Ode
I’ve Met Her
I’ve met her. She was sitting by the window, bathed in the soft glow of fading sunlight, fingers moving rhythmically over her video game controls, music quietly wrapping around her like a shield from the world. Her mind whirled with thoughts—thoughts of not belonging, of standing apart from her peers, wondering if they ever truly saw her. Did they like her? Or was she invisible, fading into the background like the light slipping behind the clouds? She wore a mask, hiding her true self because the fear of judgment. Scared to be called strange. Scared to be different.
By Nicole Hurdleabout a year ago in Poets
an ode to Christopher McCandless. Content Warning.
so, preface this poem with this scenario: i ended up sleeping in near freezing weather with my dogs last night. it was frigid, humbling, and a delightful honor. luckily, i had already lit a small fire with a dwindling torch and damp tinder, as well as unloaded my firewood, sleeping bag, a tarp, a pillow, my dogs, and eaten the wings i had just cooked before leaving i even managed to have my THC vape pen in hand, and left a[nother] lucky window cracked so i could hook my keys this morning... before i locked myself out of my car last night, about 50-60 miles from home.
By ⸘jason alan‽about a year ago in Poets
