a tree of my own

When I was 8 years old, I tried to climb a tree.
I hoisted my gangly legged, scabby kneed, bright eyed self up that first branch,
Following the trail of laughter left behind by my brothers,
Already at the top
They smiled down at me, adventure radiating from their every pore-
And then I fell.

"Leave the tree climbing to the boys," my neighbor said,
"Girls don't have to bothered with that type of thing."
What she saw as foolish, I saw as unfair,
And that day,
That very moment
 I burned the kingdom in my mind to the ground,
Only ashes and cinders and smoldering ruins remained
And I planted a seed inside of my head,
Childish tears acting as the water,
So that I could grow a tree of my very own.

As the tree grew, I slowly climbed
Branch after branch,
And watched as other girls struggled to find a place of their own to grasp.
When we were twelve our church leader told us,
"In order to be happy,
You must find a companion."
So what does that make me?
Pathetic.
Broken, jagged, incomplete.
The last place runner in the race society threw me into the moment I was born.
Because queens must have kings in order to rule.
And they can't climb trees.

But little boys don't go to bed dreaming of being someone's prince charming,
So why have I been taught to aspire above all else,
To be your princess?
I am not yours.
I am not anyone's.
I belong to me.
So I will keep climbing the tree growing in my mind.

Perched on my branch, I see those who have been pushed to the ground,
by promises of happiness brought about by two week relationships.
Knees bleeding, spirits broken,
a string of faceless companions by their side,
because without them they feel alone.
Without them, they are nothing,
because this is what they have been told.

But they are not alone.
I have seen the universe in their eyes and the seeds they hold in their hands,
ready to be planted,
without help from anyone else.
You are stronger than all of the armies on this earth.

We do not need someone to carry our loads as we scale mountains,
as we traverse rivers,
as we take on the world.
All I want is to walk in that grassy meadow by the lake with my favorite person in the world by my side,
next to me on my branch,
not because he completes me,
but because I love him,
and shouldn't that be enough?

On a camping trip I recall being told that if you ever find yourself lost in the woods,
climb the nearest tree and search for help.
But the purpose of my climb up this tree I have grown is not to search for anything,
or for anyone.
In fact,


I think I'll just enjoy the view.

I Need A Forklift. (please)

Bricks currently on my chest:

• Hamlet (and the one hundred pages I still have left to read)
• The dirty clothes on my bedroom floor
• That snide little comment you said to me last night
• College
• And the countless college essays I have yet to write.
• And the fact that I have no freaking idea where I even want to go to college.
• The future
• Chemistry
• That death on Grey's Anatomy
• Awkward conversations that keep replaying over and over in my mind 
• Unrealistic expectations from my dad
•  Love
• And the apparent lack thereof in my life
• All of my hopes and dreams and desires and the fact that I probably won't achieve them
• Not being good enough
• Life

The cement has dried and bricks are in place, so can someone please get me a forklift? Because it's getting hard to breathe.

And I'm not sure how much longer I can take this pressure.

(here's another song about bricks.)

Someday, Someday

someday, someday
love will make my acquaintance,
first he will offer me a smile,
then he will offer me the world
because I will be his
And he will be mine

he'll be a lighthouse in the eye of the hurricane,
kissing away stormy tears and clouded doubt,
until I am no longer crying
but I am crying
because I am happy
that at last, the sun has come out.

he'll look at me like poetry,
seeing meaning beneath the black and white,
and like my ap lit teacher he'll analyze
annotate
lift layer upon layer
and during one of those late night conversations he'll finally understand,
and we will breathe the sadness out of our blackened lungs
so at last
we can breathe together.

this love of mine, he'll have the patience of a saint.
when I pause, he'll wait
eager to hear every thought
every idea
he'll feast on my words like a man starved for years,
each syllable a drug,
and he's an addict with no intention of quitting.

he'll let me ride on his handlebars,
(no one's ever let me do that before,)
wind intertwined with tangled hair,
the moon will baptize my freckled face,
the stars act as our enraptured audience,
the lucky ones with the coveted ticket
to the greatest love story of all time.

but for now, I'll wander alone
my hands will hold nothing but my hope for the future
my lips will mouth the words I am too scared to say
and I will love myself the way I deserve to be loved.

someday, someday
that day is not today
but this is not a poem, this is a promise
this is an oath tattooed in the crevices of my heart
buried deep but never forgotten
so that when love at last arrives
I'll be able to offer a smile back,
and when he hands me the world,
I'll know how to handle it
because I have held the moon,

and

someday

is

now.

Something

I'm not quite sure how I got here or why,
And I'm still a little shaky on what I am.
You can't convince me that math has a purpose no matter how hard you try,
and I'll never know what I was thinking when I thought gauchos were cool.
I don't know why bad things happen to good people and I know that's a cliche,
but then again, I don't know why you care.
Airplanes make me nervous.
But airports make me happy,
because all of the tight embraces and goodbye kisses and "see you soons" lingering in the air,
no destination in mind,
It almost makes me feel loved, too.
I've kissed a few boys but never one I truly "liked",
and I'm not foolish enough to believe that will happen anytime soon.
Love is for the grown-ups,
and according to society, I don't know shit.
So in the meantime, I'll be right here.
Waiting.
Embarrassment is a good friend of mine,
We meet up throughout the day (he's really clingy),
I blush
And blush
Every time he comes around,
He's a real charmer, that guy.
I'm not quite sure what all of this means,
But I'm sure it means something.
That I'm something.

I know my heart beats,
Sometimes fast and sometimes slow,
And sometimes it feels like it's about to burst out of my chest.
Blood runs through my veins,
Gallons and gallons of the stuff,
Enough to fill an ocean or lake or a pond, at the very least,
Maybe not but how can I be so sure?
For some reason salt water comes out of my eyes,
When I laugh too hard,
When a bug flies into them,
When I cry.
I think that one's that worst.
I cry in the Titanic every time Jack dies. (Spoiler alert, I guess.)
I cry when I'm angry, no matter how hard I try not to.
I cry....
I think you get the picture.
"Cry me a river," a wise man once said,
Easily.
I don't know if these tears make me less or make me more or make me anything at all.
But still, I'm sure this means something,
That I'm something.

I know there's creatures like me, everywhere I go,
Same features, same make,
But fundamentally different in every way.
If I'm a Chevy Malibu, then she's a Camaro,
And he's one of those clunkers that's not worth the hundred bucks you spent on it.
She left her morals at the door of her childhood home
And he likes to drink 'til his blood turns to alcohol
And failure haunts me like that funnel cake I ate before riding the tilt-a-whirl.
Words affect me more than they should,
You'll find the bad ones in the back of my mind, replaying over and over and over again.
Just follow insecurity and take a left turn at hurt, you can't miss them.
But he doesn't seem to give a damn.
She lived in a little yellow house with a white picket fence and grew up to go to a great school,
Get a great job,
Have a great life,
He lived in a constant nightmare with rough hands and sharp words and grew up to live on the streets,
Make some bad decisions,
It cost him his life.
What makes him less than her, than me?
We are the same,
Not at all,
But still, I'm sure this means something,
That we're something.

I know there's a grand architect somewhere,
And I'd really appreciate it if he could stand up.
I have a lot of questions for you, pal.
Who invented the knock-knock joke?
Why are croissants so flaky?
Is Tupac really dead?
Do dogs go to heaven?
What am I doing here?
Why are we here?
And why won't you answer me??
So I'm not sure if this is a cry or a scream or a prayer or just words on a paper,
And I'm still not quite sure what I'm even trying to ask you here.
But I'm sure it means something.
I am something.
You are something.
We are something.

Just tell us what.