Home

Perhaps it’s a dream,
Perhaps it’s a nightmare.
But home is home
No matter how far you go.
You see,
Where you reside has power
Over your being.
It molds you
Changes every aspect that you have.
Warmth and love
Gives you joy.
Harsh and cold
Makes one distant.

Perhaps an outstretched hand is a sweet caress.
Perhaps an outstretched hand is a cruel blow.
But home is home
No matter how far you go.
It will stay by your side.
Every haunting moment,
Every charming memory.
You can’t escape it,
Even when your grown.
But just know
That you can make a new home.
Make it all your own.
Because that’s the point of home.

Same Old Thing

                The alarm's high pitched ringing wakes me. I stare angrily at the clock. 5:30 a.m. I shower and get ready. Then I'm off. My eyes are still heavy, equations and vocabulary running through my head. My classes drag on. Mental illnesses are a problem that must be addressed. Sine of A multiplied by b, divided by sine of B is equal to angle -- no, side a. The preamble and amendments are drilled into my head. The correct usage of grammar is repeated again and again and again and... again. I get home and eat as quickly as possible. Two hours of work from each of my teachers. I stare blankly at the clock. 1:42 a.m. I stumble into my pajamas.
                The alarm sounds and I start again. "How was your day? What did you do? What did you learn?" My parents ask. My day was exhausting. I repeated my usual routine that I do everyday. I learned that school is the only important thing in my life. My schedule revolves around it completely. I learned that my grades are more important than my well being, my passions, my very existence. I learn that students value high scores more than truly knowledge. And that I have to do whatever it takes to have in A in everything and be above everyone. "The same old thing." I respond.

Tale

He who is the puppet master and we who are the puppets.

But he is a fair master. For he gives us free choice. Before us such wonderful things. But we as foolish actors try to follow the script of others and play a different scene. We then ignore the true story that corresponds us. Oh, woe to those of us that take the wrong path and the wrong fable. oh, how our creator will mourn the loss of our tale. He himself who carved us by hand. Our freedom he has given. Yet we misuse it blindly again and again. Never able to reach our final destination. Our greatest desire, that is so dear. Which is to have flesh and blood. To be as our meister. To be human.

He who is the puppet master and we who are the puppets.

Remember your place. Remember your goal. Remember your tale. Remember your creator.

No More

I laugh too loudly. “No more.” Their scolds and their thrashings take my laughter away. I talk too much. “No more.” Their glares and sharp punishments take my voice away. I play too roughly. “No more.” Their shaming looks and angry lectures take my fun away. I draw too much. “No more.” Their spiels and their disapproval take my art away. I dream too much. “No more.” Their reality and ambitions take away my fantasies. I stick out too much. “No more.” Their intolerance and critique take away my originality. I’m too introverted. I’m too quiet. I’m too demure. I’m too inept. I’m too serious. I’m too common. Why don’t you choose? No more, no more, no more! That’s all you say! Nothing that I do is good enough. Well, no more. No more beatings. No more rebukes. No more limits. Just freedom. No more you. More me.

We Will March On

Their hands were clutched tightly, legs trembling as they marched down the road. The shouts and screams were deafening. Each one crueler than the last.But their flag still waved. The colors flashed in the sun, shimmering with pride. "Love is love!" They shouted, still marching on, heads held high. nobody was going to take that from them. No more hiding. They too were people and deserved to be treated as such.
So they marched on. hands intertwined. Rainbows flying through the air. Demanding to be see, demanding to be freed, demanding to be loved. Each walked with the one they chose for life. Clinging to them with all they had. Daring anyone to come between them. Because they had had enough. It was their turn to no longer be afraid. To be allowed the same rights as the others. Because after all, love is love.

Wilted Flowers

She stares blankly at the wall. This is the third time now. She adds another failure to her long list. Each trial has left a mark. The first left a burn around her neck. The second attempt left jagged scars running across her wrists. And the most recent, was still an open wound. A line that was drawn across her neck. Under the gauze it was still red and angry, disfiguring her further.

Most people think that heaven is a radiant white. But to her, white is hell. White is the colors of the walls, the stiff sheets and mattress, the bandages that covered her, and the God awful gown, Her heaven wasn't this. This colorless world was what drove her to the brink of madness.

She turned so that she could see an old vase. The chipped paint and discolored designs held flowers. Fat roses, that were past their time. Their heads drooped downwards, petals settled beneath them. Their hue now browned. Their leaves were dry and crisp, slowly deteriorating. The flowers were dead, but they were unwillingly kept alive, even for just an instance longer.

Just an instance longer, she thought. That's what she was. A withered rose being uselessly watered and pruned. Either way she would leave. So what was the point of being a wilted flower?

It's like America... But South

Okay where to start.
There are so many places to go
To see!
I mean the possibilities are endless!

Okay calm down girl.
Remember, you aren’t exactly all knowing in this stuff.
I wonder if I’ll get to go to a beach.
That’d be really cool!

Oh! Or I could go to a museum, I like those.
But what about a restaurant?
I gotta eat at some point.
Ugh, there are just so many things to do!
Okay well first of all
I need to get a hotel room sorted out.
Then I can check out the vicinity.
Man it’s a good thing I speak Spanish.
Crap I’m really bad at the lingo though.
Okay, it is okay, you’ll figure it out.
I mean it can’t be that different from home right?
After all it’s just like America… But South.