Welcome to Hell

Somewhere dark
Somewhere sinking.
My dreams are black,
Then blue,
And somewhere milky inbetween.
God it hurts, what is that?
A parade of pleads in my head…
From
“Mom please come home”
To
“Baby please don’t leave”
There’s tears and and there’s blood
Tears so hot, so breathtaking
And blood so shy, it is I who ever sees it.
So warm, why is it so warm?
Choking, gagging, grasping and thrashing
For a hand.
A hand to hold me
To heal me.
I don’t know where I am
I don’t know who I am.

Hi, How Are You?

Hi, how are you? Now that I’ve spit out the attention- grabber, you’re here. You. Are. Here. Take a moment to tell me, what are you looking at, right now?
Ya see, I’m writing this poem in the mirror.
I am you. And you are me.
Hi, how are you?
Free
I am free.
Free to live
Thrive
Free to be.
I am free to be
Me.
So why aren’t you?
Fear,
I see fear.
And I’m realizing that you can’t see that those scars are your arms spell better poems than your mind will ever muster
And
When was the last time you smiled, at me?
What were you thinking about?
Who were you with?
What did it mean?
Hi, how are you?
Sad
I am sad.
Because I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to tell you
It is so, nice…to meet you.
It’s just that every time we’ve crossed paths,
I’ve seen something in you that I cannot find in me.
Beauty.
You
Are
Beautiful.
I am you and you are me,
And I am honest
When I say that you,
Are beautiful.
And together,
A soul with a body,
Not the other way around,
Together we are free.
I am free.
Free to live
Thrive
Free to be.
Me.
Just me.

Unforgivable. (Power of the Pen 2017)

So last week I decided to post one of the pieces I wrote at the annual Power of the Pen competiton. The narrative didn’t nearly as much feedback as my weekly poetry usually does, but that’s okay. One comment I did get was my English teacher persuading me to post my other 2 pieces from the event. And I figure, why not.

This week I think I’ll share my 3rd piece of writing. The prompt for this one was:

“The flaw”–Write about one in your narrative

My immediate thoughts went to life with OCD. Something I know a heck of a lot about.


In a world where time never stops and atoms never cease to move, it may seem easy to overlook things. Neena lived in this world, and she, unlike others, could not overlook things. She noticed things people usually don’t. She was not over, and would never get over the fact that her named just wasn’t spelled as the average person would guess. This was forever her flaw. The blonde that turns left off her street every morning at 6:37am has a flaw. Her left rear-view mirror is always crooked. Emma in third period taps her desk with the eraser-side of her pencil 2 times before beginning the daily writing prompt. That’s a flaw, because for Neena, if she doesn’t count one-two, or if Emma’s hand slips one-two-three then Neena’s thoughtsgrowjumbledand her routine, flawed.

People don’t know she counts, people don’t know she remembers. She counts and she remembers, flaws.

Every member of her family, every friend, every stranger has a flaw. This knowledge has eaten at Neena her whole life. She counts, she remembers, flaws. If she miscounts, if she doesn’t note, ignores, a flaw, she, Neena, is a flaw. You cannot reverse flaws, that’s what makes them what they are. Permanent and unforgivable, flaws. So the day that the retired CPS worker was a sub in Government class and wrote “Nina” on her attendance roster, she was a flaw. That Thursday morning 2 years ago when the blonde drove by and Neena didn’t glance over to count 6:35…one…two…6:37 to see the pathetic left mirror, she was a flaw. Back in spring when Neena arrived to 3rd period 1 minute and 38 seconds after the bell, after the prompt had been given, thus missing the one-two of Emma’s nervousness. She then, was a flaw. You cannot reverse flaws, that’s what makes them what they are. Permanent and unforgivable, flaws.

Hearts Think Faster. (Power Of The Pen 2017)

Today I was lucky enough to be a part of the annual Power of the Pen competition. For those who don’t know, in a nutshell, it’s a creative-writing competition. 3 rounds, 40 minutes each, a random prompt. My team did GREAT today. JV got 3rd place. Varsity got 1st. And as a whole, we got 1st place out of everyone (I’m announcing that in the most humble way possible). I personally didn’t feel my best about my work…I struggle to write narratives, my thought process is unintentionally poetic, so everything I write sounds like a poem, but they don’t always like that. I’ve read and reread all my pieces and I think I’ve decided which one I’d like to share. The prompt for this piece, we were asked to write a narrative based on the following sentence: “That’s the best excuse I’ve ever heard.”


Today I titled this “Hearts Think Faster”.

We met during my first week of school. I was in the back left corner of what they call the commons (what happened to calling it the cafeteria?) The air was different than what I was acquired to, but I was open-minded. Mom used to call me an old soul. Dad just called me dramatic. The day I met Reina was the day you could say I started to feel. To feel, to see, to be. It was in that left corner that I hovered, alone, defiant. She approached me with unmistakable confidence. We locked eyes and she stopped just before the toes of our sneakers touched. The corner of her mouth twitched adorably before gracefully spilling out the word, “Welcome.” I replied with thanks and before she turned to glide away, her right eyebrow twitched, mirroring the twitch of her lip just a handful of seconds before.
A couple of days went by and my eyes could never find her in the realm of my new surroundings. But, eerily, she would find me in that left corner of the commons, her ice-tinted eyes always locked. I often wondered what they were protecting. Something about her presence gave me butterflies, not big ones, just big enough to spark ponderings in my mind and unsteadiness in my hands. My first week was coming to a close, this would be day number four of her peculiar greetings. It was that fourth day that I told myself I would speak up, ask my questions.
Standing in my corner, I was nervous, unstoppable. Everything in my head was loud, oppressing, itchy. Just as thoughts were threatening to bleed under my breath like ink, she appeared, sailing on her own feet, towards me. I wouldn’t let her win the first words. So, in our, bubble, sneakers almost touching, blue ice against green earth, it all came spilling out. “What is your name? Do you have a secret? Why don’t I see you around? Can’t we share longer talks? Why have you been deceivingly-willing to befriend me, when you just leave without letting me speak?” Seconds ticked by as I deflated and she took in my words as still as stone. There it was, the twitch of her lip, and identical to that, her right eyebrow. “Reina. My name is Reina. I’ve got secrets, don’t we all? You don’t see things you don’t know, and you haven’t known me until now. Now you know my name is Reina and I’ve got secrets. We can share talks, just ask for them, don’t ask why I don’t give them, for how do I give what is not asked for? It’s not that I deny you the chance to speak, it’s that words come from the heart, not the brain, you think too much.” Time seemed sticky as I processed this. “That was…those were…the best excuses I’ve ever heard.” And with that she turned on one heel with a satisfied smirk. She said I think too much. I think too much.