a fancy poem about being left on “read.”

I have nothing to say to you today

and I act like this will be the last word

as if you could fill it up with words and phrases

because speaking to you feels like shouting into the void.

each word reads like a promise

or a declaration

a promise so big

because as humans we want to cover all the bases

like we can reach the bottom line

that brings security and all of these other life affirming desires to life and there’s nothing you ever have to leave behind.


in the thick of it,

these are just words on a high-resolution phone

swiped with a flick of my finger like it was dancing around you

but the screen is only a platform for finger prints and it’s cracked in several places

and i have a thing about finger prints on an electronic device

and the worst thing of all,

these words holding all of my meaning and promise and understanding

with an emoji thrown in for good measure and for you to think i’ve got better things to do than to analyze and vigorously try to understand is the all too often chance..

you’ll leave me on “read.”





has its legs wrapped around me, or rather, i would hope i’d have my legs wrapped around it.
that’s as much action i’ll get as i’ll ever need

because i want you
and nobody else
because you evoke my escapism
and pretend to propel today into tomorrow


coffee fueled suburbia


and it’s every note

some of which don’t get played

but they’re sounding good to me

because they sound like you


even though you once said,

“everything you write is essentially the same” or something like that

but isn’t that okay when you’re looking for something to make you be still?


maybe if i knew how to play

an instrument or something

the notes might be different,

but i’d hate to disappoint you,

a whole lot about me is different

but i can say

i love you all the same as i did when i was a kid


but it’s alright because i’ve kept that

and i’d rather have that

than find my head

because you took it when you were fourteen,

even though we both had no idea what that means

but i’ll take it anyway

because my headless existence tells me

it’s alright again


i discovered i put you in a box and kicked it under the bed

it stuck out from under the corner and i couldn’t pretend

i never got it out and blew off the dust

and the action sometimes rattled some cages


i’ve never known anyone to love

me through my slow transition into a garbage pail kid

it might be what i want to do

even as morning turns into noon

and you’re out there somewhere becoming the best person you can be

and you’re healing and breathing and walking through the world

you might trip again

i want to see you through this

and whatever “that” is.

it makes sense to me

we are in our “that” phase

i wake up some days

and want to define it like the weird trait your friend has, or that breakfast i eat every day.

though i’d never want to drag you into a world

of a coffee fueled suburbia

because that song you like

told me you’d hate it


coffee fueled suburbia

could be what you think of me

and there isn’t any appeal because it would be all down hill from there

i think that way about myself but wonder where you are now

putting the right amount of sugar in your coffee to fuel your city

population you

poems, trash by taylor

i’d forget to tell you in the morning


i’d forget to tell you in the morning

that i have red blotches on my right arm because a gnat received its dinner in the night.

it seems trivial, but

wouldn’t you want to know?


i’d forget to tell you in the morning

i have a noise machine box from a store in the shopping mall that plays me sounds of ocean tides

and how sometimes, i dream of pink hues of our time together

it’s a far fetched fantasy,

but you never know.


i’d forget to tell you in the morning

how i believe in you every single moment

and that all i want

is for you to know everything would be safe with me, but i’d still wonder sometimes

if i’m a waste or a faraway whisper in your daily sea of

who knows what? i wish i’d know of the terrible things, the tiny things, and the other things.

and even go so far as to organize your worries

like a sock drawer

i’m not romantic with words

i’d forget to tell you in the morning.


i’d remember in the morning

to let you know i love you

and sometimes (like right now)

i’m really unsure of myself

but i’m glad you wandered in

would you stay if i-

made you tea in the corner

and read you which ever words you needed at night.


i’d remember to tell you in the morning-

it’s going to be all right.


i feel

i feel

somewhere in the ocean, the waves will wash a memory back into my reflection from the open window.

the one where you were laying in bed trying to muster the fake erotica my heart wanted.

as you “exhaled” on your e-cig “careful” not to set off the alarm in the dorm.

i feel

somehow it will come to life that i slept with my arms pressed over my head while the drunkenness wrestled with the fire alarm signaling the end of my 21st birthday, when you walked away.

i feel

sorry for the strangers who ever wondered what was wrong with the girl

who pretended to read books

something she used to do for good,

but she was crying about how you became her left limb and broke it.

you brought it home to your mother one sunday as an art project she will probably hang in your bachelor pad

while she tells you

jesus loves you

but NEVER the longtime girl without the crucified heart.



moon/june/spoon: national poetry month


(I don’t know if I was writing a poem in this picture but I still stick my tongue out when I’m super into writing!)

April is National Poetry Month! I’ve been in a really big creative cloud lately, and my projects seem to all come out as poems. I’ve been into writing for as long as I can remember; I wrote my first poem in the 4th grade about a girl who liked to listen to The Rolling Stones in her basement.

I really fell in love with writing poetry in the 8th grade when I posted religiously on my MySpace blog. I wrote poems about coffee and candles: two things I associate with warmth. For the next few years, I filled journals to the brim with poems and took creative writing classes in high school, where I was encouraged to participate in a poetry reading.

I remember the exact moment when I realized the reason why I wrote poetry and why it had become my favorite medium of expression. My first poetry reading took place on a quiet Saturday morning in 10th grade. Sophomore year of high school was incredibly difficult; I’d gone through my first big heartbreak, and I wrote a ton of poems in a journal containing the words I couldn’t say to the guy who had inspired it all. After much persuasion from my creative writing teacher, I signed up for the reading.

When I stood up in front of the crowd of teachers and poets, my voice shook so hard. I’m naturally shy, but I really struggled to get through the first few stanzas. When I eventually began to relax, I could tell my voice had been slowly raising and I was suddenly feeling comfortable. I had realized I’d been feeling the feeling of warmth and security which poetry brought me.

During the month of April I’m going to try to post one of my poems daily! Some of them might be much older than others, but I’m proud of them all. I hope you enjoy them and they inspire you to go out a read or write a poem!