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About Varied / Hobbyist Member IsabelleFemale/United States Recent Activity
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As I walk under gray skies, I take the tropics of Sublime and the passion of Regina Spektor with me:
enough of an escape to close my eyes in movement.
I notice how my gaze sets on others passing in varying temperatures and hues.
My mind swirls with all that is ahead of me.
My mind is ready for work.
My mind is ready for a nap.
My mind is ready for...
Stream of Consciousness
Not a fully formed poem, but something I liked enough to want to save. Maybe I'll come back to it later. c:
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We trudge along some Polaroid-colored highway
in a nameless march. Trees spring-green, asphalt blinding.

Up ahead, Grandpa is waiting. Thin, gold sunrays fall around him,
touch the deep green grass, pierce the grand tree he stands under,
abundant with green.

His voice is back.
His face is back,
his arms are open.

He puts one around me, cars muffle.

Despite our hesitance for his age,
his slow, thin body,
he walks on with us.
Dream
I had this dream last night. Wish I could remember more.
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In England, you see a lot of flowers that bloom in the rain:
pointed petals arch downward, bouncing above the two-legged stems
that glide beneath them.

Their roots are restless and tread earth quickly,
sending neural signals to shrink the petals
back into the bud from where they began.

I've seen one of these buds dangle from a girl’s wrist,
it was pink and delicate, hanging upside down.

In full bloom the flowers tower over us, their webbed metal fingers
outstretched like the bones of a bat,
keeping us between the water that nourishes them
and the sidewalk they float above.
A Study of Urban Botany
Done for a class exercise. Can you guess what this poem is about? c:
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Mom, when I think about your birth,
I realize that your mother spent three years of her life
pregnant to make your family,
and you spent three years of yours to make us.
That’s incredible.

Your kindness nourished us from our roots up,
like giving us a jar of fireflies
only to teach us how to set them free.
When I think of you I hear your voice through your letters,
remember bread and the salt of butter,
the sweet hand lotion you used, the ships you’ve sailed.

When I’m thousands of miles away
your thoughtfulness still floats to me in ripples,
still asking about things I’ve already forgotten about.
When I’m not home, you’re making my bed to feel closer to me.

I know there are clichés in the tea you make us,
in the tampons you taught me to use;
it’s still love.

I may be twenty, but like the child’s misspelled valentine
this poem’s inadequate to all you do,
I couldn’t ever count the ways,
I don’t even know how old you’re turning.

I just hope I’ll age as gracefully as you--
with grey hairs weaving long into my braid,
with glitter in my eyes,
with your smile.
Mom's Birthday Card
This poem's on its way to her right now inside a package filled with English treats. I hope she enjoys it. ^_^
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It's always like this, compromise with him
turns into a reality principle where delayed gratification never comes,
not the way I want it to.

He gets me out of bed, gets me to breakfast in time,
gets me to campus at a reasonable hour. But at the end of the day
he wastes away my free time at the screen.

Sometimes I’m ok with this, yet I'm starting to realize how he comes around
when things go wrong.
He doesn't like it when I mess up.

Leaving a book unfinished for class or
losing sight of a deadline isn't good enough for him;
he’ll tear me apart if he realizes I've made a mistake,

I have a hard time wondering if he still knows what's best for me,
since today it seems all he wants to do
is get me into a room

alone with him.
He spent my whole life getting me used to the idea
of solitude.

It doesn't bother him if I go a day without talking to anyone
as long as I can cross off things from my ambitious daily checklist
and feed myself with the dopamine of accomplishment.

I’m looking at you, perfectionism.
You can cancel my poetry society meeting today
but I am still writing.
Don’t tell me there isn't enough time to write a poem.
Busy
Anyone who meets me might think I have my shit together...and I do. A little too much. Here's a glimpse into the life maybe only two or three people really know about, the life I really live. 

*Edited for my poetry class portfolio. I might make more changes when my teacher gives me her feedback on this.
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Isabelle
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States

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