366 Poems: October 25th, 2016

Almost Over

It’ll all be over

by Tuesday.

But I’ve been saying that

since August.

I’ve been saying it

since before

I started losing sleep,

since before

I could’t clean my room,

since before

I cried in sociology,

since before

I wished for sick days,

since before

I didn’t do that assignment,

didn’t take that test,

didn’t get the grade I could’ve


It’ll all be over

by Tuesday.

But when it’s done,

will they like what’s left

of me?


366 Poems: August 23rd, 2016


A lot of people told me I’m smart

when I showed them my AP English grade.

And I kind of had to laugh to myself

because I haven’t been feeling especially smart.

I can say that I’m bright–

for I’m able to understand literary texts

and marvel at history with ease.

And perhaps I was born with the ability

to focus and figure things out more than others…

But if I was really that smart,

I would’ve figured out that English and history were old news.

I would’ve been able to state my intended major

without the comment, “You’re not planning on being rich, are you?”

I would’ve stayed away from the interest of art classes

(more commonly known as means of suicide)

and I would’ve worked on more practical things

like imaginary numbers

and holograms.

Actually I was never fully encouraged to work hard on anything.


Because I was smart.

Because I got it.


But I am not smart.

I am only smart in that I already knew what I was learning.

I am only smart in that I don’t really have to try.

I am only smart if the number of points on an obscure test is high.

I am only smart if life works the exact same way that school does.

I am smart because I think it’s easy.

I am smart because they think it’s hard.

I am smart because I







And turns out, that’s not enough.

“Simple is Smart”

366 Poems: March 9th, 2016

The Black Sheep

Today I sit,

a visitor,

in the back of a room where I don’t belong.

It began in August,

when I decided that I did not want to slave away

in three AP classes,

and thought regular U.S. History a pleasing alternative.

But as soon as I walked in,

I knew that something was off.

I saw two teachers:

one desperately trying to engage her students,

the other believing they were already too far gone.

And I saw people my age– sleeping, slacking,

and doing everything they so possibly could

not to learn.

Why am I so different

for wanting to learn?

How am I glorified,

chastised, put down,

just because I can get an A+ on every test?

Is it their fault?

Is it our education system?

And why do I, with my eager mind,

sit in the back of the room with my mouth shut,

wishing that I didn’t have to stand out so much

from the rest of them?

365 Poems: December 8th, 2014

The Dog Days are Over

“The horses are coming so you better run…” ~ Florence + The Machine, “Dog Days are Over”

On a summer day a world away,

you guys joked at my worries.

I told you that I was afraid

of the school year ending,

because I didn’t want things to change.

I was too used to coming back

after two warm months

and finding that all my good friends

had decided I wasn’t worth the effort.

You laughed and told me not to worry.

You said nothing would change.

On that summer day,

you restored my faith in the world

and I left that school year in a state of glee.

I don’t think you were lying then

when you said we’d stay the same,

but I know you’re lying now

when you say that nothing’s different.

Because something did change.

I changed,

and I know now that maybe I was wrong.

“The Dog Days are Over”

365 Poems: August 4th, 2014

Here We Go Again

Guess I’m back to the square

with the tall purple stairs

and the halls no one dares to get lost in.

Friends 100 and 1,

faces changed from the sun,

walk through doors that once more will be open.

I don’t think I’ve lost much

but the fear still brings touch

of new people and what here will happen.

So I smile and stride

and hold onto my pride

as I say, “Well, here we go again.”


Giving the Notebook its Justice

As a writer, you end up carrying a notebook around a lot; just in case the once-in-a-while inspirational bomb goes off in your head and you can’t fit it all on a napkin. This is also true for sketchers and architects and other people of the artsy type. Basically, the creative mind is sometimes too full to hold all of its great ideas. Sometimes it needs to be made into a physical thing, and that is where the notebook comes in. For some writers and other artists, our notebook becomes more that just a helpful tool. It becomes a necessity; practically a piece of our lives. We are sometimes afraid to show others our work because we are afraid of letting them look into a deeper part of ourselves. I usually end up carrying a notebook around with me even when I know I will not have time to write anything, because when I am holding it I feel like I can think more creatively. It becomes a part of me.

Of course, notebooks eventually run out of pages. Today that is what happened to me. Today my Japanese Lilly “Piccadilly” notebook that I bought at Half Price Books in April was finally filled. Every time I fill up a notebook, on its last few pages I like to compile all the things that I have written in it, sort of giving the notebook its justice and thanking it for all the creative things I was able to put on its pages (yes; I know I’m crazy). Anyway, I’ve decided I will share it with all of you. The contents of this post is half a line from more than 70 writings (yes I count) that I have done in this notebook. I hope someone fonds it interesting besides me (though probably not). Either way, here it is.

A Single Line From Every Writing in This Notebook- April 14 to December 11, 2013

strange moments in my life

half-staff flag

The “school” was big

to be taken by a dream

there is no perfect society

“Ahoy Captain Kilmurry!”

to the world, to the night

It is your story after all.

madness is the only way

different islands of time

The call her Special

I’ll make me a river.

after so many years of lies

She’s the enemy.

I am an artist.

There’s is left to know.

It was a fun two years.

He became the hound;

and you know that I know

not many years before retirement

be afraid of what he could do

a large wolf now skulks

no wolf exists

the frills not hiding as well

a cold-blooded killer

I was always quiet.

I’m the loudest person

“I want to go to London,”

a little boy who likes the color purple

a story of Robin Hood and Jack Frost

fascinated by old things

that fall out of reach

hate how strong you’ve become

beginning of my resistance

all the hard questions

A notebook. A pencil.

There are so many voices

So maybe I’m still standing here.

only the mad would ride them

And he was wonderful.

there was always a reason to run.

Observation and deduction Adison;

the margins of an advice column

But we like it that way.

a man who never stops running,

the ones that I can’t save.

And as triplets we dared you to dream.


You’re just a machine.

What year is it?

“Present and accounted for mam!”

as normal as possible

went down the wrong path

those kinds of people

a day job?

Miss ‘Galileo Verde’,”

about starving the beast?

The boy who was afraid of falling.

what then will you do?


The man is the mystery.

your surface? Your slave?

I would say yes.

You kept playing.

He wants to talk to me.

I’m dying and I’m scared,

I said to my reflection