I am the girl who calculates the risks,
who writes poetry about life,
who sips her tea and tries to
decide if she even has a future.
I am a
flight risk, with a fear of failing.
fear of falling
in love
I hate change,
you came along with your
mischievous ocean eyes,
musical soul,
and spindly hands
and told me
could knock the breath out of you

now, I write poetry for you,
I sip my tea and dream
of you
(boy, with the calm persona)
and, maybe this time I won’t have to run
or bury it away, because I
romanticize and I become overly jealous at times
because, you’ve taught me
change is beautiful




summer came and went

took our innocence

with the soft breeze


she caught up with us

finally, after all these years

from hiding from her


we traded in our dolls

for mixtapes and books

our lightheartedness,

disappeared when we

fell in love someone else

and forgot to love ourselves.

our contented souls now

tossed with restlessness

new ideas, places, people

confused us


i see you sometimes

in a hazy dream

your eyes,

lost on some highway road

searching for the exit sign

your hands,

bruised from fighting

tinged with blood

your laugh,

the melancholic chords

echoing throughout the car


that’s who we are now…

lost, but still driving

searching, but never finding

and i’m still getting used to it




















Retracing Our Steps.

Have you ever looked at your life a year later, and wondered…what happened?

Was it you who changed, or the people around you?

It feels as if nothing has changed, but everything has.

The guy you liked a year ago, is the back of your mind, and only comes up on occasions. No one’s taken his place yet, and you’re in no hurry.

Some friends have left, or unfortunately you’re realizing you’ve left some people behind. There’s new friends who add depth and color to your life, in shades you never knew existed. You try to retrace your steps to remember how you lost and gained them.

Your sister is a woman. Your brother is almost as tall you. Your sister is a business woman. Your littlest brother tells you stories and is getting too heavy to hold.

Even you couldn’t escape changing. Your hair is longer and you’re taller. You wear different clothes and you like your hair down instead of half up-half down. You’ve learned how to talk. You’ve learned how to conquer some of your anxiety that ate you alive last year. You go to events and people know your name, and by Jove…you can carry a conversation.

It makes you wonder…what will change by next year? Nothing really. You like to reassure yourself, but you know that’s a complete lie.