Poetry

Tears are pain

They are thorns that stab your face

That prick you cheeks

Traveling down in a long chain

They fall without grace

Traversing as your heart shrieks

And tears are rain

A natural occurrence

Allowing new growth

A healing stain

A necessary disturbance

A tear is both

Light funnels through windows powdered by pollen.

Leaves like glass stained emerald green.

Down below

Stands a single lime tree.

Amber juice, petals whiter than the clouds above, lofty leaves weighed down by fruit.

Light rains down in a shower, 

And could wash the world anew.

Shine fruit to beads on a string of green branch and timber,

And put all other beauty to shame.

Marble seeds to hold such future,

Encased in juice bearing pulp.

Make ripe like a yellow sun,

Or fresh as the spring that has come.

Light funnels through windows powdered by pollen.

Leaves like glass stained emerald green.

Down below

Stands a single lime tree.

Amber juice, petals whiter than the clouds above, lofty leaves weighed down by fruit.

Light rains down in a shower, 

And could wash the world anew.

Shine fruit to beads on a string of green branch and timber,

And put all other beauty to shame.

Marble seeds to hold such future,

Encased in juice bearing pulp.

Make ripe like a yellow sun,

Or fresh as the spring that has come.

Picturesque

Deep lines down to bone.

All alone.

A garden.

Maybe it's eerie.

Maybe it's just calm.

Maybe it is the fact

That if I look close

To the petals they are

But glass and rubies.

Ghostly blooms of the pomegranate garden,

The garden in heck.

Down below.

Locked behind an ebony gate, gaping wide as if yearning for a visiter.

One to witness fake beauty,

And emptiness is all too real.

Picturesque

Deep lines down to bone.

All alone.

A garden.

Carve dark names into dark bark.

Call miming spirits that fade through ivory leaves.

The nature here,

Be not natural.

Supernatural.

This is the land of maybes

That maybe this land might not exist.

That maybe this un-blooming bud might become a jewel to crown mother nature.

One a brighter blue than any sapphire, or of a more shiny opaline hue than fine amethyst.

Maybe the world would die

Or maybe thrive.

Maybe we could make bond to last through spring,

Or spite each other at our cores.

Perhap we will never know,

Left to wander fields of orange flowers in this deep land of maybes.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe something.

This world of maybes is ever changing, ever growing.

Maybes become realities 

Or fade with the seasons.

Maybe never.

This i no fantasyland,

Nor are these maybes any less valuable than ruby roses.

This land is of our own creation.

These maybes are our futures.

To be fathomless.

A monster without scales or fins.

A force too large to conceive.

Unfathomable,

Intangible like a ghost of an idea,

Too far to reach,

Too far

Too far.

A spirit gone to whatever lies beyond the interlocking waves,

The machine that is the ocean,

And the gears that run between

Fathomless,

Lost to the deep,

The mystery,

The strange knocking in the night,

That won’t let you sleep.

Not the knocking,

But the festering thoughts of whatever could be creating such a sound.

To be fathomless.

A monster without scales or fins.

A force too large to conceive.

That you could drown in a notion,

And sink into the void of a stranger 

dark 

world.

It’s late.

And dark.

And the sky is brooding.

We get in the car, 

Glass windows like fine crystal.

Tonight at least.

There is an empty seat, directly in front of my own.

Tonight at least.

Not for long.

Warm air envelops the streets like a campfire spirit.

Cozy even in the darkest night.

Spectral lights illuminate the street in our wake.

Trees become splotchy silhouettes.

I’m pressing my palms and face to the windows.

My fingertips leave their spiraling marks on the pane.

The slim asphalt is a black river, black as pitch.

But we won’t drown.

Tonight at least.

We hit the highway.

Slowly, more vehicles emerge from the umbral fog.

Up above the charcoal canals, buildings spring casting their own glow to the streets.

Buildings to me skyscrapers

Maybe even castles.

Tonight at least.

Glass windows could be fine crystal.

Miracles could be reality.

Tonight at least.

Tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow will be bright, no dark that seems to consume our car in its jaws.

That void of an empty seat will be filled.

And I will be 13.

A teen.

That’ll be something

I muse as

We enter a tunnel.

We’re under the bay, I know.

A thought slips through.

And leaves as quickly.

What monsters could lurk in water’s murk?

Krakens?

Giant snakes?

None of that matters.

We are almost there.

We leave the tunnel.

No water in sight.

It's there ahead.

Glowing brighter than any spectral street light, brighter than the ghostly moon high above.

The car parks at the airport.

Yes, the airport.

We don’t need to wait.

No longer tonight.

The trunk opens with a satisfying click.

I hear suitcases fill the compartment.

The side door opens.

It’s late.

And dark.

And the sky is brooding.

They get in the car, 

Glass windows like fine crystal.

Tonight at last.

There is no longer an empty seat directly in front of my own.

Tonight at last.

I check the time.

12.

I’m thirteen.

And we are all together.

I beam which shines brighter in the dark evening.

Tonight at last.

Spectral lights illuminate the street in our wake.

Trees become splotchy silhouettes.

I’m pressing my palms and face to the windows.

Warm air envelops the streets like a campfire spirit.

Cozy even in the darkest night.

It welcomes us home.

All of us.

And to think.

One night could turn skyscrapers into castles.

Neat.

Middleschool is a place to be lost. It is one of the best places to be lost because frankly you often need to be lost to be found. You need to have an open mind if you want to embrace something new. Being found starts when you are lost. Lost. I have quite a few friends who are listening right now who are great artists. I have friends out here who love making these colorful and small paper cranes and dragons. On one particular day during our field trip to Great Barrington, one of my friends placed a small dragon, folded from  sunshine yellow paper into the clear blue-green water. We had never tried to float one before. It veered around, lost. It glided in circles until she set it right and it, graceful as a swan, departed away. We never saw it sink. When we start middle school, what are we? What were we? What did we do? What did we do wrong? How did we veer on and off course with social adjustments, tweaks? How did we find people to teach us, friends to guide us? Experiences to shape us? I can say I am everything I started as, with a little bit more. Middle school never started easy. 700 is quite a large pool of students for someone who came from a 200 student elementary school. Like an ocean that seemingly has no bottom. As if you could sink into the madness, the turmoil, the stress. But you didn’t. You made it here, you graduated and now are on a larger journey, a larger feat of an accomplishment, and with you today are all the people who taught you, who guided you. For better or worse. A little sticky-note raft. By the next day after the small paper dragon set sail, we returned to the lake’s edge and searched from the dock for it. Long gone. Maybe in a larger lake or an ocean. Maybe made its way to the sea, where it would be rocked by larger waves and greater storms. It could handle it. Middleschool sometimes feels like a blind course, foggy and strange. Sometimes that fog blocks the sunny shoreline. And yet, the fog will clear, and smooth sailing will resume. It is fine. It was fine, and in the end it will be okay. It is easy to forget that but even if that little piece of paper sank, we wouldn’t. We are a generation of potential. We will reach that shoreline and beyond until that camp out by the mountains will look like one small star, one memory in a galaxy. Middle school is a voyage but one that doesn’t truly end at highschool. The memories will never lose their value. There is no point A or B. Only open water. It's only our responsibility to float. Happy graduation 2025. 

This is helping people’s lives

                                                                                                        This is destroying lives

This is a peaceful democracy

                                                                    We are living in constant fear of the president

There has only been one wildfire this year

                                                                     A wild fire is causing millions to be displaced

Planes are safer than they ever have been

                                                                         Planes are crashing at a unbelievable rate

Another year is starting

                                                        We are about to start another year of dread and pain

Fish are breathing

                                                                                              The water is bubbling crazily

Down with the empire

Down with the empire

They scream

The empire is moving

All around me

Down with the empire

Down with the empire

They scream

The empire is running

All around me

Down with the empire

Down with the empire

They scream

The empire is sprinting

All around me

The empire is moving silently all around me

In the shadows of the night

The empire is moving loudly all around me

In the sun risen dawn

The empire is moving thunderously all around me

In noon’s full blaze

In noon’s fullest blaze

Caus’ its all around me

Caus’ its all around me

Through the screams, I hear the feet pounding the floor

All around me

One empire falls another starts

I don't know what to believe

Caus’ its all around me

Though

How can a fair government start on the base of a dictatorship

Sunburst bright,

Come to sear emblems to the golden world we tread,

Stamp our feet on the very plaque bearing our name.

Our message,

Our legacy carried by the tongues of flame whispering of us

Among the larger crackling fire.

Our trail tracks, back to times before embers.

Light at the end of the tunnel has never 

blazed brighter.

Burned better.

Scorch your trail,

Sparks but specks of amber in your midst.

Make your mark with every glowing dawn to rise,

Every fire to burn you,

Every failure that would otherwise extinguish you.

Sunburst bright,

Come to sear emblems to the golden world we tread,

Our own world as here,

Where our path ends,

We are no less golden.

Jewel to the crown of tyrant,

Is he not the whip too?

Perfect paradigm: wrong side of the farm.

Make the horse the ruby of blood, spill to the floor

Of all animals of manor farm,

Manor not Animal.

Anchor down a red sea of turmoil, down to depths they drown

With only one to thank.

Apple to the king’s eye,

Panpiper, harbinger to his tyranny.

The first to a chain of imprisonment,

Behind the smaller fools walk, unable to see over the beast’s might to the threat mere inches from their hooves.

Hands over freedoms of those once protected by hoofs as tall as mountains,

Betrayed to the force of the ever-ceasing winds.

One of the people,

The end of the people.

He is the lure of Napoleon’s metal hooks,

Baiting those to the end of the world.

Some days are boring

Dismal

Monotone.

Blacks, grays, and bones.

Duller than my pencil’s rounded lead.

Whiter than the flimsy paper I hold.

Her binder is white too

But the sticker on it isn’t.

Plastered across the boring plastic sheath is a pop of coral,

Shiny smooth,

Bright.

The little sliver of pink salmon on a plastic pile of rice.

Cartoon-like vibrance seeped from the emblem to the table,

To the floor.

She saw me looking.

And smiled.

Maybe, just maybe

Today wouldn’t be as boring

As dismal

As monotone as before.

I notice another pop of color.

She is painting a jellyfish,

Pastel ink runs off the wooden statue.

Lavender and seafoam green marble together.

Often times simple memories are the fond ones,

The ones that are remembered for being special in the moment,

And needing little else.

This memory surfaced from the sea,

Somehow surviving through much.

I don’t know where that jellyfish went.

I don’t know where the salmon sticker went either.

I don’t know where that friend went

I hope somewhere good.

As I stare

At this beautiful masterpiece

Fixing my hair

I wonder

Does this girl know

That in a year

She won’t be wearing a bow

She won’t smile at strangers

I look

I see myself

Staring back

Laughing with friends

She doesn’t care what they think about her

How they dress

Who they sit with

What they eat

I wish

I wish I could go back

Back to when we huddled under blankets

During sleepovers

Too scared that a monster was out there

I look at her

I smile

I wish

I wish I could go back

I’m the hero

I know I am

When I walk in the room

The mood shifts

They all stare in awe

Begging for signatures

Screaming in joy

Because everyone loves the hero

They watch me defend

From the hate evil gives

The golden shell in the sea of plain

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I’m the hero

Of course I am

I command the room to listen

Push till the mood shifts

If you don’t love the hero?

Well, you’re wrong

I’ll show you that you are

Because everyone loves the hero

Challenge my perfection

I challenge your life’s existence

Your little

Insignificant

Uninspiring

Worthless existence

The golden shell doesn’t need the rest

It shines enough on its own

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I’m the hero

I think I am

When I walk into the room

The mood shifts

They’re still staring

Just in fear

They’re still begging

Just for their lives

They’re still screaming

Just in terror

Challenge me?

Maybe YOU are the evil

I will destroy your hate

Because everyone loves the hero

...right?

Object poem

Megan Gleemen (Emma Glaneman)

To put a pen on the paper 

You must learn the ways of a writer 

To learn how to spend all night 

Clicking and clacking 

You use your pain like a 

Brush showing others how to feel loved 

But to write is  to know pain 

You never asked for 

A gift from the 

Heavens 

A gift better not spent 

To spend your gift 

Better not spent 

Will lead you to 

Pain Misery and death 

Those who have the gift 

Will write though 

It will lead to 

Nowhere anyone wants to go

Slant Rhyme 

Emma Glaneman

To the floor where I lay 

All that work in vain 

Seeing the little girl who 

Never new pain 

To the little 

Girl 

Who knew I was safe 

With you 

Too much time 

Spent one you 

Time that could have been 

Well used 

Precious days of her youth 

Where stolen by you 

Dreams and hopes 

All ruined by you 

Her kindness 

Replaced with a 

Heart of ice 

All because of you 

All this pain because of you 

She would be so ashamed of you 

But you is just me 

Who killed that little girl 

Just to feel seen 

By people who watched you kill her with glee 

She waits for the storm to come

For the rain to fall

For the lightning to strike

For the window to shatter

She knows the storm will come

It will have falling rain

Striking lightning

And shattered windows

She knows the storm will hurt

Her ears will pop with the cracking from the sky

Her hands will cut with the glass from the windows

Her skin will prick with the drops from the rain

She doesn’t stop the storm from coming

Even as the clouds begin to gray

As the light begins to fade

As the rumbling starts to grow

She knows the storm is happening

It’s obvious

By the water dripping down the shattered pane

By the ringing in her ears after the crack

By the little pricks on her skin

But she lives in the storm

Because she knows

Only after the storm

Can she appreciate the Sun.

You watch

as your comrades drown

in their own blood,

not thrashing and flailing as drowning

creatures often do.

And still you stay silent.

You watch

as your so-called ‘benevolent’

leaders slaughter your friends

and lie to their faces.

You watch

as your rulers paint

over the laws they had crafted

to fulfill their own desires.

And still you stay silent.

Perhaps you call them monsters in your head,

trying to justify yourself for your selfish deed.

Perhaps you think of them as

red-eyed shadow creatures that kidnap animals in their sleep,

sharp-toothed butchers with gleaming silver knives,

rotting decaying beasts peeling from their own greed.

Perhaps you call them monsters,

but the truth is

you’re the red-eyed shadow creature that kidnap animals in their sleep,

you’re the sharp-toothed butcher with gleaming silver knives,

and you’re the rotting decaying beast peeling from your own greed.

Because you stay silent.

You watch 

as your fellow animals

smile at the face of tyranny

while starving to death.

You watch

as the pigs get smarter and smarter

while the animals get dumber and dumber.

Yet still you stay silent.

You could have started a school.

You could have taught your comrades how to think.

Or at least, teach them how to tell

right from wrong,

oppression from protection.

Animals are dying,

from left to right,

torn apart by dogs commanded by

the one worshipped by all.

They’re dying with the last words of

“Napoleon is always right”

a faithful smile on their faces

and still you say nothing?

You think they wouldn’t have listened to you.

You think that you would have been killed.

But Boxer would have listened,

and with him, the other animals.

But you said nothing and escorted him to his death.

Your hooves are covered in animal blood.

Your face is painted with tears never shed.

Your voice is a caged bird, unwilling to sing.

Your mind is filled with the poison of shame and remorse.

Not regret. 

Never regret.

Because you stay silent.

You could have saved your best friend.

You could have saved those puppies,

you could have saved those chickens,

you could have saved everyone.

But you stayed silent.

And now your farm is littered with

dumb beasts, following the pigs

around like obedient little ducklings

because you stayed silent.

Now there’s no one left to listen,

because you stayed silent.

All those deaths,

you can add them to your kill count.

All those deaths,

because you were too afraid, too selfish, too cynical to care.

You can blame Old Major

for speaking of his dream in the first place.

You can blame wicked Squealer

for using his twisted tongue for moraless purposes.

You can blame ruthless Napoleon for masterminding this all.

You can even blame faithful Boxer, innovative Snowball, even the sheep for going along.

But you are the one who knows.

You are the one who knows the truth,

knows the lies and treachery the pigs put you through.

And still you stay silent.

You said that donkeys could live for a very long time.

Never seen a dead donkey, have you?

You’re a dead donkey, Benjamin.

You’re dead and gone in the inside.

So rotten to the core that you’ve rotted away completely. 

You’re selfish, Benjamin.

Kept your knowledge to yourself, just like the pigs.

You’re a coward, Benjamin.

Decided to not risk losing your life for the freedom of all animals.

You’re merciless, Benjamin.

Seen so much death but won’t do anything about it.

You’re a sad, sad, soul Benjamin, and you’re the only one you can blame.

You didn’t help Clover read the altered Commandments.

You didn’t teach others how to read or write.

You never protested against your broken government.

You never spoke up.

Your comrades are trapped

in this tangled, ever dark forest,

slowly getting devoured by sundews and pitcher plants

while beaming the whole time.

Your comrades

are tasting nightshade and hemlock

willingly, stupid smiles gracing their faces.

And still you stay silent.

You watch

as the pigs

feast on the corpses of

smiling innocents

weeping crimson blood 

from their grinning visages.

You watch

as one by one your comrades sink

deeper into the hole the pigs dug.

You could have built a bridge.

You could have filled the hole up 

with candor and realism.

You could have done this, done that.

But you said nothing so 

your friends are still manacled from muzzle to hoof.

Benjamin, you cynical little fool,

thinking that this slavery is the determined fate of the world.

Benjamin, you heartbroken little soul,

ashen eyes blank to the suffering of the weak and poor.

Benjamin, you monster,

your eyes leaking bloody tears for all of those gone.

Benjamin, you murderer,

your fur coated in thick crimson liquid.

Benjamin, you coward, 

staying silent in the face of inequality. 

Because you’re the one who doomed them all.

You’re the one who refused to pull the cotton from their ears.

You were the could-be shield that could have deflected this tyranny.

You could have opened your comrades eyes to the injustice thrown upon them.

You could have been their guide, their teacher in the art of thinking.

You could have been a hero, Benjamin,

but you said nothing.

You’re the villain, Benjamin, you’re the one to blame.

You’re the butcher, the slaughterer, the killer, the blood covered sword.

You’re the monster, the murderer, the black-hearted soldier, the simmering lethal lava.

Because you let your comrades ingest poison from the pigs.

Because you let your leaders slide daggers into innocent animal hearts.

Because you stayed silent, Benjamin!

You own a brain, you own a voice, you own a moral compass.

You used that brain, but caged your voice.

So I suppose your compass never truly pointed North.

You saw the changed Commandments,

once fair to downright treasonous. 

You witnessed the path of dictatorship the pigs were taking,

from a hopeful new government to a tyranny. 

You knew that the death of Boxer was because of Napoleon,

who decided that the once-strong beast was now worthless to him.

You refused to teach the animals how to read, nor did you help them

understand the extra words slashed onto the Commandments. 

You watched the continued bloody deaths of your loyal comrades

inflicted upon them by ruthless dogs and merciless leaders.

And still you stay silent.

Her head lifts, fingers reaching

for the blue sky above, grasping for something out of sight-

her blue satin gray robe flutters in the breeze,

delicate threads rippling helplessly in the wind-

her blank white mask, square against her face, just like the other dancers before her.

She dances, yes, the same movements and twirls as the other dancers do.

She leaps, she flows, she steps, just like they do, but she dances alone, atop the sheer cliff's face, watching the columns of satin-robed, white-masked dancers leap and spin and step and dance-

in unison their feet step, each bleeding red from their aching heels, but none protest, for this is the invisible pain they all must bear,

strings tie against their wrists, hanging them from the endless sky that never cries-

puppeting their motions, twisted each move, until all you see is a field of broken masked puppets cut to fit the mastermind's mood.

She dances, oh yes she dances, like her sisters in their pain.
She dances, yes, she dances, 'till her life spurts from her veins.

She dances, she dances, 'till her feet bleed away, and soon all is left is her blood, bones, and tears.

And with tears comes with rage.

And with tears comes rage.

From her bones she grows, iron covered back and steel flint eyes.

From her blood she grows, alive, unstopped.

From her tears she grows a glass scythe, unbreakable, not even from the deadliest lies.

She dances, yes she dances, her once white mask now spattered with red.

She twirls, she leaps, her scythe cutting into those slender silver strings, the dancers falling to their knees, puppets cut from a string.

But still they dance.

They dance their dreadful little dance, less elegant now, still bleeding from their heels to their toes.

Still they dance, even as she shouted at them to stop,

told them, begged them, to break free and run from this

horrid mastermind

turning their feet into ragged cloths and turning their faces into those horrid

blank

white masks

so she slashes at their knees, begging for them to stop,

but they don't even as they fall down,

they don't even as she dances her scythe into their backs,

but they don't as her dance turns into a violent frenzy,

as bloodred velvet springs from their lifeless eyes,

they don't as she finally stops, panting,

watching in horror at the dead

dead

dead

dead

dead

satin covered bodies lay on the perfect ground

coated in red

white masks

still

still

as pale as the snow that has never fallen here.

And she stands

her hands

her scythe

covered into the same red on the floor,

and slowly she raises her eyes to the sky,

her hands reaching to touch the slender silver thread hanging from her neck.

The mastermind always wins in the end.

There once was a girl named Addarose,

with skin like smooth mahogany bark.

Her eyes were spheres of crystal blue,

and everyone loved her quite much.

She loved to flounce and wander,

in her favorite red dress.

It was as red as nature’s roses,

hence her lovely little name.

Now, the village was quite lovely,

but all nice things have a catch.

They lived quite close to a witch’s home,

and she could kill you with a snap!

So the parents warned their children away,

from the witch’s little hut.

And no child dare to roam,

where the witch strolls.

But one bright day it happened,

no one could even believe.

Adda had wandered into the witch’s domain,

and ceased to exist to this day.

Now she glides around as a ghost,

lost in that land.

No one dares to get her back,

for the witch might just go snap! 

They always come in the evening.

Dressed in suits, sprouting top hats and diamond rings, elegant sparkling dresses, gaudy bracelets and necklaces upon every being.

They always come in the evening.

Tapping their canes and smiling gleaming sharp-toothed smile, their eyes curving and bending till all she sees are monsters.

They always come in the evening.

Slinking around in dark corners, always in her mind's eye,

running and chasing, always with a sigh like-

Why won't you just give in, little girl?

You're weak and broken, let us help you for a while.

Drown you in shadows, throw you into the void,

won't you just let us stop your pain for a time?

They made her sprout tears, each track etched in her soul,

they made her sit in dark closets and stare at a wall,

pondering, wondering, if maybe their proposal isn't too bad-

as compared to the world that called her their's. 

But she hasn't given in, not now, not yet.

She keeps walking, keeps going,

'till the world ends.

My children weep, all throughout my continents.

Rivers struggle in vain to see through the tar and lead that obscure their eyes,

forests gasp shallow breaths trying to breathe,

my lions, my birds, my animals, they all lie scarred, their inheritance stolen by those humans.

Those humans, my cleverest of children, burning through wood and cloaking the air in a fog of soot and smog.

Those humans, who breed my animals into what they deem beautiful, only destroying their lives before they were ever born.

But I love those humans. I love all my children, all my animals, all my plants and mountains and such.

But those humans, my children, they're killing me.

My veins, heavy with tar and lead,

my nose, trying to breathe through the soot and smog,

my beauty, turning to charred wood and metal contraptions,

me, turning into a wasteland of nothing.

My dears, my cleverest of children, won't you please open your eyes? Listen to your brothers and sisters, and fix this mess you made.

I believe that you have this good in you, when you learn to open your ears.

The queen walked down her path.

Her path, her's and only her's.

Lifted her head, stared straight ahead, and refused to even wave at her subjects.

Why should she, as a queen?

Why should she acknowledge her little peasants?

The queen walked down her path.

Her path, her's and only her's.

Now perhaps I forgot to mention one little detail.

The path was bare.

Only sand coated it's surface.

No living being was in sight.

The queen walked down her path.

It was empty. 

The queen walked down her path.

Told herself she was the queen of everything.

Everything everything everything.

But the queen of nothing was a delusional little fool.

Queen of nothing nothing nothing.

It's a familiar path.

Rugged, ragged, and teeming with briars.

It constantly rains here.

It's a familiar path.

No one but the wind knows how plants grow here, as sunlight cannot penetrate this eternal darkness.

But still we walk.

Still we walk as thorns pierce into our skin.

Still we walk as invisible phantoms throw daggers at our heads.

It's a familiar path.

And there's no one here but us.

Because they broke free ages ago, and we're the ones they left behind.

By we, I mean us, the hidden.

By we, I mean us, the ghosts. 

By we, I mean us, the lost and forgotten. 

Walking in circles, circles of our despair, our fear.

Running from a monster that only exists in our minds.

Oh, we've got bright smiles and a cheery laugh.

We've got happiness seeming to flow out of us like syrup from a maple tree.

Not many realize how big of a lie this is.

Because we're the ones who walk this path.

Walking in circles, circles, circles, circles.

Stuck in a forever, never-ending loop of tears and broken voices.

Until we can grow wings and fly away.

Humans often talk about how much they envy birds.

Free, wild, soaring the skies with their wings skimming the horizon.

But they forget the caged birds.

Caged birds. 

Trapped more than you and I.

Their wings clipped, a metal band clasped around their leg like a shackle forever holding them down.

A price tag slapped against their bars,

a name and personality traits bestowed upon them, without their consent.

Enduring the stares and shouts from the humans, until they are taken to become a member of their household.

Sometimes, they are packed together with others of their kind, twittering and flapping their flightless wings, pecking at gaudy plastic beads.

Sometimes, they remain alone in their cage, no friend to play with, only watching the humans go by.

Sometimes, they seem to stare sightlessly into the void, asking the world, "Why me?"

Humans often talk about how much they envy birds. 

Free, wild, soaring the skies with their wings skimming the horizon.

But they forget about the caged birds.

“Isn’t it so much better to be asleep?

No more noise, no more work, no more anything but peace?

To be aimlessly drifting forever in the void, no worries,

no fears, nothing but sleep.

My sleepers, those poor souls, tormented by the waking-world.

Sobs and screams rule their life, pressure and stress, an open wound.

Would it not be easier to never feel, never think, never do?

You are like those countless other beings I’ve received.

So tired. So lost. Tied up by loose thread, the only thing keeping you going.

Don’t you just want to close your eyes, and let this darkness engulf you?

To live in dreams, is that not a better reality to reside in?

You see, only people like you arrive in her domain.

No one not like us can become entrapped by her gaze.

I was once a mortal too, you know.

So very tired…

So very sleepy…

So angry at the world,

So mad at everyone who has doubted me.

Because I was never going to be enough for them.

So why should I bother trying?

Have you had these thoughts too?

You must have to end up here.

So sleep, my dear.

Sleep, and never wake up.”

Thorns, spikes, swords,

needle sharp and razor thin,

winding, twining the castle's once

lovely garden into this

vicious hungry forest of daggers

pierced with malice.

No roses bloom, no softness in this

eternal slash of eerie dark gloom,

only nature's sword reigns pouring

shadows from its lonely blade.

Princes, tall, short, strong and weak,

wave their human-crafted sticks around,

attempting to fight what magic has made.

Fools, the lot of them.

No human can counter nature's creation.

Pieces of blue velvet now line

the sharpened thorns,

blinding bright against the

browns and greens and blacks.

Swords, discarded, useless and blunt

against the much stronger stabs of

those slim, deadly razor blades.

I only grieve the innocent souls

of the noble steeds led astray by

their selfish masters, their minds

only fixated on glory and greed.

My darling shall sleep

for one hundred years,

soft and pristine against the silks of her bed,

unlike the shadowed razors of my creation.
These barriers are for her protection,

I promise.

What else could I do to save her from

that wicked queen and that foolish king?

Only awakeness shall become when safely 

can find her.

Only the one who slays me shall be

the worthy.

One hundred years, of time stopped

and defied,

until a youth in a velvet cape

sweeps in to save the day.

Upon a horse, coat white like

dove's plumage,

bearing a sword of human steel,

demolishes my thorns,

one blade another lost.

The youth reaches the gate, and I appear

in my true form, black and purple,

winged fanged glory, spewing

fire and acid from each of my

three deadly heads,

my talons like swords, like thorns,

my eyes, six blazing violet fires,

but this youth raises her sword,

her eyes wild and true,

and she flings her blade away,

saying

"Auntie, I need no one to save me!
I'm freed myself,

from the prison you've caged me in,

for my protection, I know,

but it's time for me to awake again,

no longer ignorant of the world,

and Auntie, I can fight for myself,

hiding will not save me,

so please, let me awake, become

apart of the mortal's realm once again!"

A crumble, a crack.

A whisper, a snap.

Brambles away, stone fortress astray, 

melting and falling and fading and finally

Sleeping Beauty opens her eyes,

her bed soft and pristine,

but her heart full of glory,

her mind, finally awake.

Well, I was alive.

Accent on the was.

But they cut me down,

chopped me in itty bitty pieces of

what I once was for

firewood.

What a fate, from a great strong tree

to timber destined for kindling,

to burn and crackle and die

for the warmth of humans.

To think I could have been one of the

tallest and greatest and strongest 

trees in those woods,

proud and looming in my glorious height,

drinking in the sun like an immortal 

nectar from the reachings of the sky,

my roots whispering lullabies to the

youngers,

my branches providing homes for the

singers,

even my trunk a room for a family of

scuttling little rodents.

And now, I am a sacrifice.

An object for the warming of the home,

a starter of something much greater than I,

a fire blazing and bright,

receiver of curses and blessings alike.

I, the timber, the kindling, the burnt piece

of something tossed away once my 

purpose is complete,

and to think that I could have been

a majestic tree and I

can only hope that someone else steps up

to be the home for the creatures they took

me from.

Bright red plastic

Catch the sound and throw it far,

Like a weighted stone.

Skips over water,

Leap through ears to hearts.

When the voice,

is not enough.

When the ears are shut,

Or the world is simply too big to manage.

When hearts are stone to music

When minds are locked to truth.

The voice will carry

And we will be heard.

Maybe you don’t understand

Why I rant endlessly about a painting

Each brush stroke, blend, shade

What I see is flawless

To you, useless

Maybe you think it’s weird

The way I talk

Either with perfect grammar

Or kicking it out the window

There is no in between

Maybe you don’t know

The beauty of creating a world in your mind

Imagination that listens

When reality doesn’t

Maybe you get bored

When I try to piece together this reality

Always taking the scenic route

To explore the vines of thoughts

Maybe you’ll leave

Oh well

Frustration touches us all

Maybe that’s okay

Dear Poet,

Why do you do what you do? It’s not like those line breaks do anything. Do they soothe

you, or is this just a game? And, about that punctuation. Lack of punctuation. Writing

should be formatted, not free.

Dear Poet,

Okay, I’ll play your game.

Though, I still don’t get metaphors.

Why compare one thing to another when it already is?

Let something equate to something.

Writing should be clear, not flowy.

Dear Poet,

Why do you share your message?

Why scream into the void, are you expecting an echo?

Writing should be facts, not a voice.

Dear Poet,

Why do I feel this way?

Those words dancing on your page,

It somehow feels safe.

Like the story wraps its arms around me.

Now I’m cuddled in warmth,

And it feels oddly

Right

Dear Poet

I finally understand

Your voice is the speaker

For all those who cry silently

Your line break is the monument

Standing tall to display expression

Your message, a beacon

Waiting for ones who need it most

Do I really need to explain metaphors?

Thank you for teaching me why

~ The Inspired One

I smiled at a stranger

That doesn’t mean I’m an extrovert

Broke my bike brakes and scarred my knees

Doesn’t mean I’m reckless

I don’t bike anymore

Doesn’t make me a coward

Wore a black shirt today

Doesn’t mean I hate bright colors

Held a colorful backpack

Doesn’t mean I can’t take dull

Finished the test first

Doesn’t mean I’m a showoff

Got in line last

Doesn’t make me a pushover

Don’t stare at that one scene

Live the whole movie

Because that

Does mean you’re human.

How does the axis of a broken  world spin?

Round

Round 

Round

For all the kingdoms risen and razed from land turned and tossed.

For all the many people who toiled on soil now lost.

There be a crown of rust,

One found by rulers and raised to the highest divinity,

Above the clouds.

But

A crown so badly scorched by

Hellfire and torch,

One destroyed by time and monstrous clawed hands

Will doom its empire 

To fall

Down 

Down 

Down.

To the depths of the forgotten,

To a world below our axis turning,

Yearning to find our broken empire and claim a victory

Over humanity and compassion that once turned soil,

Here but now no more.

Bustling, ivory castles made empty.

Sacred temples now gone.

Scar upon the land, the fields, the acres and orchards

Tainted by the bronze tint of the rust of the very coronet that held it.

A crown of six points,

One for the north,

The south,

The east,

The  west,

The wayward ways we have taken.

The very steps that have led us to be forsaken.

The second of the reckoning,

The future of dread silence,

Watching over the land as a grey sea.

Our empire nevermore,

Nothing More than islands of silver stone,

And our souls but whistling wind.

Be the third of the growth and thought now long gone,

By this prolonged corruption,

Of the golden, twisted laurel branches that hold our heads in lock,

And thoughts in vices.

Be the fourth the sky lost in a barrage of clouds,

A blanket over us like a layer of dust on a trinket not worth saving,

A shattered globe not worth piecing back together.

Fractured.

Fifth the fists that once held this city up,

That built these wall up brick for brick

And now rip it apart,

Blood for blood.

The 6th, the last has been scratched and shattered, hidden away.

No one wants to see it.

The source of this rust,

Be a part of this crown,

This never ceasing dilemma.

The source of this  power,

The source of this carnage filled corruption.

This be the rusty crown.

A little crystal cup filters sunlight like a prism.

Indents and glass swirls twist

 and bend the rays into the fractured patterns of a kaleidoscope.

A few vibrant little crayons sit at the bottom of the well,

Waiting to be used.

Waiting to be recognized.

Cardinal was my first favorite color.

It is mine again now, but there were some between.

Red is my name, my signature, the sign of me,

And every treasured ruby I inherit from those before.

It is faded burgundy books, and it is fresh poppy petals.

Azure was change,

The color we painted our house when the old layer peeled.

The fresh,

The ever changing like rippling water,

The frozen in time like tensed ice cubes.

Rose was a phase,

A test that would slip through but leave a mark.

It is the bright, the bubbly,

And in the end, the not-really-for-me.

Purple is whimsy,

Fantastical and bold of which a hint was always need to bring something

To like.

Of which a piece could not live without.

A little crystal cup filters sunlight like a prism.

Indents and glass swirls twist

 and bend the rays into the fractured patterns of a kaleidoscope.

Four nubs of colored wax lay at the bottom,

Little tips left from a life of use.

I am from an island,

One of a thousand in a green sea.

One where the sun shines down and marks the land,

Where the air is sticky like honey, and vibrant with the scent of sweet and savory street snacks.

Where the ground’s pebbles are scorched and turn like molten rock.

An island on the other side of the world from me now.

I am short like my parents and theirs’.

I love golden ripe mangos and the strange bright purple yam we call ube.

I love the culture I call home.

I have black hair, straight as a sunset horizon line.

The type that turns hot like a grill under the sun,

The type that I would braid if I only knew how,

The type that matches the color of coal and pulverized ash wood.

The type that is like a hot plate in the heat,

Under the sun,

The same one that rises all those many miles away.

In the Philippines.

Aking tahanan.

Here is a jar of dreams,

Well,

Empty as of now.

Every time you find a hope, a miracle that you could point out in your own heart, like a star in the sky.

Something yet to be yet too close to never be.

Something you could graze with your finger nails.

Place that star into this jar and go keep on wishing.

Fill it with all one’s hopes and thoughts that sparkle like diamonds and let them come to life.

And yet that little glass container,

Could sit and sit and not give way.

The jar exists so that when it would overflow, the stars and galaxies' illusive visions could spill into the present. Through you.

When you open that lid and place in a dream,

You must be the one to remove it and polish it.

No ghost would come to grant it, no phantom to respond on your unanswered question.

You must raise the rising sun,

You must tend to the dream and make it real.

Otherwise

It will remain sealed in a packed together jar,

In a dark closet.

Autumn colors are of vibrant sunsets setting on a dead summer.

The grace of blooming marigolds lost to the inharmonious sounds of crushing leaves.

Oranges paints the softened earth,

Red the orchards of ruby-toned apples.

Yellow splashes create fields of endless wheat,

Or stray strands of dried grass.

And yet,

Orange the loudest.

The boldest is the mark upon the land that autumn is sown,

For when that summer sun sets,

And twilight grasps the land in inky palms,

October rises from the depths of nightmares crammed back and compressed,

Of fiery burning pits, of strange shivers and chills when seemingly nothing was wrong.

Seemingly.

Shadow-layn streets are labyrinths, ones lined by bright lanterns and bobbles.

Crooning from a house, devoid of life and emersed by the dark,

A single spot of light protrudes, beckoning for passers by.

A fruit, a gourd of an orange hue,

The one of the sun that would rise, 

The next day 

In November.

A grin spreads across slightly rotted lips, curling in and wrinkling. Eyes are just pits, holes into the empty, desecrated husk, the pits of seeds, pulp, and flesh still hanging off in golden strings.

That grin is jolly, one full of delight at the empty night of ghosts.

That grin is frightening because of what it sees in the dark.

What monsters it’s light show it,

What monsters we cannot see in the night.

And yet it grins.

Not for us,

But for what we don’t know.

What it does know.

What one must never look to find in the dark.

When does a smile become forged and faked,

When does the kind hearted Halloween heart come to hide something

Truly

terrifying?

I watch my friend walk up to the stage

To a microphone that is a little too tall.

To an empty platform, too big.

To so many pairs of eyes, green, blue, brown.

All pointed at her.

A shadow casts itself like a spell from the place she stands to a blue curtain with rippling fabric.

The shadow is distorted, too tall, too big for her.

Too different.

It looks older,

It looks wiser.

It isn’t exactly her mom.

It is grown,

It has seen everything my friend had, and perhaps more.

It is her,

It is who she will come to be.

It stands almost brooding,

A giant overbearing figure

Over the stage,

Over the auditorium,

Over the moon lit halls past the doors.

It follows her motions, her fears, her strengths.

It is the same person,

Now grown up,

Having faced the fears and found their roots.

Having dug them out and cared for them with time.

Having made herself their product and fruit.

I watch my friend walk up to the stage

To a microphone that is a little too tall.

To an empty platform, too big.

To so many pairs of eyes, green, blue, brown.

All pointed at her.

A shadow casts itself like a spell from the place she stands to a blue curtain with rippling fabric.

The shadow is distorted.