Poetry In The Attic


Dark corner

of a cobwebbed 


Box filled with pages,


Words written,
long years


Forgotten notebooks.
-A poet's

Yellowed paper
sits there-






Constructed thoughts
of an ancestor-






Wasted ink
wayward dreams.


Never bound in books,
or themes.


It was her hope
to see them in print.


Now they sit there,
in dust and lint.


A talent wasted.
Gone by
the wayside.


Packed away there,
soon after
she died.


Maybe fame.
would have come
her way.


But it never
to her dismay.


She never finished
the dream,
that she started.


Too many obstacles
sprung up.
Then she, departed.


Now it just 
lies there,
cold and enigmatic.


What remains
of her life...
Poetry in the attic.

Do Poets Dream In Verse?


Do we sleep in rhyme,

With words rehearsed?
In unconscious state,
Do poets dream, in verse?


Do we see the lines,
That always take form?
When we awake,
Are poems born?


Do we fear our nightmares?
Or are they only a guise?
For the stanzas we compose,
In our slumbering eyes?


Do we imagine scenes,
While lying prone in bed?
Ideas and stories,
That reside in our head?


Does ink flow through,
Our vessels like blood?
Do we write each day,
To contain the flood?


Do poets dream in verse?
Do our minds ever rest?
Or do we fear, that our thoughts
Will simply go, unexpressed?

Preconceived Creativity

Simple Thoughts

"You're free

to be

as creative as you are;

or so they say. 



Every time, 

the artist guided,




Why is the artist

so restricted? 

IS it concious? 


Do those who commission 


know they can be stifling it? 



is it a lack of trust? 

Not enough of it 

to go around, knows 

the budding artist


with lack of portfolio. 

No trust 

goes to those

with no reference. 


So often are we told

we are free, 

when we are not. 

Their own opinion 


trusted first, 

unintentional or not, 

before the artist, 

the one who creates. 


When one asks another

to create, 

to stifle the flame

is to put it out completely. 


Trust is a must, 

we must learn to 

give our hearts and minds

and souls 


to others

to mold.


And that's the hardest thing to do."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So often am I told by other artists they are held back by those who ask for their art, creativity. 


Simple Thoughts

"No excuse, 

but the metal has rusted. 

An unkept armory. 

Barrels with red, 


triggers peppered orange. 

Springs stuck, 

pins, unmoving. 

Bores obstructed. 


The whole weapon set


to the trained eye. 



a gun is still a gun, 

the potential it has

to kill, 

ever present. 


Rusty or not, 

it is still recognizable, 

months of no use

not enough to erase


the sizable impression

of the shape, 

the indication

of the handgun, long gun. 


The task looming, 


keys in hand, 




the cages, 

duty tumblers turning, 

locks coming free. 


So long, 

had it beem

since maintenance

had been laid


where it belong. 

The familiar metal

began to fill hands, 

twist, turn,


rifles broke down, 

pistols slid apart. 

Rusty was the



as were the firemans, 

but both began 

to be broken



Rag, brush, 

break-away sprayed, 

assemblies oiled.

Pieces began to click, 


operate smoothly, 

unlike language, 

where lack of use

means disappearance, 


past tense

isn't the demise

of functionality of things,

like bike riding. 


or an armory. 


The Armorer will be busy,

it may take some time.

But he will pass inspection. 


With work, 

with determination, 


and time. 


It takes time

for things to rust. 


It takes time

to fix such a lack of use. 


The best solution

isn't busting rust, 

but daily use, 


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Time to write a book...



I lean too much on this description,

I can’t explain straight how I love you

so instead I will paint you in the light of

minutes and falling slow and laughing through the pain,

heat and support systems and split second choices,

skies and canyons, screams and whisper breaths,

gold and metaphors and scribbles…

hope it’s enough.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 3/3/17

Library (day 200)

I have made this challenge a library,

over half a year of shifting

I have tried to tell a pretty tragedy

but somehow the pretty’s missing


Good intentions, I want to spread heart

Gray creeps up around my grin

This year’s library is how I keep

knives from slipping under my skin


Still grass grows around sinkholes,

showing just how we survive

We try to shine in our own spaces

pull magic out of staying alive


We have made this challenge a library,

a year of change and how we show it

We have tried to tell a pretty tragedy

and that’s what I call a poet

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 2/12/17


Love to all the other writers doing this challenge! I'm so glad I did it and that now I have something to look back on. These have been some rough months for me- a lot of change, starting college, family issues, confusion, losing a lot of people and finding so many more. But I think this made it a lot easier to fit my chaos into a language, and it's made me see how much I depend on writing.

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio



She told me

that since I love this

she wants to see it.


I swear that’s the nicest thing

anyone’s ever said to me without thinking

that sounded like it was thought out for centuries.


She said she wants to know

how I rant,

what sets me off

when I don’t usually say

because it’s already bottled up in writing.


I’m afraid of how she’ll see me

this vulnerable,

this aching for all the wrong reasons,

this cliché for all the right ones.


I’m afraid all this baggage

might send her

down the coastline.


I know I will show her my passion,

but not as much as she wants.

I will collect

all the words I think are worthy

and leave the rest behind.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 2/6/17

Recycle My Words (day 170)

Recycle my words like the dying sun

the candy wrapper you don’t notice beneath your feet

the one you leave stuck in the car door

when you go back to the warmth


So I’ll just stay here in the corner

and keep leaving things behind

all my dreams crueler than sleep


Recycle my words like I can tell you want to

I’ll crumple them up for you

but after you toss them I’ll follow behind you

steal them back, build them into something more

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 1/13/17

Candy wrapper

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio

Wild (day 146)

I have never written

like a petal,

words perfectly placed,


pauses perfectly positioned

like curves

down the slope of the mountainside,


soft dirt spilling

through my fingertips,

sifting through only the best earth

to grow my syllables,


picking colors so they

blend like a sunset

and I can sit there

at the end of the day

knowing I gave exactly

the colors the world needed.




I write like a



shadows unable

to shame me,

waterfalls unable

to drown me,


just enough wild

to snap in the air

as I try to crack this world like a riddle

bleed it wide open

I can wield this art like a knife

like a drug


giving everything everything

too much of everything,


but still the wild waxes

and I stretch to every ceiling,


choosing words like a twister of seeds

scattering to whatever

wind I let loose


and the more I push through

my soil

my skin

my soul

the more that grows.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 12/21/16


View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio