Slice of Childhood

I love innocence.
The way it sun jumps off my baby sister’s hair
Down to her smile.
It can make any test-filled day,
become a no homework afternoon.
The teeth coming in at random places
Piercing through her soft gums:
No wonder why she cries.
But as long as she is held in someone’s arms
Someone that she knows loves her
The pain is no longer there.

As she eats her purified green beans
And makes a mess on her high chair,
My new sweatshirt,
And Sarah’s cells phone;
My frustration starts to get heavier till I look at her face,
And see the green mudslide spurting out of her mouth
As she laughs at my red face.

She speaks in a language no one else knows
No, it’s not some ancient diction
Arabic or Celtic.
It is more specific to the simple-ness in life.
Enjoying a tasty block
Or an entertaining strand of dust.

We can only understand when she says da-da
Because she reaches for him at that moment.
As he walks out the door
To go to another night of work,
Tears fill her face
Only until
She sees her favorite person.

At only five years old,
He is already her protector.
The watchful eye when she slides out of sight.
The net around the bed
Making sure she does not fall.

She is surrounded by people who love and care for her.
Every one of them
Wanting for her to grow up
Learn to walk,
Talk,
Feed herself,
Bathe herself,
Until the age of seven when,
The children in my family,
Become self sufficient.
But me,
I love her,
Dirty diaper and all.

A love poem to Alex

The question is what do you love?

I love the articulate writing ability
Her words turning inside your ears
Making you attentive,
Scribbling notes,
To catch every word she speaks
And paste it into your notebook for an abandoned day.

I love

I love her compassion,
Not hesitating to bring in a secret cupid present,
When a name is left out,
Forgotten in the emptiness of Strout’s canvas bag.

I love

I love her need to not fit in.
She rants daily,
Not caring what eavesdropping pupils are discussing about her current anger towards the matrices math homework done everyday in fourth period.
Because her irrefutable friends
Understand the frustrations that come with being a junior in high school
And embrace words,
Knowing that in her bag of love
There are plenty of organs to go around.

This was the very first thing i wrote this year...Much help is needed to make this perfecto

Mr. Sarno for history, Mr. Karnus for math, Language arts, the one class i dreaded, with Mrs. McArty. The days of sleeping next to the air conditioner and doing homework at lunch the period before. The year before the McArty era was the McGelroy era. The teacher that even my mother hated. Always having to write your spelling words 5 times each, but if you didn't do that it was 10 times each, then 20, then 50, then 100, until finally 500. Yes, she made a boy named Matt write his words 500 times each. I didn't care too much though, considering my hatred for the name Matt.
We never found out if she really has a glass eye. But the best part of that year was on taco day. I was not feeling well and since I was so afraid to ask to go to the nurse, I waited until the very last possible second. The only words that came out before the food were "Can I go." The hideous pink flower dress was suddenly covered with taco meat. When I came back two days later, she gave us a long speech about if we have to go to the nurse...just go.
The weirdest thing about both of these teachers, who both made my life miserable for 2 periods a day, were so kind when my older and wiser self went to visit.

Nada

No inspiration
I have no reason to be here
No reason to do my work
No reason to write this powm
No reason to...



yea I had a brain lapse and this is what came out.