When in the dark,
I try to close my eyes,
But sadly, nothing works.
I’ve never bothered
Counting sheep,
Because, well,
Why bother?
Repetitive, no?
Well, let me guess:
You came here
For a reason,
A reason I cannot
Or dare to
Venture further.
I do apologize
For all of
My misconceptions,
All of the lies I’ve hidden
These awful,
Mute deceptions.

Day Seven #FivePoems

I have sacrificed all I have
To the Gods of my design.
My head hangs heavy,
But what I wear upon it
Is no longer a crown.
Something led me to this moment,
This place in my life,
Where my heart regrets nothing,
And all I have is time.
The things I’ve done for love,
For whomever acts as that day’s
Unfortunate permutation of the thing,
Have driven me to a mindset of indifference.
I long to eliminate childish motivations,
And to love uncontestedly,
Without memory to serve as a guide,
But only you can save me from
That crown on my head,
Which I know to be
My pride.

A black ring
For clarity.
In the name of ambition,
I submit creatively,
A personality,
A mess of words and ideas,
And too many things left unfinished.

In your place, a storm arose,
At the dawn of memory.
It told me to remember
The girl I knew,
The woman she became,
And the memories we shared,
That now only I know,
And let go.

I filled my days with
Stories that I cannot share.
I walked hand in hand
With a demon I thought would care.
I asked for help,
In an empty room,
I heard the silence
And burned
When doom took over
My mind,
My words,
My heart and soul,
And I am sorry for it all.
Now, I walk with a new light
Shining over my head,
But the light is dim,
And sometimes I still feel the demon
Crying from within.

Without you,
I am nothing.
You brought me here through the air,
And watched me waltz through life
Without a care.
Take me there,
Up the stairs,
Where the avalanche waits
To fall.
We plummet,
As aspects of our lives dissolve
And take form again in different tones.
We are falling,
And you reach out for me,
But I cannot see.
I forget, sometimes,
The theory of us, that
I am in love with angst,
While you seek justice
And value trust.
I value nothing,
And therefore leave
Too much behind,
Although I regret it all,
In the end.
I regret, then forget,
And do it all
Over again.

Day Six #FivePoems

I remember leaving Paris feeling an emptiness in the air.
In the car, driving out of the city, I saw through the window
Places I had not known existed less than ten days before.
My mother and I meandered through Paris,
The weather variant above us; it rained only once or twice that week.
I had lived in New York for four years prior to visiting Paris,
For school, a place I honestly miss.
My classes mainly focused on writings from England and Ireland.
Here and there I’d read a French or Russian writer,
But their works were never about Russia or France.
My preconceived memories of Paris came from books and TV,
Movies like Blue is the Warmest Color and Amelie.
I came to France with the grit of New York on the soles of my shoes,
But I felt like I was walking on gold.
When I worked on the newspaper at school,
An article was published about Charlie Hebdo.
As I walked around Paris, seeing the hustle and bustle of people and cars,
I thought about how the world turns.
It is true, however, that I lived in a city where such things have happened,
And when I think of all the people and cars, bicycles, and backpacks, street signs,
and the most beautiful display windows, I wonder if it is we
Who turn the world.

There are rumors, jealous in nature, that, with a bite of anger
Tear through the fabrics of our lives.
Look how powerful words are.

(A poem of regret.)

I’ve walked this road,
Done what I’m told,
And heard it all.

I’ve wasted time,
I’ve stood in line,
And felt it all.

I’ve lost my voice,
I have no choice,
but to say it all.
I’ll walk this road,
Through winter cold,
And find an answer to it all.

All I’ve got.

What is the current issue at hand?
Not all at once. One at a time.
Raise your hands.
Yes, you.
No, I don’t think it’s feminism today.
Yes, next?
We’ve already said it’s okay to be gay.
Well, I know not everyone agrees,
But we’ll get to that one soon enough.
Racism? We’re working on it.
Mhm? What?
Oh! Drugs? Terrorism. Right. –
– What was that?
Oh, what can’t be said about the election?
This year, truly, nothing.
It’s quite the event.
Who did you vote for?
Who do you think will win?
Have you seen Hamilton?

Day Five #FivePoems

(Two sides)
I will not declare
What I do not know or what
I don’t understand.


Politics are fun
To discuss with those who know
What they are saying.

Writing on the fifth day is hard.
It’s also not easy to find things to write about
When you feel like a greeting card.

On Tuesdays,
My friends and I get tacos,
But only when we’re all free.
Sometimes it’s just me and the boyfriend.
There is a waiter who tried once to befriend all of us,
We spoke to him a fair amount,
And then he just started to stay away.
No idea why, we were perfectly nice,
And whenever I see him, I say, ‘Hi.’
I just realized that I do not know his name.

I worked today,
And I feel a little better
Because I made $30
Off of the opinions of strangers.

Nothing better than bad weather,
For someone with storms in their mind.
I’ll try to find shelter, when the wind picks up,
And I ask you to leave me behind.

Day Four #FivePoems

Sometimes, I am too bored to write.
Inspiration is there, of course,
Because everything inspires me.
But there are nights I spend
Forming prayers and lines
In my head, in an attempt to
Convince myself that creativity is my friend.

When I look at you,
From my dizzying state,
I fall, back, into it.
I can’t return each minute,
Each hour I’ve spent,
Thinking about nothing.
You can return the sentiments
And everything else I’ve given.
I’ve lost, and I’m done,
Once more, again.

I have respect for other artists,
For keeping it in so well.
I wonder how it feels for you,
To paint, or to write,
But I suppose I probably don’t deserve
To see it all.

My boyfriend is a comp-sci major.
It’s different from anything I’ve ever tried to learn.
He hasn’t read a lot of the books I’ve read,
And I haven’t ever built my own computer.
I once wrote a poem about him,
And submitted it, blindly, to my college’s
Lit Magazine.
For some reason, a shorter poem I submitted
Appeared in the final cut.
The poem I wrote about him, well,
It had not.
For so long I thought about why that could be,
When I forgot that I even entered
The one that would succeed.
But dating a computer science major
Has taught me to be patient,
To understand that my choices
Are consequential in nature.
I long to understand how he thinks,
What he feels when he finishes building a computer.
I wonder if it’s like how I feel,
After I have edited the final sentence.
His technical components are my words,
And we use them without consequence.

(For Kylie Jenner)
Lips, hair,
I don’t care.

Day Three #FivePoems

Curiosity fuels this heart,
While oxygen and flame cradle it.
Sometimes I wonder if I ask too much of the truth,
Because I tell it and feel like I’m losing it.

After I have company,
I tend to feel different.
When I have company,
I learn something about everyone.
Of course, I don’t always know them,
But I at least know that they exist.

Three, burned-out matches sit in a row.
One for solitude;
That which I’ll earn,
And be forced to cherish.
Another, for you.
A third, for whatever it is I do.
Then a fourth one I place,
More charred than the others,
The one I watched and let burn,
For myself.
I think of burning a fifth,
But it would ruin the image I have in my head,
Of the perfect poem.
This poem,
That I’ll watch burn
For no one.

When my grandmother leaves,
I think about the times we’ve shared,
The advice that she has given,
And the truths she has told.
Not what I’ve told her,
But what only she knows.

I always say I want to make a change,
On Sunday.
I feel like it’s a good day, a great day,
To get something done.
So, I do and I take my time,
Doing the things I need to do,
Because it’s Sunday,
And I’m just collecting more things
That I’ll probably lose.


You want to write a poem,
About something, thou prays,
Anything at all.
You have read one or two poems,
Thought about them,
Put them to rest.
You’ve had opinions,
Ideas, that you’ve wanted to share,
Thought of ways to write them down,
And have the tools to do so.
But when it comes to writing words,
You freeze.
You wonder how others do it,
And you think about other things you’ve written,
And you think about your writing,
And more about yourself,
Place yourself in Space,
And you just do it.

I enjoy mornings,
When I wake up,
And I am able to watch TV
With my boyfriend until we get bored.
Breakfast is also nice,
When I remember to make it.

I took the long way home,
And saw a woman attempting to
Resuscitate a white cat
On the side of the road.
I slowed, but did not stop.
I glanced long enough to see
The river of blood that began
At the mouth of the cat.
And I drove on, made a call,
Expressed my shock, then turned around.
I wanted to see if the cat had survived,
And part of me hoped the woman had not just left it to die.
As I drove past the farm,
I saw a white cat calmly looping itself
Between a mailbox and a fencepost.
I saw no blood, no white Mercedes,
No woman,
But I did see the cat,
And I felt a little better
About the whole thing.

I spoke to an artist about her lines,
Which she explained weren’t just lines.
I knew, of course, they’re not just lines.
To me they looked like anguine bones, these lines.
The skull of the snake, a thick web of lines.
I set aside my artistic hallucinations,
Because she did not find them amusing.
I honestly did see a snake,
Like a cloud in the sky,
But in her art.

[A light poem for the last night of Passover]

They came,
And went.
They reaped,
And bestowed
With a karmic appetite,
Upon those
With blood
On their hands.



The trees, the rain,
The white Honda parked under the tree,
The girl with the blue hair,
The woman who gave me a look,
The girl with the blue hair, who is reading a book.
I cannot see the cover,
But she is now checking her phone,
The book out of her mind for a moment.
I see the wind in the trees,
But realize I actually can’t.
The girl is writing something down.
The pen in her right hand,
And her forearm is covered in a sleeve tattoo.
The purple lamps that hang over the window bar,
They’re nice, and so is
The boy with the smooth-looking hair and tattoos behind the counter.
I wonder what tattoo I would get.
If I ever own a house, or an apartment,
I would like to have purple lamps.

So, I write this poem,
Write the final lines,
Then lock eyes with the girl with the blue hair
As she picks up her bag and leaves.
There are other people here, but I feel alone.
My attention was set on her for no other reason than I liked the color of her hair,
The look of her tattoos.
No one is talking, loudly, that is.
People whisper in this cafe,
While I sit and write this.
My tea has been finished
And I tilt the cup to see the disappointing emptiness.
I consider leaving now, as my tea is gone,
And I am cold.
The space on an elderly woman’s face,
Below her right eye, is swaddled in gauze.
Cosmetic surgery perhaps,
Or maybe someone hit her.
Either way, something inside me feels pitiful.
I came here for a cup of tea,
And left with more ideas.


My stomach full of two cups of coffee and a cup of Rosy Jasmine tea,
I see the stop sign that stands with a footnote of a sign that reads,
“Right Turn Only.”
Do you know how many people ignore it and turn left?
I’m one of them, on occasion.
But today, I don’t feel like breaking the rules,
Although part of me wonders why I don’t feel like breaking the rules today.
Is it because I feel unsafe,
As if my actions might inflict some karmic justice?
I notice another sign,
This one the symbol of a left turn crossed out in a red strike.
It is faded, but that is no excuse to not listen.

WRITING POETRY WHILE DRIVING (Transcribed from a recording)

I have to drive slow on this road, because there’s sometimes a cop here.
Most likely not, most usually not.
I always tell my boyfriend,
“Drive slow.
There might be a cop.”
And I know he’s tired of nagging about that
Because there almost never is.
And when there is, someone has already been pulled over.


I’m almost to the spot where the cops usually sit.
There are two locations, about fifty feet away from each other.
I’m never sure which way they would go,
If they wanted to pull someone over.
Would they drive across the whole road,
Just to switch directions? Or would they
Drive straight toward…
I can’t think of which direction I’m going right now.

Deep breaths,
I down the rest of my water,
Because the sauna is hot
And I feel like I’m on something.

Tired. Two cups of coffee, and Rosy Jasmine tea.
Now a bottle of water, and exercise.
I feel like I’m doing something right.

Sauna felt hotter than usual.
I was tempted to look at the temperature,
But I didn’t want to make a habit out of it.
I thought, ‘One time can’t hurt,’
And I checked it,
But I felt like I will probably do it again
Next time.

The gym was okay.


Imagine being alright,
With where you are in life.