If I could, I would pull you 

So close, and make you mine,

I wish you were mine

How do I say this without

Sounding a little crazy?

I am a little crazy about you.

This is the world

We move like keys

Trying to find the locks

In which our bodies belong

Our hearts, our minds

What a different story

So different than simply

Turning the doorknob

Empty hearts, minds abuzz

With mindless chatter to satiate 

An endless thirst for knowledge

What a different story 

So different than simply 

Opening the door and 

Watching all the people rush in.

The Personal is Political

The other morning I woke up late, found the milk carton empty and almost tripped over the computer cord in my haste to find my “temporarily misplaced” car keys. As I searched frantically, papers flying everywhere, I noticed a small mint green rectangle of cardboard. It was an advertisement encouraging the use of public transportation as a means of cutting back on pollution, in other words the “green” option. I abandoned my search momentarily and considered. I glanced at my watch and in a sudden burst of impulsiveness grabbed my wallet, rifled through it, and pulled out a very tattered and never used U-pass. 

As I headed out the door towards the bus stop (where is it again?), I was tempted to complain, but crisp autumn air brought perspective to my decision. A break from driving, a break from the relentless hours spent sitting in rush hour traffic with nothing to do but send negative energy towards the 300 other people in their cars who just HAD to choose the same time as me to commute (darn copycats). So maybe the bus wasn’t so bad? I climbed aboard and my eyes did a quick once-over, looking for a spot. Finally I found one towards the back and managed to squish in between a very peculiar man with orange rubber boots and a lady so old that I was afraid the swaying motion of the bus might be enough to kill her. She smiled at me as I sat down. I noticed that her hands were shaking and I felt a rush of sympathy towards her. I wondered what her story was. I imagined she had no family left to care for her. Orange Boots offered me a piece of gum. I shook my head, no thanks. 

As I looked around, I noticed the differences in age, culture and background. I wondered what their stories were. A young girl sat towards the front with her headphones in. Music trickled out and the remnants of bad rap music could be heard. Her expression took me by surprise: a guarded look on her face, an attempt to look careless. It was discerning how old, tired and sad a young girl could look. The bus pulled up to a stop near the hospital and the girl got out. I watched as she shuffled casually over to the hospital doors, glanced back, then slipped inside. I wondered what her story was. 

As I sat there quietly observing, I noticed something different and unique about each person. But they all had one thing in common. They shared a determined and indifferent attitude. Somewhat of a “fuck you” to the shitty cards they had been dealt. These people did not have the privilege of a brand new shiny car to drive from place to place. Instead they toted around bags of bottles to be recycled, or crying children wearing hand me downs, or simply the extra baggage of adversity. To say that it made me feel guilty is an understatement. It is simply a matter of opening my eyes to the stories I may have missed before. The stories of people who are only just getting by and no one notices. Or the stories of people who are not getting by at all, and no one stops to help. Who’s fault is it? One could say it is their problem and why should others get involved? But I know better. 

You say you love me

It's too early to tell

Too early?

Maybe "like" is a better word

A softer word

An honest word.

"A childish word"

I wish you knew me.

I wish you could see through 

Four walls of white

One solid door will

Never relinquish the thoughts 

That gather in my mind

Like shards of glass.

The window broke

Your heart came sailing in.

Sometimes it is fun to pretend

I am walking with you

Your voice is nothing

But sharp air slicing up

The silence and licking 

The leftover words that trickle

From my greedy mouth.

I like to think you can hear me

Even when my mouth is closed

And everyone around me shouts

Even I am deaf to my thoughts

But I like to think that you are 

the only one who is not.

Writer's Recluse

This is a blog for me to share my stories, poems, whatever. I am a 17 year old girl with a dream of becoming a published writer. For me, writing is like breathing. It is something I need, it feeds my soul and lightens the burdens of life. It is a release and a creative form of expression. I will post everything: school assignments for my creative writing class, writing from in my spare time, and everything in between. I am telling no one about this blog. If you stumble upon it, then welcome. If not, I guess this is just for me. A place to simply WRITE, with no interruptions, criticisms, or over thinking involved. 


Time to start writing!