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Wednesday, March 19, 2014

The Storybook

The pages unite, they are forming their army. 

They give up on their individual existence, too old to carry on. 

So they sit in their glass case, forbidding larceny. 

They sit idle, in their lovely parthenon. 


Reds, blues, oranges bleed through the pages. 

The pages wither, ripping at the seams. 

Seams curved swiftly, from a man with far less wages,

Wages that don't reflect the perfection, down to the pages colored cream.


At Mass they sing, with glee and joy,

Religion pumping through their veins,

They stand majestically, like Helen of Troy,

The seal of Doge, of powerful reign,


A Church in Venice, much like San Domenico
They sing with this book, in perfect harmony,

Resonating from this book, are the notes of a harmonium. 

As if time is short, they sing with urgency,

But too scared to leave their perfect palladium. 


The pages unite, they are forming their army. 

They give up on their individual existence, too old to carry on. 

So they sit in their glass case, forbidding larceny. 

They sit idle, in their lovely parthenon. 


Inspiration: The Gradual of San Domenico di Castello, is a musical book that I saw in an art exhibit on Venice, Italy. It was beautiful, so I decided to write a poem about it! 




Me, Myself, and I



I’ve gotten lost on a cruise ship.
13 floors.
The elevators were broken.

When I’m nervous
My head starts hurting.
And then I can’t shut up.

Jessie J.
Arctic Monkeys.
The Neighborhood.
The Kooks.
Weezer.
They brainwash me as I listen to them on repeat.

7 rings at a time.
One on each finger, but sometimes I skip fingers.
Wings, a bowtie, and a simple silver one.  
Or maybe just a wired one.

I like the sticky feeling of bindis on my forehead.
The pain of wearing tight bangles on my wrists is worth it.

Black and white instead of color.
Spicy instead of sweet.

I like faded photos,
The smell of a new car.

Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Jennifer Hudson and Alicia Keys.
My voice tries to imitate theirs.

Netflix is my best friend.
And so is ice cream.
Strawberry, or chocolate.

I dance like everyone is watching,
But the pressure calms me.

A B-17 Flying Fortress model lays on my bedside table,
Reminiscent of my interest in army planes.

I’m the one who makes funny Youtube videos,
And rolls the windows down, while turning the music up,
On the highway.

Addicted to the feeling of snowflakes on my tongue,
A slave to the taste of Nutella.

I fill my head with unachievable goals, like pleasing everyone.
But I guess that’s how life goes.


Inspiration: I feel like though so many people know who I am, no one seems to know the real me. So this is me. Whether you like me or not, here I am.