Friday the 13th, I don’t feel so cursed.

Though smog choked, midterms burned, the world perversed,

Him I will see. Those bright eyes ease me like hymns, hinted me to verse…

Oh, I rambled, to stresses I should tremble: boys are nothing but trouble, but should I be so terse?


Paper Bag


of them 

sat down 

next to me,


They are forgetful of where my

eyes are, I tried to

remind them but they forgot my 

eyes so couldn’t see my


At least stop dropping your pen. Themore you reach across the floor and brushed my

legs, the further you

get from my regards. I contemplated

kicking. Contemplated.

Today is different. I am still here

early, yes, and one of them

picked the seat next to mine out of the

rows of empty seats and forgot I

can see, AGAIN. I took out a paper bag

I stole from the cafe.

No, though I am disgusted I love my gut

enough to not throw up and scald my tongue with acid.

I tore the mouth of the bag, you stopped looking below my eyes, noticed that I noticed, left.

The only puke this bag will

hold is my word vomit.

Again and again and again and again.

Metal Vultures

Am I a snowflake

for fearing those wings?

The batting, heavy, to make

mute of us little earthlings.


Metal vultures paced,

I clutched my mace.


The armed man marched,

shielded and weighed by

sticks and alarm, parched

senses under the sunny



Am I snowflake

for being enraged?

For loving love and not hate,

for wanting a voice, a choice, some reasoning.


Metal vultures paced,

My heart races.


My throat tastes sour and I can’t breathe.

My heart beats at the expense of my sanity.

What can I do but grit my teeth,

And blame myself for vanity?


Yet, even in self-deprecation, it seems

Cruel to neglect truest affections. Never before,

Never will be one more worthy that I beteems.

So I searched for the note, the very end, at my very core.


These puny thoughts plague words and mind,

‘Til the tillers tilled and crushed more than kind,

To set parched earth free from drought,

To grow anew a stubborn sprout.


I will live.

Walks of Life

There are all types of heels,

each with their own song.

Some hurried, some hollowed;

some wandered, some echoed;

some weak, felled greek


So, we walked and strutted

the stage of life, like Macbeth,

full of fury and sounds, inverted.

Each thud of heels full of wrath

for sounds make no imprints in earth

but merely words and remembrance.

Hidden Words

Home is the place with wings, a land

of careless snacking, dancing to go

meet beloved. Still on the edge of the garden path

eased the fog, which veiled windows. Out

upon the horizon unperceived, a scoff

nicked at the disk of light. “Where to?”

Knives of sunlight clashed above the questioner.

“No human should enter these grounds, no brig

or wheel should penetrate

what He had made with his own hands.” But,

no one saw beyond the Book. In lieu,

do mark, in lieu, of truths not written,

organs of virtues, vessels so meek,

never to speak when the world lean

to an antichrist, but knelt like the prophet who

faced the burning bush. It was just so low

of the world to close her ears, to own

remembrances but use them not. Truth

granted but rusting, intellect rotten. Voodoo

evaluated as science, science but scam;

to be or not to be, can we continue to not see?


Read vertically down both sides: those were the three prompts that I was given for this poem.