Politics and Poetry
What is America to you?
What does it look like?
What does it smell like?
What do you hear at night?
America to me is a soft cushion for me to land on
America to me is a sharp piece of glass on which I fall
I see the trees and the people and the laughter
I see the homeless and the drugs and the disaster
It smells of opportunity and freshly mowed grass
With metal coins that are our safety net
I also smell the cigarettes, the vomit, and the unconsenting sex
At night I hear the birds and the familiar buzz of machines
I also hear the gunshots and all the violent screams
All of this is America to me
Sunlight and Sunspots
She felt the sun of the heavens shining on her face
Kissing her cheeks
At least she thought it was the heavens because what else could make something that bright
She opened her eyes and they stung with the seemingly endless luminosity
She lifted herself up
The never quite dry grass grazed against her skin
And he was there
So far away that he appeared as a blur
Completely out of reach
She never thought of him as beautiful
That was not a fair assessment
His face held millions of dots cascading away from the center of his nose
A wide scar sunk deep into his forehead
The only place devoid of spots and sunlight
He was as radiant as the rising sun