Fuel

I'm going to be honest.
I know nothing about poetry.
I know lyrics; I write them like Taylor Swift finds new boyfriends to publicly humiliate,
but I know nothing about poetry.

I do, however, know a little about bubbles.
You probably see them as a shield,
their pristine armor protecting,
keeping the outside air out
until they glimmer away into the wind.

But bubbles don't protect the inside.
They're just a wall, preventing each side from finding reality.

The inside babies the prideful.
It praises the selfish, the judgmental, the pretenders,
and most of all
the liars.
The outside lets loose the dirty, the sinners, the rationalizers, the work-a-holics,
and the reckless.
At least they're honest about it.

So you can see things as a shield from either side
keeping the real you in or the potential you out.
But there's pins everywhere, their points ready to go.
Pick one up when you are too.

Concrete.

I always learned that lines should rhyme
and just like life, hold a perfect time,
but nobody told me that all they really had to do...
was be real.

So I'm sorry I'm no poet.
I'm sorry I'm not some high strung chamber singer going to a "world class high school."
And I'm sorry that I ever let you think that because I'm quiet, I'm just some mindless robot
Look up. Breathe. Look down. Command not recognized. Smile. Breathe. Think.

Robots don't think.
So maybe you think that I don't think
because there isn't always a stink to think
unless you never thunk in the first place, then the stink is overwhelming, probably because you thought no one could smell it.
But robots don't think.

And I think I'm getting off topic, so I can't be a robot.
I'm just a human who can't write poetry.
A human who expresses herself differently than you do,
But a human who expresses herself nonetheless.

Maybe at the end of the day when I'm sitting in the studio
I'll think to myself,
"Rilee. . . lyrics and poetry are the same thing.
They just express themselves differently."

Yours, mine, theirs.

 I remember you. 

Do you remember me? 

Not the me I am now, but the me I used to be. Do you see how I've grown?

I'm the girl who loved all the shows you loved.

The one you used to have stopwatch wars with in chemistry class.

And you're the boy who never listened in school, but always listened when I needed it. 

Remember now?

I remember you.

And I know you remember me. 

I remember when you taught me how to speak pidgin. 

And when I missed your birthday party because I went to Lake Powell.

I'm sorry for that. 

I don't remember when we became best friends, but I know that we are. 

Please remember me. 

I remember you.

I hope you remember me.

And I hope you hold close the times that we shared. 

Because I'm your first love, though you aren't mine. 

And when you look in the mirror, I hope you miss my silhouette there next to you.

I hope I forget.

When you're halfway across the country will you remember me?

When you've moved on and found new friends, please remember me.

When you realize she wasn't the one, don't come to me.

I have others I need to remember.

Remember me.
Or don't. 

I will never be here again

Dialogue

You’re over thinking things again,” Niko said as he sat down next to me, lying against the cold steel wall.

 “I can’t help it.” I choked out. “We don’t even have the worst of it! Colton’s over there chained to a freaking wall!”

“Jealous of my rubber body suit?” Colton chimed in, having overheard the conversation.

 Before I could reply, the large steel door to our cell opened and shut with a loud clang. Everyone was silent, the only sound being the fast paced breathing of the two figures, a boy and a girl, that had just entered the room.

“Sup.” Colton said nonchalantly.

“Who are you?” Growled the girl figure.

“I could ask you the same thing. You just burst into our lovely holding cell and demand to know my name? Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

 “The name’s Presley.” She replied stubbornly.

 “And dimples over there?” Colton said, referring to the boy.

“That’s Bug. Now it’s your turn to answer the questions.”

“Well I’m the lovely and single Colton Harper, that hunk over there is Niko, and—

 “I’m Simone,” I added plainly. “What are you doing here?”

 “What are you doing here?” Presley retorted.

Almost there.

I guess you could say that's why I've been studying for the past six and a half hours.
My mom would probably ask if failing this test would take away my eternal salvation
to which I would promptly reply, "yes, mother," and quickly add a little something about
how failing would eventually lead me to becoming a sociopath.
It's unfortunate, really, that so much in life depends on tests. If I could
prove myself through music or art, I guarantee I wouldn't be who I am today. I
guarantee you'd know me as more than a wallflower.

Possibilities