The game, a vine that grows inside of you
Quickly grabbing pulling you into the fun
Because that little vine becomes something big
A big plant
The game soon becomes what you love
And then you want to be one of them
A giant star on the big stage
Every kids dream
Every single one
A dream as big as a home run
Dreams that go BOOM
But it just started from a little vine like you
What is Time?
Just a number?
Or is it something else?
We always want more or less of it
Is it a space filler like the grout between your tiles?
Or is it something else?
How is time measured?
By the beginning of the universe or how fast something moves?
In seconds or minutes?
Time is an idea wrapped in a thought
A thought to explain how things became what they are now
Zombies, fear, cats and pink.
Things I enjoy watching.
Zombies when Shaun plays video
games with his zombified friend.
Fear when Dipper gets possessed
by Bill and his sister must save him.
Cats when Garfield needs to
decide what to wear on Halloween.
Pink when Finn lays crying hugging
a wad of Princess Bubblegum’s hair.
Shaun of the Dead, Gravity Falls,
Garfield, Adventure Time.
Movies, Shows, Live Action, Cartoons.
That feeling when zombies seem
to come after me in a 3D movie.
That feeling in my stomach when
my favorite character gets captured.
That feeling when the protagonist
gets an adorable kitten as a gift.
That feeling when she walks into the
ball in the most beautiful pink dress.
That feeling when they all
come together in one poem.
Back and forth, back and forth.
I throw, she catches, she brings back.
The toy flies. She hops up, tries to catch it.
She sometimes misses, or accidentally lays on it.
She runs. She gets caught.
One of my cats trip her or she gets caught in her collar.
Even when that happens, she still come back.
I hold up my hand. “Sit.” She does.
She sits before I throw it.
All my other pets look at her like she’s crazy.
Such a strange cat.
Sun beats down on cracked plastic as
a damsel cowers in her tower hiding from
the dragon both above and below
Spiders and frogs, molded not by time, living
attached to the slides’ shadows
Twisting, turning, tumbling down
But as quick as a boom and a crack
Caution tape keeps away
those who play
It was never the same again
I am from a pink plastic playhouse
Scoot-bumping down carpeted stairs
and the one time my dad made bread
mirrors of many faces
scattered in the sense of misery
remuneration of dreadful people
swollen fingers hardly make any sound
nothing but the red hot mass of fire
and two or three faces
forgotten and slurred into each other
thrilled out from behind the day
the cartilage bridge
is graced by metallic shades
Do you badger a butterfly
on the hues of it’s wings
Cat-call a peacock
for it’s sapphire feathers
Why am I bullied
on the curls of my hair
for my sparkling eyes
I am a firefly
in a jar of moths waiting
to extinguish my lights and
be set free of my lavish bonds
I beg for the day
when my hair will gray
my teeth yellow
when my old bones
will groan for rest
Ghost barrels through the water
shattering schools of brown and green
on a taunting silver tooth
strayed too far
How do you harness
the power of the wind
With an iron girdle
that’s buffeted and blasted
Until and echoing squeak
twists apart the rusting branches
releasing the breeze
My ghost king slips back into the water
Once harnessed wind rushes back to his lungs
The Ann Richards School for Young Women Leaders