THis is art ;

descriptions unfinished,

decryptions not given

i feel the salted sand,

slip beneath my fingers. gently,

i sift, and i shake. time between my hands

my writing is flawed like my character. descriptions unfinished

like this moment, now passing ;

finished and unnoticed.

i cannot write them all down

up in the right side of town

the city lights are blinding

in the dark,

illuminated buildings strike a sudden spark,

that fills my senses

but if i could see,

everything there is to see,

would i become blind to animosity?

or,

would i be left

senseless?

pause.

breathe

plot holes, potholes.

a hole is more like an unwashed window

than an upside-down dome.

it creates a longing to be more ;

wholesome

regrets and misfortunes

are evidences

of my unfathomable freedoms

to learn. and keep learning ;

keep earning.

science wants to know it all.

people want to go it all. live forever.

but some die young

and i’ve been dying since the day i was born

but also growing like a tree.

alone. and in silence.

connected to my community,

my roots. they run with loyal leaves

i am ;

a van gogh ; Frida Kahlo ;

picasso

I did not make the canvas ;

but what would happen?

if i keep this sand between my wholesome hands,

for one canorous moment ;

would i make a canvas?

There is a girl sitting alone in a quiet cafe. She has a laptop, phone, green notebook, a black pen, and a look of forced concentration on her face. She is typing away madly, but suddenly she stops and looks up. Her hand brushes away an itchy, blonde strand of hair from her eyes. She sighs an exhale of relief. Wrinkles in her face begin to fill, and form a quiet smile. She is behind the glass in another world far, far away. Behind the glass in her little cafe, her emotions seem transparent on her face.

Reaching to sip her hot drink that she cannot really afford, she swoops in too fast and spills her almond milk latte all over her light-blue ripped jeans. “Shit.” The barista’s eyes meet hers. They both begin to laugh as she hurries over to the counter to grab a bunch of napkins.

“Thank you.” She says smiling, halfway embarrassed.

He nods, “That’s alright.”

Carefully positioning the napkins, she pivots and attempts to look inconspicuous as she sits in her quiet corner again. Returning her concentration to her laptop, she writes a new line for a song: “burned but I’m not broken.” She scratches it, but likes alliteration. “broke but I’m not broken,” she writes. It is a work in progress.

A subtle hum fills the air as she desperately tries to regain focus. It was unmistakably from behind her chair. Behind the threads of her dyed-blonde hair, a glass window sorts her sanity. It keeps the world outside, and her in there.  But the hum out there insistently grows louder.

The wind was sweeping, biting pink

The wispy, red streams down her cheek

Gliding, gracefully, her hairs in place

Tonight was so unusually sweet

A wolf loomed in the nearby shadows

A presence that tarnished her freedom

A presence that took her good will

She barely whispered a “hello?”

“Helloooooo?” howled the wide-eyed wolf.

The blood-red sunset full in sight

Began to dim, revealing the night

A monstrous wolf howled in the moonlight

She stopped and stared, ready to fight

Bittersweet longing filled her heart

Slowly, ripping her soul apart

To know what’s known,

To hear what’s heard

To feel her fears

And speak new words

All freedom now taken

By this dreadful curse

Her life comes second

Her death comes first.

he picked her

like a summer flower

bright and fresh

from spring rain showers

captured now

between his hands

he severed her stem

from the motherland

her roots are rotting

in the ground

she screams

but cannot make a sound

she fears one day

she’ll be a mother

to a new flower

who might discover

the hands of Men

they are not gentle

and every day

we must be careful

She lost her voice

in her early mid-teens

to the teenage beauty queens

who made her feel

like

nothing.

N-O-T-H-I-N-G

too easily

would rhyme and ring,

in simple tunes,

beauty queens would sing.

If they only knew

how it would bleed

from glass above her bathroom sink.

Fading slowly,

like a star

she lights her candles

in glowing glass jars,

praying that her silver scars

will be erased,

now.

There’s a calendar on her wall.

It’s been changed

through seven sunny Falls.

Now.

At nearly twenty-three

she speaks about vulnerability

unguarded

bohemian

tranquility.

She found her voice

in reflection by choice,

with glowing glass jars

singing

SERENITY.

She found her voice

thanks to those teenage beauty queens

who made her feel

like

speaking.