Reflect on the Year

it is more than 365 days

for that project you finished in May
was started a year before

and that healing you worked on
was a work in progress long before
and will continue to be one
for years to come

one year does not exist
separate from each one before it

Every event,
goal,
and accomplishment
is made up of
moments in time-
when you started
when you tried to quit
when you didn't

time functions on a
continuum
never stopping
no matter how hard
you might wish it would

we're just along for the ride
driven by the beat of time
and in 2020?
you're gonna see me dancing

Voices of the Trees [revised]

When I was 8-years-old, I wrote a poem (here). I'm thankful for that kid because it's the year I decided I was going to be a poet. This is my revision seven years later...

Trees whisper

to each other.
Most ignore the 

rustles in the wind,
but I listen to legends.
Stand still and you can, too.

Trees have all the secrets
of the world (all yours, too).
No need to fear, they are the best 

at keeping secrets (years of practice)
I only know the rumors, the legends, the 

stories- if you listen, with your soul on tiptoe,
outside; surrounded by silence, standing still in it
you might just- now, don't give up because right before 

you think about giving up?
you'll hear them.

Painting Persephone

when I'm painting Persephone,
I'm painting the souls she tormented
the flowers she grew
and the sunlight in her hair

the goddess of spring
Queen of the Underworld
the bringer of destruction
a force to be reckoned with,
someone to be feared

when I'm painting Persephone,
I imagine
her struggle, watching
her story being
mistold, over and over,
men drawing lines
where they weren't
supposed to be

she was a mighty queen
written as a helpless victim

I'm painting
Despoina and
Kore and
Proserpina, all of
her faces
and phases

like a moon,
she is cold
and unwavering

she'll show you no mercy
and you'll rot
while she throws
flowers on your grave

Hypocrite [guest poet]

It's not supposed to hurt.
Looking over at the people I love, I smile.
I try to show my love but my face betrays me.
Insecurities grip me tight and give birth to a thousand doubts.
What if they don't love me anymore?

I'm glad they don't hear me crying in the shower.
They think that I'm perfect, so I don't have the right to be sad.
"Other people have it worse."
Pain that I can't explain.
Knives twisting in my gut.
I've been stabbed by someone I love and they don't have a clue how it hurts.
The mirror is dirty, like my reflection.
Feeling like a joke, rubbing my teary eyes
breaths come in shallow.
I say to myself, "Stop this!
Your life is great!
They are jealous of you
Most of them love you."

Do they even know me?

The real me?

I'm the one who's jealous of those who have it worse
because when they cry, they have a right to.

Everything is in place, nothing ever hurts me.
I'm fine. I’ve figured it all out.

The shower knows the truth they'll never know.
Maybe it's for the best to be the happy one.
The one who has it all.
Time to put my brave face on.

People ask for my opinions as if I've got it all figured out.
I love them, but when I tell the truth it hurts them.
I love them, so I lie.
They point at me and say
“Hypocrite.”
Maybe I am but you never really wanted to know the truth, did you?

I lie to myself about things I don't wanna feel.
Thoughts of jealousy and pettiness have crippled me before.
Would I fight myself this time or just accept defeat at the hands of someone I promised myself I wouldn't become?
The 8th-grade version of myself.
The mean girl, I loathe myself.
Am I becoming her?
please, let me die before she takes over.
I would rather set fire to my own corpse than hurt the people I love due to my own urges.

Only the shower has heard my plea.
I don't have a leg to stand on.
How do I get up and put the mask on this morning?
If it's all the same, I'd rather crawl back in my bed and wait for death.

Does anyone really even worry about me
or do they miss the girl I once was?

Written by Rupkatha, my brave new friend who lives a world away, unaware of her own strength.

to describe a museum

to describe a museum is to describe a
maze built of books that lie open for
indulgence, for education, begging
to be read, to be seen

to describe a museum is to describe a
story that needs three rooms full of
artifacts to begin telling it,
lights low, minds wide open

to describe a museum is to describe a
a contradiction- honoring a civilization
by stealing their art and
deciding how to tell the story, themselves

to describe a museum is to describe a
deep ache, a yearning for knowledge
and understanding and a
connection beyond words

to describe a museum is to describe
a maze
a story, a contradiction
and a deep ache