Excuse Me,

Why are my words ramblings,

And yours art.

Are they not built from the same bone?

Are we not burdened by the same pen?

Why are your words poetry

And mine just words.


7:12 PM

My living room is filled with a yawn.

Big and enveloping quiet spreads itself over everything.

And here I lay.

Dark blue hues absorbing into the tile.

The day is slowly melting into night.

But each velvety second is tasted.

As the light wills itself dim.

So here I lay.

Drifting in the crossbeams of then and now.

Mellow and melted.

Simply finding the time to be.

Soft shadows dance their lazy rhythms on me.

And piles of laundry form rolling hills.

And they all too, bounce back the blue light.

We are all here, waiting for it to pass.

Unwrap Me Please

Sometimes I feel so stretched around myself I cant breathe. Not in the nice cradled way of infants or the final fermented way of the buried. But just wedged tightly in between.

And I know I’m the only one who can unravel me,

and fortune favors the bold and those who ought to be,

but I wonder what will be left If I start to tug at the strings of me.

Will I unravelquicklyfasterthanwordsandeyesmovethinningmyselfintoyarn hit the the floor and then what, open and exposed and chained no more

Will I be free only to find the wings I once had have withered into nothing? No no, better to live in the breathlessness of confinement than the uncertainty of freedom. But,

I try to stop, but I feel







(I hope)

Sitting in a far too quiet library-arched ceilings and faded globes stretched on canvas lining the walls dont move too much or the librarians will stare at you-type of quiet. Waiting for a chandelier to crash appropriately to the ground and shatter all timid silence. Waiting for any sound, any change. Pages turn, no chandeliers have fallen. Its been half an hour. The boy with glasses across the room keeps coughing, clearly a rebel without a cause.


I’ve seen

All the bridges you burned to live how you live

and now Its a quarter past three

And even though you wont look at me,

I want you to know

that if they find us,

Ill hide with you inside the closet

Until they take us both away.

Lost in the City

It’s amazing that in a different place. A bigger place, an older place, one with less peace but much more life, lost is my loneliness. Perhaps it’s the thousand simultaneous pours of the morning’s coffee into the hurried paper cup, or that the air itself feels less stale. The papers being poured over by the morning suits and their hurried hush. The unspoken routine the buildings had built themselves upon. This world pulls me in without asking, but it is not unwanted. People on the streets grinding away at whatever they need to do, so they can get to wherever they need to go. I grind away as well, churning out whatever I can in hopes of finding a place here. Falling in love all the while only to be pulled away as soon as my feet become firmly planted. Here love is another feeling. Like being held by a hundred different concrete hands, like being watched by a million different twinkling glass eyes. The conversations unspoken are the most meaningful, I learn to have them with the voices walking by; reminding me that we all exist here together.

Under the Safety of Bed Covers

I fear growing old but not growing up. I fear that ill never be able to feel the simple happiness I did when I was a child. I fear disappointing those who have loved me and those who dream for me. I fear disappointing myself by constantly searching for the approval of others. I fear falling in love with all the wrong things only to realize that they were always the right ones. I fear being free because then no one is responsible for my actions but myself. I fear being caged because my lungs grow weary of pushing against these tight containers. I fear my parents passing away without knowing how much I cant live without them. I fear that I’ve out lost my fear of monsters only to find new fear in death. I fear never having a chance to say goodbye. I fear being irrelevant. I fear being forgotten. I fear being noticed for the wrong things. I fear that we’ve outgrown empathy and that ignorance is the new norm. I fear we’ve become so complacent with our lives and those of others that we’ve forgotten that individuals and actions spark change not empty words. I fear that I would get my ass kicked in a fight that my pride has provoked. I fear that ill end up old and alone after a life of love, I fear that I’ll love and be loved only to have it ripped away from me. I fear snakes. I fear that my success has to be defined one dimensional, that In want of everything I’ll look back and see that I’ve lost everything. I fear my mind one day being trapped by an ill and weathered body. I fear distance, and empty conversations that creep in between the silence of loneliness. I fear losing friends to “I’ve been so busy lately” and being reduced to the falsity of “lets get coffee soon.” I fear innocent deaths, I fear poverty and starvation. I fear a lost name at the end of a lifetime. But mostly I fear being a victim of fear.

We’re never gonna stop this train

“Sometimes I have these moments — crystal, perfect — that fill up the soul. Soothe me. Comfort me. Remind me that, no matter how disjointed and afraid I may feel some days, I’m on the right path . . . and everything is going to be just fine.”

Just what I needed.

write meg!


Back when I was commuting to College Park for school, the only thing getting me through long, terrible, traffic-riddled drives was the soothing sound of John Mayer.

Though his antics in recent years may have colored him in the public’s eye, perhaps, John will always be my main man. I can’t remember my young adult years without thinking of “Clarity,” “Bigger Than My Body,” “Something’s Missing,” “No Such Thing.” As John grew and released more sophisticated, blues-inspired tunes, so did I. My early years at Borders were marked by the release of “Continuum,” the 2006 album that served as a definitive change in his sound, and it became the soundtrack to my college days.

Sometimes I have these moments — crystal, perfect — that fill up the soul. Soothe me. Comfort me. Remind me that, no matter how disjointed and afraid I may feel some days, I’m on the right…

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