You know when you wake from a bump in the night?
Well that bump in the night might be me
From when I got up to pee
Or maybe a coughing spree

Sometimes I’ll decide in the night to get up
To look over my bookshelf and read
And go at a glacial speed
Navigation is something I need

For the bump in the night you hear is from me
Tripping on clothes and bumbling about
Since I walk around with the lights out
And if I stumble I might shout

Pity Party

There once was a girl with a cold
Who lied and claimed allergies, bold
She sneezed and she coughed
And they skeptically scoffed
That poor little girl with a cold

She thought they could be sympathetic
And everything more copacetic
But they seemed quite hostile
So strange the room spiteful
Some rolled their eyes, apathetic

The girl with the cold went to bed
Heavy and congested her head
But alas could not sleep
For the cold it ran deep
The thought of a cough bringing dread

And My Heart Dropped

I could feel my heart drop
As I dropped what holds my life
Not just some silly prop
Causing me this instant strife

Just trying to keep it protected
Inside my pocket near
Instead my pocket rejected
The thing I hold most dear

My poor unwanted cellphone
Dropped down to the harsh concrete
As I feared it would fall blown
And the screen shattered in defeat

I wish I could see the words
That I type as I remember
The horrid incident that spurred
My feelings to be hot as an ember


Attractive man I sit behind
I though your face was nice
But now that I’m behind your bod
I see I should have looked twice

I wouldn’t judge your personhood
Based on attractive features
But I’m less inclined to date someone
Who reminds me of mythical creatures

When I Can

When I don’t figure skate
It feels as though my legs will run away without my body

When I don’t play my violin
My arms are noodles, only fit for cutting onions and causing tears

When I don’t write
Everything stays in, and I become a boring average

When I skate
I can fly

When I make music
My fingers have a purpose

When I write
I can compose poems, and myself


I wish I could feel
Sorry, but you are broken
And it’s not my job

To pick up all your
Pieces, so leave me alone
And I’ll start life fresh

Internal closure
More important than facade
For me, is enough

I’ll leave your mess for
Someone else to use, maybe
Their flower will grow

But I have turned the
Compost, and can walk away
Having done my part