nineteen years of age spent flying.

crow’s feet come from falling off crow’s wings.

many flowers bloom at night, and die before the sun rises.

Maybe they were intended to be admired by only the bats and all the other things that stalk the night.


I write poems because when I experience the world I feel overwhelmed,

when I experience the world I notice so many small things that I think are



and worth noticing,

and I don’t know if anyone else feels that that thing is worth noticing as well.

I write poems because things that are beautiful can be understood only by other beautiful things.

I write poems because it is in my nature to notice and observe and to love and to feel,

even though feeling is hard and love is hard and observations are dangerous.

I write poems because I love you and I love life and because I have to, because if I didn’t

how would I know how to feel, how would I know what has meaning, how would I know what was beautiful?

I write because I breathe and I live and not only am I just alive, but I am nineteen years old, and not old enough to live through everything yet, but old enough to live through some life,

and I am a human and I feel and do all these things like love and care, 

which aren’t efficient or “effective,”

but that’s not the point.

At my funeral, they will say,

she lived a good life,

not that

she lived an efficient life.

I am nineteen and I feel confused because by some I am old and to some I am young,

but I am nineteen and this is why I wrote poems:

To write and write well is not easy, but neither is living. 


“I write poetry because I am a member of the human race.”

-Dead Poet’s Society



Holding my hand,
As we walk
Along this wooded path,
Moon overhead,
Glowing globe in the dark.
A fellowship, indeed
We are in search of something.
Three friends,
Three a.m.
Wandering through this
Forrest of smoke and adventure,
Reckless behavior.
We were out of place there,
But aren’t all those who adventure,
Out of place?
Adventure was out there,
And for once,
So was I.
Thank you for a good night.

wishful think [part one of many]

wishful think [part one of many]

once again,

man in my bed last night.

but unlike before

in every other way,

Including the man himself.

So why am I writing a poem about him?

Maybe it’s because I wish this poem was about

doing the dangerous dance?

This man just sleeps in my bed,

eyes closed, breathing slow,

laying beside me.

Our feet are tangled,

but that’s the only thing.

Warm hugs,

movie marathons with friends,

and a warm body in my bed.

My, oh my,

How different was last night.


I find myself wishing

that I was writing about waking up,

awkward smiles,

and warm hands caressing my tense shoulder blades.

But maybe in time,

I will.



opening doors for people who were once strangers and who now are friends,

that’s me,

letting in boys who were once strange men.

But it doesn’t count now,

because now I know them,

at least in the biblical sense.

Too cool for a girl like me,

this guy seems.

But I still agreed,

I still answered the knock on my door

at 2 in the morning.

I told him to come,

I told him he could,

so he took the cake I offered, and

managed to get sprinkles


I don’t love him,

but I said I would stop being afraid,

being afraid of fun,

of living,

of the dark.

So I answered the knock on my door,

and let him in

and let him accompany me in my dark.