Pillow Talk

I listen to your steady heaving.
"Did you hear about Mary?
She had a date today."
Your breathing stays.
"Em got tossed around in practice.
She's pretty pissed."
Nothing.
The question I want to ask
Will not leave.
So I sigh and whisper,
"Goodnight."

Memories - Descriptive Paragraph Part 2

I.
Open the door, take a deep breath to prepare.
Whoosh. Pain swells inside my chest
As icy air enters my lungs
Before being expelled back the way it came.
The snow, crunching under my feet,
Reflects the sun and blinds my eyes.
The bright white causes squinting while walking.
Looking down, foot prints and the scuffs
Before them litter the ground,
But only on the pavement.
The rest of the ground, where grass once was,
Is untouched. The flatness of the scene
Brings memories of days
Spent entirely in the snow.

II.
Breaking off icicles from clean places
To lick and see if tongues stay attached.
The softness of the snow, like falling into a pillow.
The rush of adrenaline, while flying down a hill,
Knowing when to stop to avoid the street at the bottom.
Friends laughing, can't stop smiling
Even though snot reaches its fingers into open mouths.
Numb fingers warmed with hot cocoa
Topped with the sugary goodness of marshmallows.
The dripping of snow shoes and pants
Onto the tiles of the kitchen,
Toes warming at the fire.
Cheeks rosy red, eyes bright;
Endearing memories.

III.
Looking up, while walking to class, I see
The people around, filled with their own memories.
We pass, staring at the white, crunching ground.
Looking as the trees with their branches
Weighed down with the snow.
Students brought down by the weight of their packs
And memories. Dragging their feet, desiring to feel
The freedom once had - weightless packs,
Weightless branches - dancing and not caring.
My breath smokes the air, molecules freezing
After exiting the warmth of my body.
I blink to keep out the wind.
Tears running down my face;
The cold forces itself into my being.

Memories

Opening the door, I take a deep breath to prepare. Whoosh. Icy air enters my lungs. Pain swells inside my chest before being expelled back the way it came. The snow, crunching under my feet, reflects the sun and blinds my eyes. Bright white causing squinting while walking. Looking down, foot prints and the scuffs before them litter the ground, but only on the pavement. The rest of the ground, where grass once was, is untouched. The flatness of the scene bringing memories of days spent entirely in the snow. Breaking off icicles from clean places to lick, and see if tongues would stay attached. The softness of the snow, like falling back into a pillow. The rush of adrenaline, while flying down a back road hill, knowing to stop before reaching the street at the bottom. Friends laughing, can't stop smiling even though snot reaches its fingers into open mouths. Numb fingers warmed with hot cocoa topped with the sugary goodness of marshmallows. The dripping of snow shoes and pants onto the tiles of the kitchen, toes warming at the fire. Cheeks rosy red, eyes bright; endearing memories. Looking up, walking to class. The people around, filled with their own thoughts and memories, walk by, looking at the white, crunching ground. Looking as the trees with their branches weighed down with the snow, students brought down by the weight of their packs and thoughts. Dragging their feet, desiring only to feel the freedom of summer - the weightless packs, the weightless branches - where they can dance in the warmth. Breath, smoking the air. Molecules freezing after exiting the warmth of my body. My eyelashes fill up with white, previously black from mascara, blinking to keep out the wind. Tears running down my face; the cold forces itself into my body.

Revision: Blood

I can feel the blood
Pump-pumping
To the tips of my toes.
Each beat filling my veins,
Flooding my brain.
I can feel it in the cartilage
Of my ears.
Even, in the small skin
Covering my eyes.
Pump. Pump.
Beat. Beat.
Every beat fills my lungs
With air.
Every breath fills my body
With life.
Necessary to survive.
Sustenance to thrive.
Throb-throbbing.
Never stopping.
But why can't I feel
My heart
Beat-beating
Whenever you're near?

What is Poetry?

Poetry, as stated by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, is "the best words in the best order" and, to me, it is the best release. Finding the courage to speak is often hard for me. Emotions build inside of my soul because I have a hard time letting them out. So poetry is a way for me to release those emotions in a way that flows and makes sense to me. Not only that, but reading a beautiful poem, that I can relate to, helps me feel as though I am not alone and therefore releases other feelings of loneliness or seclusion. To me, poetry is the best form of therapy.