Atonement

No, you can't smoke out the sinister things

And you can't drink away the demons

You never really beat off the bad

And there's no use in scratching at a scar

You can build things up, though,

To cover them, drape and dress them up

And set fire

Hope it's a glorious blaze – when it all goes up for good

Or keep it, keep it all

The filthy white rag of yourself

You have to look at it, crushed and damp

You can try to squeeze the ink out

The blackest bits of you

Drip, drip, drip

A reversed constellation would assemble

Cobalt freckles, flaws on tile floor

Then you would face it,

The black and white mirror at your feet

Only the ugly

And you have to look at it

You have to look because no one can look for you

At your little devils,

Damnable thoughts,

Starless

Then you'd see it – the delicate darkness

Negligible jots on an expanse of white

Such a slight stain you made

Your sins, on this infinite marble

Sunflower Field

A million dark eyes, open, unblinking

Ten million more inside each, huddled, sharp

Obsidian suns stand in this field

Hardly swaying, hollow, burned-out buildings

Lined with microscopic pins

Yet, for all this, you see the sweet, the

Soft surrounding haze of fire born in night

Remember a sprightly scene, a billion

Ballerinas dancing, victim to curious lovers

Yellow erupting from black, an eclipse

You see a million halos in this field

Good

Do you ever worry that you aren't inherently good?

You know what good looks like - 

you know it comes when called, and it stops to open doors.

You know what bad looks like - 

you know it leaves one kid out, and lies and lies and lies.

But, do you ever think, maybe, if there was some sort of measurement for all the good in you, 

you might not tip the scale so much?

And Why Not: Road-trip

– And why not spring from the sheets, too early for fatigue

For a haphazard hustle of luggage,

'Til the muffled slide-shut of car doors

“Can't sleep”, but do, in a bundle of minutes,

After you've battled a tangle of seat belts

You watch a short-but-sweet show of night-lights in the window

When exhaust wraps you up

Who-knows-how-long now, jostling, puppeting sleep but awake –

Then it's a sun-shot in the eyes

When curiosity cracks them open

Where are we now?

Sound, too buttoned-up to question

Wake without rise in this moving hot-box

Cold glass rectangles display a cinematic scene,

Steel wool shrubs hook to the citrus-colored sand,

Endlessly peeled back, a shriveled tangerine

– Your ears always plug –

And you bake,

You bake, blissful

You bake,

And we wend –

Happy in our hot-box,

And why not?

Happy, that is.

By: Ellie Peek

People who drive you places

People who drive you places love you
People who listen when you ask and ho-hum to an "alright" really love you
People who talk back on the drive and are careful to mind the speed limit must love you
People who take your directions and trust your commands have to love you
People who sit at the spot to waste gas and watch you walk in truly love you
People who drive home all alone when you've begun something else love you

People who drive you anywhere love you, I think