I think the worst part is that we’ve forgotten 

We’ve forgotten so many things

And we keep running and running

Tripping over our own foolish feet, gasping for air that will make us think


This is how it should be.


We’ve read maps and colored between the lines since our first grade teachers taught us how to act.

We’ve been spray painting our dreams on the insides of our notebooks while the outsides read proudly



School systems, churches and voices of anyone but ourselves have spoken for us

While we’re behind the curtains of theaters whispering

“I want to be more.”

I want to tear up the skin I’ve grown numb to and make scuff marks on newly painted walls in buildings where not a single soul knows my name.

I feel the earth shifting beneath my feet and I can’t sit any longer without laughing with the flowers 

Or sitting down and talking to the grass about how it still gets to be green





You can’t expect me to avoid the city lights flashing beneath my eyelids or ignore a stranger when I hear them say euphoria 

As if the smile on their face has it’s own television show.

We’ve been taught not to let our weird show, to keep our shirts tucked in and our shoes double knotted.

Just in case.

In case of what?

The earth separating beneath our feet and exploding right then and there because we undo the top button of our shirt or doodle on the page of notes during our history lecture.

We’ve been told that dreams are meant for journals, fairy tales and sleeping.

The real world is built for the planners, the organized, the straight A students


My lips hold more ambitions than a drawer full of papers marked with an A

And my soul tells me a whole lot more than my head filled with numbers and letters all coming together to somehow spell out


Our pens haven’t run out of ink

Yet our minds keep forgetting how to think.

Rummage through your soul to find the first time you knew that you

Were different.

Thank God for that moment.

We can learn from the cracks in sidewalks and split ends telling us 

Broken things 

Can find fixing

There are no strings attached to our hands

No stones making us bend at the knees

The beating of our hearts tells me 

We haven’t forgotten 

How to be