moonriseee

note: this is not targeted at anyone, it’s just my opinion :)

Writing is my pulse,  
my breath,  
my way of being.  
They don’t own my words,  
my thoughts,  
my voice.  

How did we get here?  
With a man who lies  
and stirs the storm,  
who turns hate into headlines  
and power into a joke.

There’s a squishy feeling, like your fingers  
pressed into soft dough,  
the way your body sinks  
into the warm, endless bed of a blanket.  

School’s great. I *love* waking up early  
to sit through hours of stuff I’ll forget.  
Lunch? A gourmet mystery I’ll never solve.  
Tests? Oh, the thrill of failing with style.  

We clash like stones along the shore,
Rough and stubborn, fighting more,
In every word, in every glance,
A storm ignites, a battle dance.

This is a piece I originally wrote for the Pulitzer Poetry Contest, originally titled “Flowers Do Not Heal”. Rereading this, I decided that flowers DO heal, and they bloom again.