Window Well

Sitting in a window well,

Rain drizzling down,

(not a pour, not a sprinkle)

headphones on,

looking busy.

Somehow I get more conversation

when sitting in a window well

than I do anywhere else in this school.


Glass House

I am a glass house.

It seems like you can see

right through.

Spires of joy,

windows of cheer,

my bright light shining through the dark.

So simple,

so peaceful,

so easy to understand.

Inside the glass house

lives a hidden beast.

Wrapped in a dark shadow,

he hides himself well.

Within rooms of crystal structure

and colored diamond walls,

he festers and hides to whisper in my heart.

Lies that sound like truths

and truths that sound like lies.

His voice passes beyond my hands

seeping through my fingers

pressed hard on my ears.

The glass house has many halls,

and he lurks in them all.

No matter where I run,

where I hide,

he finds me.

The whispers increase,

beating a rhythm in my chest,

pounding ideas in my head.

“Not enough”

“No good”

“Not worthy”

“Deserve death”

They won’t leave my house,

no matter how I plead.

When he pounds on my doors,

it builds in my head.

The need to feel.

To escape.

To go.

Lies, but true.

Persistent and unending.


Not until I bring pain.

With flash of silver-grey,

Pale canvas slashed down in desperation.

Red will drip down,

dark on the crystal floors.

If I am not found, then sweet release is close.

I am a glass house.

Only now I have worked to rid my mind

of the shadowed man.

He still lurks in the halls,

Lies darting like a tongue

of a lizard eating prey.

His voice still seeps in,

sickly sweet and intoxicating,

and I want to give in.

But hope is not lost now.

I was saved before,

I am saved now.

So when you look to my glass house,

You will see tall spires

and colored windows,

and halls lined with diamonds.

Don’t be fooled.

The shadow man still lives.

But now you can see him too.

Self Pity

You know the worst part of self-pity?

You know the truth already.

(Or what you think is true)

You know you are wrong.

(but those thoughts are still there)

So, you ask someone else.

(And feel guilty the whole time)

You hope that they won’t judge you

(at least, not like you judge yourself)

and hope that maybe they understand.

(and don’t think you’re begging for attention)

You just need someone else to tell you things,

(because you can’t force yourself to believe them)

validate who you are.

(when you can’t)


Has anyone ever noticed,

that I am a paradox on legs?

Somehow holding so many ideas?

I believe in love and peace, kindness and goodness.

And yet- I know the world.

It is not a place with these.

I know in my head that people are bad,

but trust that people are good.

I think the best of everyone else,

but of myself, the worst.

I can sometimes play the game.

I am smart, oh so book smart.

I can understand philosophical thoughts and hold their beliefs-

but I can hold ones from both sides.

When you can understand each argument

from both sides, no matter the issue,

you seem like a flake. (at least in a way)

But you have strong beliefs and are stubborn.

It takes a lot to move me,

but very little at the same time.

I am a hopeless romantic, who is also a realist.

I am a walking paradox,

and sometimes its great.

An optimistic cynic,

a mess of understanding and belief.

But sometimes, I just want to make sense.

Especially to myself.

Life is Hard

My life is hard-

independent of commonly known,

regularly pitied hardship.

I have a house,

a job,

a car,

a school.

I have loving parents,

loving siblings,

supportive friends.

I’m smart,


somewhat athletic,

somewhat attractive.

On the outside, (like so many others)

I have a beautiful/perfect/wonderful life,

and yes, I have been blessed.

But my life is still hard.

I am living in my parents’ house,

all alone.

I work two part time jobs

and go to school full time.

I still run out of money.

My car is old-

the engine light is on,

but I don’t have the money to fix it.

My friends make fun of the rust.

I have anxiety, social.

Heart racing,

adrenaline flowing,

fear fresh in my eyes.

My hands shake-

especially when I worry about the future.

Grad school


Homework due

Clubs attended

Honors Thesis written

Money for food

Gas for car

Scholarships, grants, money for school

And that’s just now (now is almost overwhelming)

If we want to venture,

my past is hard as well.

Good parents, good life.

But my dad is a pastor and a Chaplin (I am proud of my dad)

Two tours overseas, countless days away.

I was twelve.

Diabetes attacked then too,

little twelve-year-old me.

It hurt, more than I realized.

We were always close to financial hardship,

(Pastors aren’t supposed to be rich)

We were hurt by people close to us.

So many things that pile,

bending my spine and twisting my legs

My life is hard.

I can say that.

Why? Because it was.

I can’t, shouldn’t compare my life to anyone else’s.

Because their life was hard too.

Anyone who says differently,

is likely telling a lie.

Life is hard.

And now I admit, my life is hard too.

Conversation With the World



You must change.


You don’t fit. You don’t belong.

I don’t understand.

You are wrong.

What have I done?

You exist wrong. You do not fit. That is wrong.

I don’t see why.

You are different. You do not conform.

And why is that a problem?

Because you do not fit.

I don’t understand.

Do you not want to belong? Is that not important?

Not really.

You care. You must.

But I don’t.

You will care. You have to care.


Because you do not fit.

I don’t want to fit.

Preposterous. Everyone cares.

Not me.

You care. You lie when you say you do not.

No, I care about my place in the world.


I want to find where I fit, not where I need to change.

Again, contradictory.

Not really.


I want to fit somewhere, sure.

But I want to fit as me. Not someone else.

Inconsequential. You must conform to belong.


You must change.

I don’t want to.

They are talking about you.

I know.

You do not seem happy.

They want me to conform.

Yes. You will be happy.

No, I will be different.

And more content.

You couldn’t be more wrong.

You are illogical.

I live with worlds in my mind,

with the ability to make lives in my imagination.

Why would I ever want to lose that?

I can move people, I can create.

Not everyone can.

I refuse to let that go.

You will suffer then.

So be it.

You will hurt.

Bring it on.

I will create. You can’t stop me.

You make no sense.

And you will never understand. But I will never change to suit you.