i choo-choo-choose to be awful. mmkay?

so i begin.
it is the summer of perfecting.
start with my excess ten pounds.
end with my unpolished poetry.
by the end, maybe i shall be
a literary bombshell.
or possibly just happy.
(and that is good.)


my brother sticks out of my family
like a strawberry in a blueberry patch.
he is handsome and charming
easily making people comfortable
and fall in love with him.
he is lithe and atheltic and goes to the gym.
the rest of us--well, we're certainly not pretty.
one sister is 19 but is really 10.
the other 10 and cries in the room next door
hoping that someone will take her hand in this new place.
i'm fat and awkward and can't catch balls.
my mum can only see shadows
and my father is even more awkward still.
no wonder that when he who thinks himself perfect
comes to see us
he feels so superior.
(at least we are learning to love ourselves for who we are.
not love how well are what others want.)

ready set here we go again

i'm thinking
that it's going to take longer than expected
to change this world
and that i will need to take time
out of my busy schedule
playing tetris and listening to music
to learn how.

ah change.
you've become so much my enemy
that i'm afraid to put out my hand
and shake yours, vigorously,
until we can agree

(our differences have changed)


summer. mm.
fruity.
juicy.
sunny.
nummy.
i will lay in your grassy arms
and sneeze my love for you.
and i will love you even after
your first fruits have fallen.
and until all your fruits have fallen.
i'll secrete them away
and kiss your living trees
with their sticky scent.
mm. summer.


the Old Forest is in my backyard.
and I can see Buckland through it.
I'm nine again, and I'm carrying a basket
to collect mushrooms and nostalgia.
(both delicacies and loved well
by hobbits and me.)


hey you squrriel
outside my window
stealing nuts and my dreams
let's be friends
and you can show me how to climb trees
and i will show you how to think.
soon we'll teach each other everything
and girl and squirel can write a book
about how holy god we're all quite the same.
(though squirel is still best at climbing trees)


sim.ple.y.
me. not.
com.plex.
oh.no.

i think i'm kind of an angst machine

i think of you the most on bad days
when falling into the comfort of your arms
was easiest, when your voice and lips made it all better.
today and yesterday though
when i conjured your face up
and saw the pimples on your arm
it is only more sadness that i find.
i'm a collector, i think, and you are my collection.
you don't sell well on ebay.

miss you.
never though two words would mean so much.
miss you.
all the stress of life and living and wanting
secretly
to not live
is wrapped up in them
like a world made of yarn balls.
the cat bats at them and spreads them across the floor
and i cry, because i am cliche and angsty and i remember too well
what it is to be happy.

it comes like a pow,
knowledge that knocks the wind out of me
so fast.
so i fall back into the arms of disability.
and love it furiously.
i will save them
because i cannot save myself.