Must Listen

"Free Translator" by the Books. 

Distillery

Distillery 

A Wild Flag wannabe, I lurk in my own distillery

A waiting room of dark walls lit, a holding cell to mark my bit

Of talent, of waste, of humor, of grace

Of tiny tokens bent to elicit good taste

I peek out often to watch myself sit

This leaning being, this walking manuscript

I judge her well and I act on her brows
I sign up here and I investigate her troughs

So I know when she's happy 
and where to take her course
I know what she wants 
and I deliver it with force. 

I ask

Where have I been and what did it mean

What is that noise?

Do I hear myself scream?

Black Specs of Mystery Seed

A poem I wrote after freshman year in high school.
I can still remember writing this in the absurdly hot sun of my backyard. It was written by me as a teenager, but it has saved my mind numerous times since:
You have to be strong in this world and like who you are if you aim to please anyone else. Be bold in your ideas and speak your mind, it's the only way to move on respectably. 

-Summer of 2007-

Black Specs of Mystery Seed
Black specs of mystery seed
On a colored towel abyss
Eraser crumbs and napkin stains
Distraught, displaced, amidst

A burning sun of silent rage
The fire that bleeds azul
Three months of days encased in glass,
Three months away from school

Fetters strong and life lay locked,
This simple path I ran
Of flowers plucked and curtsies pledged
No longer I take that stand

A peel of sweat is born anew
On flesh baked years with age
On a beating heart of reckless thought,
An animal leaving its cage

All the ideas that sharpies bled
And ivories who sang the chord
Of a mad little girl with a crooked spine
Yielding a dull, unused sword

But I've used my eyes and opened my ears
To the dissonant cries of life
And plain clean hands of germ-ex squirts
Are far too weak for strife