Emily Dickinson This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

December 3, 2010
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I used to be so inspired
Now I'm only ever
Tired.
Waiting in syrup
Hoping for a savior
But you won't
Be home
Anytime soon.
It bubbles under
My belly button,
Letting everyone
Down.
My pencil is
Too loud; I
Wish I was
Missing.
Hot air balloons
On Saturday taking
Flight, sturdy
Baskets housing
Fears, flying overhead
Secrets breaking up
The clouds. I've got
Clouds in my secrets,
Your hair is in my
Soup, your scent
Is in my bed and
Last night you kissed me.
My words falter,
Delivering no justice
To Dickinson,
Who twirls her words,
Spaghetti with a fork
And spoon, the ballerina
In a jewelry box.
Those ugly necklaces you
Used to wear, I'm
Glad I didn't know
You then.
These words in my head
Only make rhymes and
Never have reason, seashells
To your ears. The second
Hand moves back and forth
From forty-seven forty-eight
Forty-seven forty-eight forty
I think it's time
Green ink black ink blue ink
Warm tortillas in a pink house
In Mexico.
Too much work and you
Need some space, you are
All the stars in the sky
And the moon when it's
Full and the moon when
It's not.
Here, curl up in my lap
And close your eyes.
I am giving myself to
You.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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