The Adventures Of Red Writing Hood

I wrote a sonnet long ago Of life’s great allies and their foes Of hearts of love and hearts of stone And watching lives that live alone I wrote a sonnet of surprise Of those who told me I was wise And those who were there by my side Until each one met their demise I wrote a sonnet of the blood Of men whose legacies become Legends of the braves who won Their death to save the ones they loved I wrote a sonnet in the sand With words at mind and stick in hand I scraped the letters slowly and Engraved my sorrows in the land I wrote a sonnet just to show The bravery of those I know And memories that I must own I wrote a sonnet long ago

Welcome to the Auschwitz of America Where babies lives have little worth Pain goes unnoticed, tears are ignored Here in the Auschwitz of America Little hearts are poisoned Little mouths scream suffering A baby’s worth isn’t measured Instead it’s thrown away Here in the Auschwitz of America Liberation isn’t an option when you haven’t yet been born So a child is subject to the cruelest kinds of murder from their parents, no relief Fact: a heartbeat means alive Fact: alive means a baby Fact: abortion kills babies Welcome to sin, and hurt, and shame Welcome to a moral argument Of whether a babies deserve the slaughter they find here Or if they actually have an inkling of a right Where “unworthy of life” is tattooed on their arms And a classification of “less than human” is given to their name Abortion isn’t a cure for bad circumstance Killing isn’t a solution for overpopulation Murder isn’t a crime th

Sandpaper words -- their roughness is kind Because it grinds against my heart To make me A smoother Version Of Myself

There is a silence on the battlefield of thought. When no longer hear the song of the brave, only the still, hushed anthem of the shot and the mothers with their children in the grave. Their song is as mournful as death, yet as elegant as royalty’s robe. As hope lies with them beneath evil’s hot breath, They sing of going home. This is the music of thought. Of the tickings and tocks of my mind, that lays desolate, distraught, of the eureka’s they must leave behind.

I thought his hair would come straight off of his head in the wind Like when the autumn breeze strips the maple branches of their dignity and makes its colors drop to the floor I thought my heart would drop to the floor My brother had never been so serious before He was almost fragile in his humility Like Granny’s chinaware, hidden behind a protective glass so that no one could get their hands on it Because if there’s one thing I learned from surviving childhood it is that people will leave their fingerprints on the most impressionable, delicate pieces of you So you have to hide, behind your gigantic shell of a self so that people can look in and wonder just how breakable you are but they can’t Break you My brother was made out of bullet-proof glass One day, his glass shattered He held my hand, which is something a shield cannot do He cried, which is something a fortress cannot do He hugged me, which is something a barrier cannot do The prickliness

Flicker flicker hiss      Flicker hiss           Flicker pop The fire of inhumanity is begging not to stop. As it's flames keep climbing higher into murderous abyss. Fire fire flicker      Fire flicker           Fire hiss Death is like a rolling wave of an orange lick of flame. As it curls around like fingers in a lust for the unslain. Flicker sizzle pop      Flicker pop           Flicker hiss The future of humanity burns something just like this. Children of mistakes that our parents made back then. The flame that they all lit is coming round again. Sizzle flicker pop-- Stoke the fire of our sins. Be the one who takes a stand amidst the flames and cries For the lives of all the millions who'll never say goodbye Be the one who runs into the burning world by choice With no other goal than providing the afflicted with a voice Don't let the world grab hold of you and cast you under spell We know the one who burns for Christ will never burn in H

I looked upon the solemn skies With weary, dry, and greying eyes To see one good thing in disguise Would make all of the difference But what I saw wasn't much to see I thought the sun abandoned me To another land, bounced happily To look for something different Another child, consumed in grey Who surely hadn't known of play And on one bright, surprising day The sky looked somewhat different The rain had stopped, the clouds had gone The dream this child lived upon Was happening when came the sun And that made all the difference As I counted drops of rain And they slid down the window pane I felt no sorrow or disdain For the sun found someone different And maybe one day we could find Each other and combine To make a rainbow we can climb And feel completely different Bigger than our wildest dreams Brighter than the brightest things Higher than a bird with wings Friendship is the difference Yes friendship is t

He'd dance his way to the door After starting his day with a smile I, on the other hand, could be found on the floor Three steps out of bed feels like miles He never needed a quick cup of coffee He showered in a minute or two But if you were to keep me functioning You'd have to hold my eyes open with glue His nickname had always been "morning" He'd be cooking his eggs around five And I'd be lying in bed at ten-forty Wondering if I'm dead or alive It's this funny thing called "alarm" That's just begging for you to hit snooze They say the early bird gets the worm And I'm honestly fine if I lose When he pulls the covers right from me And pushes me right out of bed I'm losing all body heat and I'm mourning For the prize of a long day ahead My bare feet meet the cold floor And the first tears of the day have begun I need some solace, some comfort Am I the only one?

Birds have found my beloved shore. I wonder why they're on my beach. Have they stopped by here before, And I just didn't see? One flies up and drops his clam. He cracks it on the stones. Do they know how sad I am? Have they made my shore their home? A monster wave comes crashing. In an angry storm they rise. Away in a fit of flapping, In a moment, take the skies. The mothers call their children near. The fathers call their wives. A hundred wings have found the air. I'm silent as they rise. Who were these birds to come? Will there be any more? I feel a sadness distinctly from The birds that left my shore.

Dance. Dance like you're flying. Dance like death is dying. Dance like you're defying all sides of gravity. Leap like you are learning. Like the ground's forever burning. And your stomach always churning. Churning as you soar. Soar when your guts tell you otherwise. Soar when it might cause your demise. Soar like it's freedom in disguise. Disguised beneath the mask of dance. Dance. Dance like you're flying. If you don't win, keep on trying. Because you weren't made to be a captive of the ground. You were made to trust what you cannot see. Be what you cannot be. For a moment-- between moon and ground-- you can try. You will (will you?) Fly.

“World War I and American Art.” Media-Upper Providence Free Library. Accessed November 12, 2018. https://mediauplibrary.org/event/world-war-american-art-2/ . November 11, 2018 The guns stopped today 100 years ago No one had purpose after the war And they weren’t better off than they were before But the men who came home made the world smile once more An exhausted, relieved sort of smile That had waited quite a while To show The guns stopped today 100 years ago And the smoky sky became blue 21 years of rest till they entered World War II

One minute here, one minute there One minute singing one beautiful song The next minute… gone What went wrong?

I Know This Word is about a child in the Vietnam War.   I know this word called blood-- I know the thickened red I know from where it comes-- I’ve seen it in the bled I know this word called sorrow-- I’ve seen it in the dead I know this world called gunshot-- I’ve seen it in the head I know this word called gravestone-- I’ve seen it in the night I know this word called bloodshed-- I’ve seen it in the fight I know this word called losing-- I’ve seen it in her eyes I know this word called bombing-- I’ve seen it in the skies I know this word called hatred-- I’ve seen it clear as day I know this word called killing-- I’ve seen it in the slain I know this word called humanity-- I’ve seen it fade away I know this word called despair-- I’ve seen it in the pain I learned these words when we called to arms those who were just boys When bombing was a game to end when cities were destroyed And no one cared much anyways when fathers were depl

This is a poem that was never read. Packed in a box—forgotten instead. Stuffed in the attic never yet to be seen. Hidden deep down under wooden floor beams This is a poem of a poet, and her Words were about all the bees and the birds. And the things that she saw from the window each day; In the summer—the sun. In the winter—the gray This is a poem that none understood. It wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t that good. But it was so special—so set apart, Because it revealed the author’s own heart. It shows what can happen when one is old with no friends, And is left all alone with a paper and pen. Creativity flourishes in a world that’s unkind. Though it was old and abandoned, she had a wonderful mind.

Age old oaks have found their home In the forest of her mind Crawling spiders, webs untorn Protect idea-kind Bird’s soft voices through the trees The willows sway, yet still This world, once warm and comforting Now contains a chill The cold of Death that ever knocks On the forest of her heart That begs “forget the growing moss, And ferns when you depart!” But they skitter and they scat They cry when Death’s voice rolls Why should she risk everything that Is alive within her soul? This haven of dreams, ideas, flow With the creek that travels by The only place she wants to go Is the forest of her mind But age, it takes its toll on one Who imagines like a child Who's growing old, and never young Though her dreams be wild She’ll always dream of forests And ever dream anew Darling child, grandma’s leaving But she’ll always dream of you

I AM I am 9 years old inside Because I still think I can climb on clouds I still believe that one day I'll be famous And I’m still scared of men who lie I am 9 years old inside I am strong no matter what 'Cause I don’t realize how tight these chains are Or how tired these wings could get If I stretched them out to fly I am 9 years old inside I make goals I’ll never fulfill That’s the beauty of overwhelming your bucket list One day I might stop aiming high But I am 9 years old inside I’ve had bad days but I’ve never seen worse I am proud of my country I don’t know how to cry Because I am 9 years old inside I’m the kind of person who dreams Who never lets the limits get in her way Who lives in the moment as if it wont end I am 9 years old in side One day, I’ll be 10

I pull the blankets over my head and allow the fabric to smother me with soft kisses.   I feel for the button of the flashlight in my hand and turn it on, marveling at the warm yellow glow it gives.   Placing the end into my mouth, I use my two free hands to open the book to the last page I read.   Positioning the flashlight in the central location where it isn’t too bright on my page or too dim to read with, I scour the pages of the book.   Every so often I click off my light, pull the blankets down to my toes, and take a gulp of fresh air.   Its briskness causes my lungs to gasp at them, and I feel myself going lightheaded as the surge of oxygen makes its way through my body like a pulse of lightning.   With one last breath, as if I’m getting ready to dive into an ocean to explore the depths of the sea, I allow myself to sink from the surface of fresh air; down, down, down.   There I fall, until the blankets are embracing me once more.   I am so tired that I forget to turn the