The clouds in my head

The overcast clouds in my head
represent the clutter,
the feeling of not knowing where to start
the messy room
the alarm clock
the miles of stuff to do
the increased amount of blinks it takes to keep my eyes open
the decreased hours of sleep
that trap the clouds inside my head


The Way time Flies

His feet hit the ground at
the exact

On a journey, everything he sees
is the same.
He feels motionless
as he goes through cycle
endless space of similarity
in front
and behind
but it isnt till his scenery changes
that he realizes how fast he is moving,
how much he has left behind.


The biggest let down
of my
The constant chatter
fill up the glass
in my window
till it shatters
to the sound of silence
of plans unfulfilled
by words unsaid.

*To all the crummy summers out there. But it is still way better then school. The expectations just never reach reality

Not wanting to feel the future
we lived in the constant
connection between
me and you
you and me
unspoken without me
but you sing so sweet
when my fingers
glide across
your strings

The wolf

Silent, the wolf sat. The moon runs a finger through the shining hair sliding down his back. Alone, his paws prod across the undergrowth. Surrounded by a grove of trees, he only wanted to be understood. Gone were his pack, his tribe, those who stood by him. Intense eyes, watching, waiting. A majestic painting framed by an intricate outlay. A leaf falls to the ground. The forest breathes. Hardly noticeable to the unseen eye, his ears perk up ever so slightly. The chilled evening air whispers secrets to his charcoal nose. Lines ripple through the glossy coat worn across his back. Licking his lips, attent, he waits. Then ever so soft, comes a sound. Like breath, it glides through the trees. Slowly the whisper grows to a murmur, a mumble. The grounds starts to shake. A rumble, ever so slight. The trees start to sway in its wake. A call, a howl so great. Filling up his chest, the wolf sits still, taking it in. His ears then lay back as he embraces the sound. His muscles tighten, he moves like light. Under the moon he flies. Past the old juniper tree, the cave, the lullaby stream. Beneath the waterfall, over the ridge, the sunset plateau. Guided only by the sound, he follows his brethren. Pat, pat, pound, the ground sings beneath his feet. Free in the night he glides. Away from the place he knows, those who could never see beneath him. Into the unknown he soars, one purpose in mind, filling his soul.

Because I couldn’t have said it better myself

My little sister is an amazing  writer, more then I could ever hope to be. This hit me right in the spot. I couldn’t think of a better way to describe my loving Mom, thanks Marie.

marie the poet

I don’t think I’ve ever given my mother a real, actual non-coupon book Mothers Day present. This year was no exception- I still can’t remember if I payed my dad the five bucks to go in on a picture for my mom. It’s ridiculous, I know. My mother is the person who does nearly everything for me every. single. day. And yet though I might say thank you for the orange juice for breakfast, I don’t think I’ve ever shown true gratitude for what she does.

My mother is one of the most selfless people I know. For about 25 years now, she has lived a life of sleep-deprivation. She has birthed six children; been up in the night with them from their first breath. I have never heard her scream, “I need some ME time!” She has always been there for everyone. She is the glue of our home…

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