My Soul Made of Water
I have a hole in my heart.
My soul made of water.
When life falls apart,
A stream escapes,
Large enough to house an otter.
My body has become a fountain,
Spewing my soul in various directions.
Every step feels like climbing a mountain,
The world crumbling under my feet over small rejections.
My soul made of water,
Spilling in every direction I spark hope.
A match comes to the surface
Letting naiveness blow over my bones.
A match is dried,
Waiting to be lit.
Much like the others who have tried,
Its spark won’t commit.
robots
Society is an unpolished ring,
pretty and pristine.
But once you take off the bling
The marks it leaves are visible,
green,
and bleak.
It shows off true colors,
true emotions and flesh.
They expose humans
with skin of mesh.
Holes everywhere,
but not broken.
Leaving us silent,
with words unspoken.
The expectation of us
is to grow limbs of steel.
A metal so strong
it covers the mind which reels.
Covers the questions and flaws.
The parts of us that are systemically wrong.
This thick cover
Hides individuality
And thoughts.
Ultimately turning us all
Into robots.
Independence
I don’t need help.
I don’t need people.
My independence
Never fell,
When the storm hit,
It was stapled.
I thought they’d be there
Waiting on the other side.
I thought it was only fair,
I was there when they cried.
You’re there,
Then you’re not.
I'm prepared
Then I'm lost.
You follow me constantly
But disappear when I ask for help.
You blame me for never talking
But when I do you’re a critic on yelp:
Too loud
Too quiet
Too proud
Too private.
Independence is a double edged sword.
You can take care of yourself,
have a life of your own.
But after a while you burn out,
Crushed under the weight of being alone.
Get Away
Cobblestones graphed in old patterns
Resembling constellations surrounding Saturn.
Buildings aging side by side,
a friend with me,
a boat surrounded by tides.
Isolated yet peaceful,
away from home and gleeful.
Only a couple hours passed,
Although I wish they would last
long enough to build a home
and start a new life in a place unknown.
My friend finally comes back,
I knew the distance would never last.
We mount our horses
And do random courses
Until we’re both red in the face
By being out all day.
We attempt challenges who earn their name,
Although we manage to complete them
And finish the game.
It's not even summer yet
But I can’t wait
To continue this tradition
Of doing chores while eating Poke.
Birthdays
They’re great.
They’re fun.
You can celebrate
Out in the sun.
Rooms filled with
Decorations
And people
Who got sent Invitations.
They’re the promise
Of something new.
A new year,
A new you.
New emotions
Wrapped in colorful paper.
New betrayals heavy enough
To feel like you
got hit with an anchor.
A reminder of the year
You lived through,
How you wish
you didn’t have to.
All attention on you
As a spotlight fills the room
With you in the center
Wishing you wore a sign saying
Do Not Enter.
Blowing out candles
For a wish that will never come true
How I hate birthdays,
The tension thick enough to chew.
I’ve been suspected, but never convicted of:
I’ve been suspected, but never convicted of happiness.
An emotion so rare the walls are painted yellow
to reflect its warmth.
If anyone found out about this,
about me,
of how my light is glowing so bright
it’s melting my insides
piece by piece.
I’d be burned.
By their torches.
As payback for having that fire inside of me.
Little did they know,
happiness isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
Second Grade
“Can you believe we’re already in second grade?”
“I know I feel so old!”
Seven years ago
These lines were said.
Back when clouds had faces
And there was no criticism in our heads.
Back when the sun was bright,
not blinding.
When our parents were right,
Not lying.
When our biggest problem was recess
Not pressure causing stress
Where we have pounds of heavy bricks
Stacked on our chests.
When breathing came with ease
Flowing in the breeze
We ran through
To find the best spots to play hide and seek.
Not like now
Where i’d hide as long as possible
Hoping to never be found.
Now even on vacation
I feel the strain of realization:
There’s work to be completed,
Deadlines to be met,
If I didn’t do that reading,
I might just meet my end.
If only I was in second grade again,
Coloring on sheets with vibrant pens.
Except
I
was
Always seeing but never seen.
Never speaking, unless I would plead.
Seven years ago I was naive.