Dreamy Head

I want to throw a brick on the gas pedal
like a foot to my chest, force the air out
of me and into the world as I speed down
an endless highway.

I want to choke on salt and sand
with a belt of sand dollars to hold my heart
in place while I dance, dance, dance
and I forget the world.

I want a playground of pavement
and bright lights to play in while the dawn
settles over my tired, hazy world
and I still dance, dance, dance.

There is running and there is sprinting.
There is speeding and burning rubber.
There are dances and there is music--
in my dreamy head.

My Flannel Heart

My heart is a flannel shirt,
buttoned up and folded neat
at the foot of the bed
after I awake each morning,
waiting for you to come home
and to sleep each night.

I'm warm against your summer arms,
covered in tans and burns.
I'm warm against your winter chest,
coated in a blanket of pale.
I'm warm in the autumn,
and I'm warm in the spring
and you wear me all year round.

Because my heart is a flannel shirt
that I wrapped up in matching plaid paper
and gifted to you from under the tree,
hoping, crossing my fingers
that you might even try it on.

I love a love that lasts till Christmas,

when you can put a price tag
on a feeling in the hopes that it
will last long enough to see the sun
again
to feel the warmth of spring,
to pick a flower or take a bath
in new found warm weather.

My heart is a flannel shirt
that I gave to you
to make my efforts tangible.
You wore it with an eager smile,
making promises with your eyes
that your heart
(like wet cardboard,
like tattered fabric)
couldn't exactly keep.

We never made it past the gates
of winter,
dying out in February
before I ever got a chance
to see the sun.

You took the pajamas
and my flannel heart.

A Puddle of Red, White, and Blue

So, you're a puddle of red and white,
while I sit here in my bunny slippers
and a greasy hairstyle:
the epitome of blue.

It was what? a week ago that you
decided you wanted "something else"
and left me here
to cry myself into oblivion.

So, you're a picture of a boy in blue
with a smile on your love drunk face
and I know that curve of the lips
will never be mine again as long as I'm
me and you're
an ass.

Rationality

There's a boy in the box with a smile so warm
that I'm not sure how people can give them their ice
and think it won't melt.

Cross your fingers, folks because he is
beautiful and hot all over and he isn't going to back down
just because you bury him in frozen treats.

We are strong in the face of what you have in store,
our fingers laced together in the perfect portrait
of the confidence we have built.

Though, I must admit,
I shake more when the voices elevate
and I have a tendency of forgetting how to spell

r-a-t-i-o-n-a-l-i-t-y.

So, I'll keep my focus on counting the pearly whites
he loves to flash

and keep my hopes up that I don't fall short
compared to someone with such grace
and beautiful idiocy.

Behind Blue Eyes

From now on, you can just assume all of this is original material. I don't feel like writing copyright on everything I post.

---

Richard was laying on his back in his bed, staring at the posters that had been taped to his ceiling for four years or more.

Pete Townshend stared back at him with blue eyes. The Clash was leather clad and ready to rock. He stared down the barrel of Han Solo's blaster and into the faces of four lads from Liverpool.

He wondered if he would ever be the kind of person teens stared at while they contemplated their lives.

Contemplated their lives like he was now.

He glanced at the acoustic guitar that he had bought the day he turned sixteen three years ago. It was beaten up now, and covered in stickers and one fake mustache. He could play all sorts of covers and even a few of his own original songs.

But, would he ever pose with that guitar for a photographer? Would anyone ever want to listen to him who didn't know him since he was ten?

All Richard had ever wanted was to be a musician, but, sometimes he doubted if he could ever make it. Sure, Josh played bass pretty well and Freddy could play the drums, but, did they have what it took to make it big?

Richard turned off the light and tried to sleep, but, even through the darkness he could see Pete's eyes staring at him. Telling him something.

But what?

Little Me Romance

I wrote this.

---

I liked a boy in the second grade.

That's usually how it works, isn't it? Girl likes boy. Boy spits in girls bologna sandwich. Girl cries until she throws up on her teacher's shoes.

It wasn't a picture perfect romance, I'll admit. But, the stains came out of the shoes.

His name was Charles. We called him Charles back then. Eventually, Charles became Charlie and even Char on some days. I loved the way that ch felt on my throat, my tongue, my lips.

I would stand alone in my bed, staring at my bookshelf or my desk and I would say his name over and over again just to feel it. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie."

Third, fourth, fifth, sixth grade all came and passed with no more ruined sandwiches or shoes. We didn't see much of each other. Our classes were split into tracks A, B, and C. I was an A student and he was B.

Then, the movement came. Jr. High. New building, new students, new classes, no A, B, and C.

We shared a homeroom. Lily Walsh and Charlie Walters. We were made for each other.

On the first day, he passed me a note on green paper. It was covered in scribbled pen tests on the corners and small doodles of circular men holding various objects: a bouquet of flowers, a small explosive, a grenade launcher, and a thick book. In the middle were three of the heaviest words I had ever read:

Wanna go out?

So, I answered him on the same piece of paper. A resounding yes.

I won't tell you he made any big, romantic gestures. I won't tell you he kissed me and took my breath away. I won't tell you the sound of his voice made my knees shake. None of those things are true.

He took me out for pizza. I ordered a cherry cola. We ate and drank. We saw a movie. Something with a lot of explosions and one sex scene that was awkward for both of us. His mom picked us up and drove us home. We were 12. Not much more to expect from a first date, is there?

We went out two more times before we stopped talking, almost all together. One trip to the mall and another playing laser tag. No sparks. I don't know what little me expected, really.

We worked on some projects together in history because we knew each other by name. Other than that, no words were exchanged. No promises kept or broken.

I was lovesick for a while, but, I got over it when I finally pulled my head out of that bologna sandwich from second grade and realized Charlie wasn't the only boy my age.

So, I little me had a romance. It was big in my heart, big on the paper I scrawled it out on, and big in the dreams I had, but, small in real life. That's how most little romances turn out, isn't it?

My life was a room.

I wrote this.

---

My life was a room

that I wallpapered with thoughts and memories
I thought I would cherish forever.

My life was a room

with a door I never locked or closed
because I thought it would be nice to have company.

My life was a room

and now it's painted white without shadows
and the ghosts of my past call it home.