~*~ moth light ~*~ poems by maren

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~*~ moth light ~*~
poems by maren. age 15. michigan. night person.

welcome to the inside of my head... it's kind of messy in here... watch your step... ~*~

hi. i'm maren. i write poems, mostly at night, mostly in a spiral notebook with a cracked green cover, and then i type the ones i can stand to look at in the morning into the family computer when everybody's asleep. this is where they live now.

some of them are sad. that's ok. i'm not sad all the time, i just feel things kind of loud, and writing them down turns the volume down. my mom read this page once and asked if i was all right. i am. i promise. i'm just fifteen.

please don't take my poems and put them on your page. they're mine. if you really like one, e-mail me and ask, and i'll probably say yes because i'll be so happy somebody asked.

~*~ static ~*~ moth ~*~ for L., who moved to arizona ~*~ third period ~*~ things i would say if anyone asked ~*~ older stuff (from when i was 14, be nice) ~*~

~ POEM OF THE WEEK ~ things i would say if anyone asked
that i'm fine, mostly.
that fine is a real word and it means fine.
that i like the color of the sky at five o'clock in november
better than any other color and i can't explain it.
that i'm not mad at you, i'm just quiet.
that quiet isn't the same as sad.
(sometimes it is.)
that i want to live someday in a house with a lot of windows.
that my mom's laugh is my favorite sound in the world
and i will never tell her.
that i think i'm going to be okay.
that nobody asked.

~*~*~*~*~*~
static
at two in the morning i turn the dial
past the country station,
past the preacher from somewhere far,
past the call-in show where a man
is telling a stranger all about his divorce,
to the place between.
static sounds like rain.
it sounds like the ocean i've only seen once.
it sounds like a room full of people
all whispering at the same time
and none of them about me.
i fall asleep there.
in the morning the radio
is still breathing on the nightstand
like a small animal
that kept watch.

~*~*~*~*~*~
moth
there's a moth on the porch light
who has been there since june.
(it is probably not the same moth.
i like to think it is.)
he throws himself at the bulb
all night like it owes him money.
my dad says moths don't know any better.
i think they know exactly.
i think the light is the only thing out here
that looks like it means it.
some nights i leave it on
after everybody's asleep
just so he'll have something
to believe in.

~*~*~*~*~*~
for L., who moved to arizona
you left me your purple gel pen
and half a friendship bracelet
and all of freshman year
to remember by myself.
you write that it's a hundred and four degrees
and everybody there has a pool
and you haven't found your people yet.
i haven't either. i mean, i had them.
i mean, i had you.
here it's raining. here the maple
in your old front yard is turning
and the new people put a basketball hoop
where your mom's tomatoes were.
i didn't tell you that part.
i'm telling you now.
i'm keeping the pen.
it's almost out of ink
and i only use it for important things
like this.

~*~*~*~*~*~
third period
he sits by the window
and draws in the margins of his notes,
little spaceships, mostly,
and once a very good horse.
i know this because i sit
two rows over and one back,
which is the perfect angle
for knowing things about someone
who doesn't know your name.
today it rained and he watched it
the whole time, the whole entire
mitochondria and everything,
and i thought: oh.
you too.

~ right now ~
listening to: Sarah McLachlan, Surfacing, for the 900th time. also Tori Amos, From the Choirgirl Hotel.
reading: Jane Eyre, for the third time. i still can't decide how i feel about rochester.
drinking: tea with too much honey.
feeling: like it's almost fall, which is my favorite feeling.

e-mail me: [email protected]
nice things only. or helpful things. no chain letters PLEASE.

you are soul number