// dear blue eyes | love notes //

i. i think every poem about blue eyes was written about you. aquamarines, the ocean, a clear summer sky, the lake at camp, the tiny flowers growing beside the porch — they have blended together into the enchanting color of your gaze.

ii. i’m not sure if i believe in the red string of fate, or soulmates, or 11:11 wishes, or even true love. but i pray that if they’re real, then when i’m tripping over thin air, it’s because our string is wrapped too tightly around my legs. if they’re real, then your soul will teach mine how to dance with yours. if they’re real, know that i always wish for you. if they’re real, then let this love be as sure as the north star.

iii. once we get that apartment, i’m going to kiss your forehead when you come home from practice, even though you’ll taste like sweat.

iv. i want to tell you. i cannot tell you. i will never tell you.

v. i find you everywhere. in dripping, sickly sweet popsicles, lazy summer afternoons, glasses of lemonade in pretty cups, snatches of pop songs from a passing car.

vi. i am sure that you are the sun stuck in a human body.

vii. it hurts to hear you talk about the person you love, because it’s not me. you look so dreamy and absolutely lost in love, and i wonder if you’ve ever felt that way about me.

viii. i hope you know that every time i call you a loser, i’m trying to say “i love you.”

ix. it took me years to even hug you. i was afraid that the quickening of my heartbeat would give everything away. or that the sparks when you touch that you read about in cheesy love stories are real.

x. romance novels are so predictable. there are impossibly perfect kisses. person a. accidentally breaks person b.’s heart. but it was a mistake. they make up and everything is fine again. things are always easy between them and they live happily ever after. this is no romance novel. this is a horror story with a romantic subplot.

xi. i write about you, sometimes, in my journal. there are poems about what your soul looks like, and song lyrics that blur into your name.

xii. love is not a choice, although i wish it was. i would tell myself to stop falling for my friends.

xiii. none of this matters. i don’t love you anymore.




// even when your hope is gone, move along //

this kind of pain is like riding a bicycle

you have to

keep going

keep going

just to keep the bike upright

you move along so you don’t wobble

so you don’t hit the ground

and get bruised knees

i have to

keep going

keep going

because if i start to slow down

all the cruel whispers will come out

to fill the empty air

the air that is vacant of




things to keep me distracted

if i don’t keep moving

my thoughts will make me stumble

and i will hit the ground

and get a bruised heart


keep going

keep going


(in addition)


i am so weary of riding my bike

i ache all over

when do i get a rest?

i want to crash into a tree

lying on the asphalt with a spinning head

the only thing i see is the sky

how very far away it is

from rock bottom

i am bleeding but i barely notice

are there any band-aids?

you can cover my wounds with them and put a kiss on top

but the blood is seeping through

and we are out of bandages

 that’s fine

because they’ll turn into scabs eventually, right?

it just takes time

(i am so sick of waiting)

 i will pick at them and make them bleed again

digging up old problems

i just can’t let go

these will take forever to heal

and when they do, they will leave a scar behind

they make sure not to let me forget

how you yelled at me to keep biking

when i had no strength to continue on


thanks for nothing

hey, so i wrote more depressing poetry. it’s kind of fun, actually, and relaxing — spilling my guts onto a page at 3 a.m. and then sharing it with strangers online. because you all care so deeply about what goes on in my head, right? (sarcasm.)

this poem is about melancholy and people who don’t understand it. the people who know sadness, but not sadness. the people who don’t believe that you’re actually hurting, or who think that your pain isn’t important because others have it worse.

my poetry kind of sucks, i know. but i feel like it’s important, i guess? not to anyone reading this, of course. because these are just messy words from a messy mind. but it’s important to me, because my abditory, the world i’ve made inside myself, is built out of poetry and snatches of songs and foggy forests and the sound of rain against my window. even though my words won’t have much meaning to you, they mean everything to me. i need to collect them and use them to patch up the walls of my little world, so that it’s always a safe place to hide in when reality gets too sharp.



// friends can break your heart, too //

it has been years

so why haven’t i let go 

of the past

of you

of us

it has been years

and seeing you still hurts

why didn’t you say hello 

ever again?

why do i still have hope?

it is killing me

i want to forget

teach me how

it was so easy for you

i’ve been thinking a lot about all the people that have left. and how every single time, it has been my fault. why wasn’t i more interesting? why wasn’t i good enough? why is it so hard for me to communicate? maybe they would have stayed if i weren’t so very me. what is so wrong with me that everyone leaves?

i was awake at three a.m. with all of my thoughts, and i wrote a poem for the first person who broke my heart. her name is lauren and she was my best friend, the first friend i ever made. i have lots to say about her, but that will be saved for another post. i’ll sort through all my memories of the two of us, even though they feel like thorny vines growing over my heart, and whip up something nostalgic.

so there you have it. my first attempt at poetry in a long while (and a hint of the pain that i’ve been ignoring for years. i think it’s time for me to address it.). i’ve written a few more poems since then, and i think they’re much better than this one. but i still felt like this was important, even if it’s not very good.



I Dream of TARDISes


I dream of TARDISes

Bow ties, Time Lords, really good hair

I dream of traveling the stars

All of space and time

But hidden in the corners of the galaxies

There are terrible, strange, beautiful things




What’s on the bed?

In the corner of your eye?

Memories that have been forgotten

Don’t open the door

Rose Tyler, Bad Wolf

Martha Jones, the Girl Who Walked the Earth

Donna Noble, the Most Important Woman

Amelia Pond, the Girl Who Waited

Clara Oswald, the Impossible Girl

I dream of TARDISes

Bow ties, Time Lords, really good hair

I dream of traveling the stars

All of space and time


Basically, this is me being sad about Doctor Who leaving Netflix (cause how else am I supposed to watch BBC? I don’t live in the UK, you know!).

And I know the poem sucked.

I am a writer of novels, not a writer of poetry.

I’ll stay away from poetry from now on. I’m just not good at turning feelings into eloquent words, which I suppose is what poetry is about.

Goodbye, and may we never speak of this poem again.


*whispers* Allons-y. *voices in head* GERONIMO! (Please help me, I may be going crazy. Also, there’s a fly in my room. :/ )

Catching Up on the Christmas Challenge

December/Christmas blogging challenge

{Image belongs to Kathryn}

Write a short poem about the true meaning of Christmas

A baby slipped into the world without a sound

His mother, Mary, beside him on the ground

She peered into the manger at her new baby boy

The Light of the world, Earth’s almighty joy

Gathered around were three great kings

Bestowing upon the baby myrrh and precious things

Mary’s baby, Wonderful Counselor,  Jesus Christ

idk. I tried.

Favorite Christmas carol


O Tannenbaumthat’s the song Oh Christmas tree in German. My mom taught it to me a long time ago. It sounds really pretty. :)

Favorite Christmas Pin



I love this picture! Candy canes are so pretty — and look at all of the bokeh!



I love this one, too.

That’s all for today. Remember, your first entry for Creating Worlds Writing Camp is due tomorrow!


The kids in my dad’s Sunday School class call him T-Bomb. He says it’s his gangster name. xD

Winter Poetry

Hey, guys!

I’m in this group called American Heritage Girls, a Christian scouting organization. My troop recently had an award ceremony (I got five badges, two fun patches, and two service stars!), and I decided to show you all some of the work I had to do to get the badges. We’ll start with the Creative Writing badge.

I absolutely love writing, but the Creative Writing badge took forever to complete. Seriously, I finished it on the same day as the award ceremony! The requirements just weren’t fun.

Anyway, today I’ll be sharing the poetry I had to write. I had to write three poems, all different styles, about the same subject. I picked winter as my topic, because I l-o-v-e winter and there’s lots of material in that season to write poetry from.

I’m not a poet and I’m definitely not very good at it, so that’s why the lines are all different lengths and stuff. *deep breath* Here we go!

The first one is an acrostic poem. btw, none of my poems have titles.

Warm, cozy fires, embers aglow.

Icy wind, a frost giant’s breath.

Nighttime, snow drifting past stars.

Treats abound, cookies to candy canes.

Escapists delight upon receiving new books.

Remember the excitement of Christmas Eve.


The second one is a rhyming sequence poem.

On Monday, the skies let loose buckets of snow.

            The sun glinting upon it made it seem to glow.

Tuesday’s harsh sunlight caused the snow to melt.

            We stayed inside and made scarves out of felt.

On Wednesday morning, fog descended to the ground.

            Snuggled under blankets, I slept safe and sound.

Thursday’s light snowfall looked like dusting a cake,

            which reminded me that I had cookies to bake.

On Friday the rain made the day last forever.

I helped Father fix the wooden nutcracker’s broken lever.

Saturday’s wind was dreadfully cold.

            Bundled in layers, I stepped out the door, being very bold.

On Sunday the cold froze over the pond.

            We went down to skate, and I lost my fleece hat, of which I was quite fond.


The last one is in the clerihew style — a silly four-line poem about a person.

The White Witch

drove her sleigh into a ditch.

The wheels froze from her anger

and she turned her horses into coat hangers!


I hope you enjoyed reading my poetry, even if it was really bad. Poetry is not my strong point :/