hardest
When your body was weakest.
Your strength was my strength
And I know it should have been
The other way around
And I don’t know if you know that
I’m sorry
That tomorrow is May
And 4 Mays ago
Every day became an unknown
And I still haven’t told you
That underneath who we’ll never be again
Is who we are
And I’ll never stop dancing
Because you never stopped dancing

Memory

Where memories are made,
is often not where they end,
Like the roots of a tree,
the branches transcend

Where pain has begun,
Is only a silver lined cloud,
Which looms in your mind,
'till the pain has been cowed

Where growth takes its stand,
In the soil of affliction,
Is a field of good fortune,
Where prosperity's an addiction

And to those who suffer,
By the hand of distress,
Fear not and have hope,
For you always progress

Another Step-mom

Engagement number four
Why do you expect me to think she's any different?

You met her at a bar
While you were on a date with someone else.

Engagement number four
Wearing the same ring as number three?

It's obvious she's crazy
Just look at her criminal record.

Engagement number four
Don't expect me to be nice.

She let her husband die
And you refuse to see her wrong.

Engagement number four
I'll give it another month.

tough break, kid

the universe is governed
by shit and irony;
get used to it
or kill yourself.

Great Haiku

I am done with school
we are all now done with school
say goodbye to school

Depression

Roses are red
Violets are blue
We're going to college
And i'll miss you

Swine Flu

The problem we are facing
in this germ infested nation
is the disease out of the blue,
the dreaded swine flu.

Causing problems left and right
forcing citizens to fight
for the right to education
in this germ infested nation.

The flu has claimed the life of one
to show its destruction is not done
so lets join together in this war
to make this disease no more.

Almost

I look outside and almost see
a summer filled with sun and glee.
The days packed with such promised fun
are close; it's almost graduation!
But at a time that I should be glad,
I often find myself almost sad.

When I look back to remember old days
I find it hard to believe it's almost May.
I can't bring myself to depart from my friends
or think that my childhood could almost end.
Even with the future full of new people to meet,
I still find it all almost bittersweet.

Uncertainty and nerves follow almost everywhere I go,
and the desire to thank all who helped me to grow.
I don't know if they understand how much they mean,
but they've been shoulders upon which I could almost lean.
I'm almost unsure if I'll know what to say
when it finally becomes graduation day.

One glance outside and now I almost fear
that summertime is almost here.
To reflect on things I've almost won
and to think that I am almost done,
I'm proud to say I'm almost there,
then I stop and wonder...
Almost where?

Sister

There is a girl I know
Light brown eyes
Soft, delicate skin
A smile that could light up a room.

Girls want to be her
Guys want to date her
Teachers respect her
Her parents and her brother love her.

But she looks in the mirror
At her light brown eyes
Her soft, delicate skin
And she sees nothing.

Her eyes are filled with hatred
Her palms begin to sweat
And she reaches for some pills
And a knife.

She gets in her car
She opens the bottle
And swallows the pills
Until she is numb.

She lets the knife cut her skin
She watches the blood run down her wrists
She begins to breathe deeply
And waits for the end.

There is a girl I know
Light brown eyes
Soft, delicate skin
Graduating college at the top of her class.

And now she looks in the mirror
At her light brown eyes
Her soft, delicate skin
And she sees what everyone else sees.

She doesn't know that girl in the car anymore.

The Spirit of Arcadia

Have you ever lived with twenty five girls, for seven weeks?

I'll give you some advice,

Don't unless you're ready to be deeply attached.

The first time we all met, 

I wasn't sure if I would like them.

Rubbing my sweaty palms vigorously together,

I tried to hid the nervousness that coursed through my body. 

Was it possible to be friends with complete strangers?

Yes, I soon found.

It was the little things that brought us together.

Having a swimming buddy, who wasn't afraid to dive into the icy cold water.

Or someone to roll down the grassy hill, head first.

A friend who sang just as loudly as me at 8AM.

As summers passed,

I spent most of the winters waiting impatiently to return.

I missed the unbearably hot nights, where we'd stay up hours beyond "lights out."

The simple mindless games we created when there wasn't anything else better to do,

And even the little spats the broke out for who know what reason.

These girls had become sisters.

Feeling no pressure, I was able to be my true self.

We laughed, cried and fought,

Only to find it was increasingly harder to leave each other behind.

I felt like I wasn't whole with them not around.

Things haven't changed since our last year at camp.

When we see each other, its like we never parted.

Have you ever lived with twenty five girls?

Just see what happens.   

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is is my skin
Under my skin is my heart
Under my heart are the words I never meant to say,
or atleast wish I hadn’t,
and the harsh, slurred words that danced out of my father’s mouth
and pierced the air in return,
which he probably never meant to say either,
but I’ll never know,
because I was never told “Sorry.”
Under that is a door slammed out of frustration,
an aggravated scream that sneaks its way around the cracks of the door frame
for the rest of the world to hear.
Under that are the awkward, silent days following, dragging on
for what seems like an eternity until you realize you need to talk,
because he’s the only one who can pass you the ketchup at the dinner table.
Under that are my mother’s pleads, begging me to end the tension,
and my refusal. “If he won’t talk, then neither will I.”
Under that is a swirl of emotions;
Anger.
Disgust.
Guilt.
Regret.
Under that is realizing I only have one father,
and he’s not so bad, even if he makes a mistake or two here and there.
Under that is love,
and an apology.
“I’m sorry.”

Pieces

I remember you,
In your car that was at least as old as us
That night
The red glow of the stoplight
Through the windshield on you as I
Stole sideways glances at you
The whole way home.
Basketball logo
On the hat pulled down over your eyes
Those little green numbers of your car clock
Read 12:03
Just past midnight and
The streets empty
Quiet
I don’t remember what we said
What we talked about at all
But I remember you,
An image so clear it feels tangible
Your one hand on the top of the wheel in
The red glow of the stoplight
I stole sideways glances at you
The whole way home.

Some obscure note of an old song
Reminds me of you
A wave of memories and
I imagine the click, click, click
Of a mental slideshow
I remember you,
But you’re like a million different pieces
Of pictures I’ve tried to tear up
Scattered on my bedroom floor
Thrown in fury against a wind that
Keeps blowing them back to me
Glued together, pieced together
Haphazardly
And they rest in the back of my mind
Not all of you,
Not everything
Just snapshots
Moments
Frozen, eternally, in time

untitled

the truth is,
we are all scared
and
we are all brave.
we are all built of opposing forces
and influenced
and created and shaped and molded
and transformed
into who we are becoming.

the truth is,
it's not about who that person is.
because
by the time we figure that out,
we will be different.
because we are growing
and learning and changing and listening
and understanding,
slowly understanding,
ourselves
each other
the world around us.

as humans,
we deal with challenges every day.
it becomes our choice
how to overcome them,
what to do
to make that challenge,
somehow,
less challenging.

but,
the truth is,
we don't know
how to do that.
so we let it build up
and break down
in endless cycles.
and we try to get by
learning how to deal with it
the best we can.

all that i want
is to spread all of my love
and watch it grow.

From

I am From


I am from homecooked meals, handsewn dresses
and handpainted t-shirts made from love.
I am from the bliss of summertime,
boat rides, and lying on the beach under the baking sun.
I am from laughing so hard your stomach hurts,
roller coaster rides, and long nights
spent looking at stars.
I am from sand in my toes, wind in my hair, sun on my skin.
I am from a best friend who acts
as the sister I never had,
who I can share life secrets with.
I am from a dedicated father who moved his family
from Maine to Texas and back again.
I am from Portland, a city of close houses
and close neighbors.
I am from Glenburn, a town that never
had a high school and probably never will.
I am from Dallas, a city of fancy cars and country club neighborhoods
where people lead secret lives behind closed doors
I am from Gorham, where it “takes a village to raise a child,”
and I blossomed from child to young adult.
I am from family road trips, books on tape, camp fire stories,
and “short cuts” that aren’t so short.
I am from the wild anticipation of the first snowfall,
the splendor of snow days, and the thrill of snow angels.
I am from cold chair lift rides, the pure joy
of getting first tracks on a freshly groomed trail,
and warming up with hot cocoa.
I am from a family of artists and musicians who live
by their own rules.
I am from a grandfather who knew the shame of poverty,
and a grandmother who wants nothing more than to make
her children smile.
I am from staying up too late, taking on too much, and complaining too often.
I am from high expectations, pressure, and self-drive.
I am from tears of frustration.
I am from striving for perfection but never achieving it.
I am from a time of economic struggle.
I am from effort, love, and inspiration.
I am from...

Yes, This Is My Poem

I’m not good at writing; I don’t know why I try,
Mostly, I think, because I have to get by.
Everyone else is amazing, I know,
But for some strange reason, my amazingness doesn’t show.

I work and I try really hard I swear!
But sometimes it makes me want to rip out my hair.
I pretend to shrug it off, like it is nothing,
When really I want it to turn into something.

So with no confidence I’ll continue to write,
Staying up late, much too late in the night.
With coffee beside me and some scratch paper near,
I work something out, but not anything good I fear.

I don’t even know why I’m rhyming this piece,
I didn’t intend to, it was just a release
Of feelings I have for the moment, but soon
I’ll feel different again, like say, tomorrow afternoon.

It is now 11:00 at night and I’m tired,
My bed is all warm and I want to retire.
Wait a minute, what’s that I see?
I just created a poem…wow that was easy.

A Memory in Hiding

Is it hiding in the pocket of your favorite jeans,
ripped and torn from years of wear, sprawled
on the floor next to piles of clothes with the
price tags still attached, never worn?

Is it cowering behind your quivering pillow,
fearful you might spot it and never let go?

Is it struggling to grip the underside of the
dining room table, waiting for dinner to finish
so it can find a better hiding place?

Is it covered in mineral powder as it tries
to camouflage itself in your makeup bag?

Is it suffocating at the bottom of your backpack,
swimming in books never read and calculus
homework never started?


Do you let it hide or do you search for it?


Do you search for it in dark alleys late at night,
with only the sound of your hurried footsteps
echoing in your ears?

Do you turn your fingers bloody trying to dig
up the memory buried deep in the concrete?

Do you look deep inside the aching walls of
your heart hoping to find something, anything,
but knowing you've exhausted everything?

What do you do?

Hair

I hate my hair,
I look like a bear,
Not a cute bear,
But one that would scare,
Children.

I wake up every day,
With my head covered in hay,
Or what looks like hay,
But who am I to say,
That .

In the mirror where I stood,
I look like I live in the hood.
I will just wear a hood.
I wish that it would,
Grow.

I try to brush it,
But that doesn’t do shit.
It’s the same color as shit,
I wish I could put it,
Up.

As I stood there and cussed,
I figured I’d trust,
A hat I can trust,
So I will just,
Leave.

I am from

I am from a loving family.
I have a mom who is a friend but demands respect,
A sister who is beautiful and funny,
and a brother who is intelligent and loving.
My family is there for each other through think and thin.

I am from a woman of patience.
But, a woman who still peels out of Dunkin Donuts when you get her order wrong.
She is a woman who is free-loving, but confrontational at times.
I am from a woman with heart.
A woman who can do anything she puts her mind to and who teaches me the same thing.

I am from a woman of compassion.
She shows us how to be nice, loving, and accepting of others.
I am from a woman with a tremendous amount of stress.
Day in and day out she goes to work at three in the morning.
She works overtime to give us some luxuries of life.

I am from a woman of courage.
She shows courage in so many ways than one.
I am from a single mom with three children.
But she sticks her head up high and goes through life with pride, love and compassion.

I am from Superwoman.

I Am From

I am from a family of blue eyes and blonde hair.
I am from parents who were raised in a small town
and chose to do the same with their children
I am from a family who would rather live in a small cabin on the lake
than in a mansion in the city.
I am from a family that believes duct tape can solve
any problem.

I am from a family that is faced with challenges everyday.
I am from a mother who has worked in retail all her life.
I am from a father who has struggled to keep a job.
I am from a grandfather who is losing a piece of his mind everyday,
and I am from a grandmother who struggles to keep him on track.
I am from an aunt who is so much like me that we can’t get along.
I am from a father who has so many reasons to be happy,
but rarely is.
I am from a grandfather that is unable to live his own life,
and I am from a grandmother who lives that life for him.
I am from a father who loves me, but has a hard time showing it.
I am from a mother who works hard everyday
and doesn’t get what she deserves.

I am from a family that will do anything to help each other.
I am from a mother who beamed me in the leg
so I wouldn’t fear the ball.
I am from a father who is always there for support,
no matter what it may be.
I am from two sets of grandparents who are complete opposites,
but are willing to put differences aside to help.
I am from a grandmother who is everything I want to be.

I am from entrepreneurs.
I am from downers.
I am from care-takers.
I am from struggles.
I am from love.

Sudden thoughts

Fighting for others around me
Making my individuality known
Preaching independence and bold words
I'm that girl that appears not to care
Free feelings, free emotions
I'm that girl that they call "too much"
I'm that girl that defends herself
The girl that demands respect
Right?
I am a lie.
I live in a glass house
That falls on me
again and again.
A weak and frail heart keeps me going
Let myself be beaten, used
Disrespected, hated.
I am hated.
Shunned by people who can fake it
Too tired, given up on lying
I stalk the shadows
Watching the world go by
Wondering why I've never been a best friend
Wondering who's out there fighting for me
Wondering when i'll stop hearing
about reputation and popularity
They do exist
But hopefully not
In the real world
Will I find that I am still not good enough?
What will happen if I fail?
Will I still be alone?
I am not going to be that girl anymore.

Memories

High School is nearly over.
College is around the bend.
So many things to do,
So many things to think about,
So many things to look back upon,
So many things to be grateful for.

Aviators
Braces
Chevy trucks
Debit card
Energy drinks
Fairs
Grandparents
High School
I-pods
Julie
Kids
Lacrosse
My pillow
Norman
Opportunities
Peanut butter sandwiches
Quirky friends
Re-re (teddy bear)
Smiles
Teachers
Unlimited texting
Virginia Tech
Walking
Xtreme Maine weather
Youth
Zillions of embarrassing moments

Love Ya

What do you say to someone who you feel comfortable around,
but not so comfortable that:

You know you the echoing sound of their footsteps
coming up the stairs to your front door?

Love Ya.

Or can trust them with every secret
like the time you farted in Hallmark
and had to hide in the candle isle letting the aromas of Pine Fresh and Strawberries ‘N Cream
cover up the smell while your laughter masks your embarrassment
and any sound that may or may not escape?

Love Ya.

Or can cry on the phone to them when
Sam, Harry, Billy-Bob, Clark, Mark, Al, Tracy
broke your heart?

Love Ya.

Or tells you they are on their way to come pick you up
and drive you away to somewhere,
probably nowhere,
but you say yes because you know
wherever you go it will be fun?

Love Ya.

Don’t confuse Love Ya with Love You.
They are not equal.
Saying they mean the same is like saying
Pizza by Angelo and Angelo’s Pizza taste the same.
If you don’t get that reference,
when I hang up the phone after talking to you for
46 minutes and 54 seconds,
the last words that come out of that cell phone speaker
and glide into your ear are:

Love Ya.

Change

No Bedtime.
No Curfew.
No T.V. Restrictions.
No Rules.
I was always right,
they always got in trouble,
I had more presents,
and all the attention...

I'm the spoiled brat?
Yeah? I'd trade it for the
world...

To not be alone.
To not be the one that saw tradition
die.
To not have to see all my brother's lives
move on while I'm still stuck
here.


You got it all wrong.
They are the one's that have had it all,
not me.

Remember

Remember all the times.
All the times we had.
The times when you were so frustrated
because you couldn't win.
Yet you never yelled,
you never cursed.
The times when you would manage to put a smile on your face
when you wanted to cry.
The times when you would make me laugh
without even saying anything.
You didn't need to.
I remember them.
Remember all the people you helped.
No matter what,
you were always there.
Remember every day
when you were a better person
than any of us could strive to be.
Remember us.
All of the times we had together.
Your love for racing,
and your love for people,
no matter who they were.
Because of this,
we remember you,
and we always will.

The Choice- a lost poem

I made over everything that day in the lake
As the sun set in Nicaragua.
A new era of me.
The battle against bad
In my sacred heart
Had come to an end.
My choice. My faith. My passion.
His love. His promises. His kingdom.
Our friendship. Our issues. Our heaven.
A godly event of fresh starts
And happy endings but still
Stumbling everyday from temptations.
I was born. I was baptized. I am saved.

Seven Minutes

The sweat drips down below your eyebrow, stinging your eye.
And the drops of blood trickle down, staining your knee and sock.

The bruise from yesterdays game has already turned blue.
And your muscles ache as you strain to be the strongest, fastest, smartest person out there.

Your hands are on your knees, resting, as the exhaustion has hit you.
But the phosphorescent lights on the scoreboard still read 7 minutes.

Then you remember,

Each weight you lifted, each fitness test you struggled through.
Every game you have played in, win or lose.

Every coach who has taught you.
Every referee you have argued with.

Is what got you to this exact moment.
You have 7 minutes to complete what you stepped out onto that field to do.

All the cleats you have tied,
All the hands you have shaken,
All the tears you have shed,
All the laughs you have had,
All the memories that will never be lost,

And suddenly.......you realize that it was all worth it.

Confrontation

a gulp of breath
a glance at the ground
a shuffle of feet
you make the first sound

a reach for my necklace
a waiver of voice
a clench of the fist
you made the choice

a turn of the face
a sigh of stress
a shutting of eyes
this is a mess


a stillness, suspension
a sign of regret
a close-hearted hug
what a good thing we met

World Championships

I chug a bottle of Gatorade,
take a few bites of my Powerbar,
and rehearse my steps with my hands.
Unsure of myself at one moment,
but confident the next,
I take a deep breath
and glance through the velvet curtain.

Five judges stare blankly at the stage
This is my chance,
Two minutes,
Best performance,
No room for hesitation.

Silence, then "Number 59"
My heart pounds louder with every step I take
Adrenaline surges through my body in preparation
of the challenge ahead
The bright stage lights blind me as I become
acutely aware of the heat emitted from them
The sound of the accordian becomes distant
as my feet keep rhythm to an intrinsic beat
Blood rushes to my calves, my legs warm and heavy
as I frantically try to keep them in motion.

My heartbeat becomes lounder
the pulsing blood rushes through my ears
drowning out the sounds,
as if I were underwater.

Inhaling deeply through my nose,
thumbs clenched in a sweaty fist,
I finish louder,
more confident,
more powerful.
I bow, exhausted,
but exuberant
I walk off-stage with my legs weak underneath me.
I do not need to hear the results to know that I am a champion.
There is glory in a job well done.

Remember?

It was the creak of a swingset
that you put together
one
two
three times
where I pumped my legs back and forth
reaching, reaching for the sky with my toes
guided by your gentle pushes against my back.
It was the blue plastic ropes twisted four times
that I held onto tightly,
eyes shut, hair whipping as I gained momentum;
Spinning, dizzy, trying to walk straight ahead
Avoiding acorns hidden beneath the grass
that threatened to bite at my fragile feet.
It was your reassuring grasp,
your giant hand
swallowing my tiny fist in a warmth
that let me know everything would be fine.
It was a place far away
in time and distance
that reeked of chlorine and burnt hot dogs
and a secret sadness behind too-big smiles
and forced laughter;
the last day was supposed to be better.
It was the velvety touch of the water on our skin
in the heat of a summer night
underneath the bug ridden lights
that illuminated our man made waves and
revealed bats flying like marionettes
against the backdrop of a midnight sky.
But it wasn't the days you cried,
pleading with red eyes,
your once confident hands now unsure,
quivering, unable to hold mine;
the days I had to convince you
everything was okay.

idiot box

click
static
adjust
static
adjust
a voice a picture
change it
34
41
70
68
99
what do you see
see violence and death
rape and murder
exploitation and humiliation
static
static
static
blinding
blinking
flashing
bright bright bright
"here's the up to date coverage of the daily genocide"
.
.
.
"good, now that that's drained of novelty, here's the 6 hour premire of america's next top skank"
buy buy buy
sell sell sell
what do you want?
we got it!
whatever it is...
and if we don't
3rd world slave labor will have it to you in a week
27
81
13
individuality is being advertised at 20 bucks a pop!
what a deal right!
do this
don't do this
think that
don't think that
right!
wrong!
left
right
a media whore's a meida whore
more violence and death
more rape and murder
more exploitation and humiliation
oh boy, this one's my favorite!!!
TVMA
SLVD
fcc
fcc
fcc
what am i talking about?
do you kno?
cause i sure as hell don't
...or do i
you'll never kno
...or will you
CLIFFHANGER
static
static
static
static
static
mommy says:
little johnny, why don't you go out and play?
little johnny says:
fuck that

To My Former Friend:

I never thought that things would turn out this way
And it’s sad to see they did.
I try to place the pieces together
But I can’t seem to find the missing one
The one that will tell me where it all went wrong
Why we don’t speak anymore

I look back and remember,
Through the shattered pieces of glass,
Those days when you would talk to me,
The days when we were friends.

I’ve come to realize that people change,
But change is not always for the better.
I don’t know the girl you’ve become,
I don’t know what you did with my best friend.

There are parts of me that want to fight,
To fight to win you back,
To unleash these months of torture,
To let you know how much you’ve hurt me.
But then again, I’m just not like that.

So I walk through the halls in silence
And keep my distance purposefully,
But you forget that I can hear your malicious whispers
And my own name echoing in my ear.

I have heard you ask why this has happened
And what is wrong with me,
But I can assure you I am not the kind of girl
That will allow herself to be walked and paraded on.

I respect myself more than that.

So here is my letter of resignation,
I’m no longer interested in this so-called friendship.
I’ve packed up my memories
And I’m moving on.

I hope that in the future
You will value your friendships,
And know that if you want a true friend
You need to act like a decent one.

A friend is not a person who denies
Others the right to be themselves
And the room to grow.

Good Luck with that.

Poetry Workshop Piece- Facebook

Facebook! I can't wait to sit down in my black leather chair,
pull the up and down lever to MY height, not just anywhere.
Energy is crucial for facebooking.
I put up my feet, grab my 3rd coffee, and keep drinking.

I hear how people praise the internet:
"The best of this generation's technologies!"
Able to obtain news feeds, CD's, DVD's, phone fees, food recipes,
oh the conveniency! The infinite possibilities!

However the smooth mouse I'm holding is paralyzed,
because the home page keeps me mesmerized.
Facebook's addicting, conflicting, amazing, and fun,
"I'm just checking my notifications!"...You know I'm not done.

Facebook's got quizzes, bumper-stickers, flair, wall-to-wall,
everyone knows facebook has it all.
Messages, pokes, pictures, videos, it's the best!
It's got status', friendships, relationships, and...family friend requests?

MOM! You didn't get a facebook, did you?
You're embarrassing me, you're pushing 52!
Talking with all my friends, learning new trends,
gossiping with my ex-girlfriends, friend requests pends, with you it never ends!

It looks like my facebooking is done,
my mother's ended all my fun.
I have to delete my profile immediately,
before my friends remember me.

The kid who's mom got facebook,
I ask her if she knows the huge part of my life she's took?
"Hours on end on this site,
taking computer time to new heights!"

She points outside and brings me to the window.
I say, "So?"
She utters, "Take a great look,
there's more to life than facebook."

High School

She slept with who?
-What a slut!
He said what?
-What a Jerk!
She got a hundred?
-What a geek!

In high school,
perfection is impossible.

Rumors will be spread.
Girls will be bitches.
Guys will screw you over,
and your team won't always win.
Sometimes you will cry,
and sometimes you'll think it's not worth it.

But now it's senior year,
And as much as you want to leave,
you want to stay.
At least here you know what to expect.
And then you think, maybe high school isn't so bad.

Underneath

Under my shirt is my skin
Under my skin is my heart
Under my heart is the caress
Of that trampoline under a starlit sky,
The breath
And heartbeat of that summer
Keeping time as we twirled through the haze
Dancers in the sun,
Music box dancers in a rhythm of certainty.
Under that is the unexpected gentleness
Of the calloused hands,
The slippery breeze, on the hammock,
In the wet grass, hiding with a flashlight
Shining playfully
On the things the dark tried to conceal
There are no secrets here.
We were poised between two worlds and
Living off the rush of the mystery,
Captivated, but we got lost
Between two worlds that summer
Under the pulse was a missed beat
A stumbled step
Like a song we had never heard before,
Louder than the ones we knew by heart.
And under that is the burn
Of that same summer sun
The softness of that room that hid the shadows
Fear taught me to create.
Under that is the voice that never faltered, faltering
The eyes that never cried, crying
And under that is a whole mess of years
Of singing cards and footsteps on the creaky stairs late at night
And wondering if maybe
Those ghosts that stalk your mind
And stay with you,
Are really yours to keep anyway.
And under that is reality.
Laughter
Floating up to the rafters of
That universal ceiling under which
Life shines brilliantly.
And a few dusty miles away
Tears
Running in little black rivers of the mascara
She forgets why she cared about
As the sun fades from a life,
And the light from the eyes
Of those with the clammy hands
Shaking, shaking, shaking
And the car ride home and the guilt
Like the deep black cloak
Of the man we imagine
Taking away the things that we love,
That rides on the overwhelming waves
Of other people’s pain,
Tears that can’t change a thing
Laughter that lost its charm
And under that
Are questions.
But my voice is
Shaking, shaking, shaking
And the ground is
Shaking
Too
They say I’ll never understand,
But the songs we sing alone
Through empty, littered streets
In the convenience store glow
Of flickering street lamps at 2 A.M.,
Are set to the same music.
The spotlight is warm, then it’s blinding
The dancers are in tears, and they’re laughing
They’re lost
But the music plays on