Train Poetry

Poetry scribbled on a train ride back home

I sent my heart to Baltimore,
it returned crying, “no more!
no more!”

But I was so sure,
so hopelessly sure
it wasn’t just a flirt.

Before my train,
I heard from my brain,
“This won’t work.”

But I boarded,
so assured,
so hopelessly assured.

And when I returned
I finally learned
not to listen to the heart.

Not to listen to boys
who use hopeful

I sent my heart to Baltimore,
it came back saying, “But I was
so sure.”


I feel crushed,
like a piece of trash at the bottom of a bin,
weighed down,
some mine, some his.
Words are junk,
and I’m the queen of this hill.
I could burrow in my sorrow,
and sit in my shame,
let the stench fill my nose,
and remind me of my own guilt.
These words are mine,
and his,
and I treasured them,
believed them,
and was deceived by them.
Letters have piled and
been thrown away
like junk mail.
May the text messages
rot in the junkyard.


What was I to think?
I thought of everything,
Imagined time spent,
the future looked bright,
but the days came and went.
It’s dark outside,
and I expected sun.
What was I to expect
when all this begun?
You gave me your word,
and I took it as gold,
when I tried to cash in,
it was already sold.


The dove bared nothing in its beak,
there is no dry land,
there is no place to sleep.
Tired eyes scan the world
for a friendly smile,
but smiles twist to scowls,
and scowls into smiles.
You can’t tell up from down
when you’re in the wild.
The ocean doesn’t end,
I’ve started seeing mirages
of smiling boys with open
so I stop being cautious,
and walk toward them.
But there is no dry land.


There are two organs—
the heart,
the brain—
which are constantly
in battle.
The heart says yes,
the brain says no.
The heart says go,
the brain says slow.
And somewhere
between their bickering,
you decide.
I say go with your gut,
don’t overthink,
don’t overfeel,
That first instinct
its almost always


I’ve been out of school for months
no job
no idea where to go
what to do
who to be.
Does a graduate have an
expiration date?
The milk’s been in the fridge
for months
it’s built up its stench
and no one will drink from it.


is the entirety of one’s life
decided in the first twenty years of one’s existence?
I spent my schooling days in a haze,
and now,
snapped out of it,
reality at the foot of my bed
like a sergeant calling me out of sleep.
I’m lazy-eyed, claiming that I’ll get it done later.
But when later comes
I have nothing to show for it.
My resume is empty,
but my dreams are not.
However, no one looks in the minds of men,
only on the stamps they’ve collected
on paper that’s thrown away.


I let love go,
let it run free,
hoping that one day
it would return to me.
Like a child unattended,
it climbed past signs that read
go no further, turn back, unsafe,
restricted area—
but it climbed as high as it could,
took its hand to its eyes to see what was above.
The sky looked so blue,
and the city so small,
but a breeze blew by
and it started to fall.
Was I pushed? Did I slip?
I suppose it doesn’t matter when you’re in free fall.
I let love go,
let it run free,
and then one day it came back,
broken, bruised, and torn.
Like a child unattended,
I wrapped it in my arms and consoled it,
bandaged it and kissed its knee.
Now I don’t let love go,
I keep it in arm’s reach,
I tell it not to climb, not to reach, not to soar or hope,
because high hopes fall with the most terrible bang,
but I let love go,
let it run free.


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