Graphos

You are a thief. Thief of knowledge, Creativity, and inspiration. The mind — a workspace where Stolen parts are fashioned into Frankenstein’s monster, bringing Dusty ideas back To life. Recycled again to make someone’s existence Seem worthwhile. Paris Riggle is a biomedical biology major who reads and writes far too much poetry for her own Read More …

Towers stand watching the land — It changes. They store Grain like memories.  A great white barn A museum of paint peels Hand-powered metal Blankets of dust Slowly give way to ravages Of time Crumble away and rise to Paint fumes Brittle plastic Plaster dust Quick, quick quick To forget But not the silos.  Paris Read More …

Slowly and methodically I pack The boxes, with each a moment Of my life I encase, seal, and  Shelve. They are saved For later.  Only to be given away to a stranger, Oblivious to the slice of myself They carry tucked between the pages Of a well-worn book They’ll never open. Paris Riggle is a Read More …

What is a life worth if it comes from nothing?  Doesn’t come from ivory cars and mahogany wood tables A life that comes from temptations of stealing your grandfather’s gin And ugly stares from strangers walking down the boulevard. What’s that life worth that doesn’t give back  Because they grew up with crumbs and pennies  Read More …

I close my eyes. one She reaches out, grasping for my hand I wish I could save her but no one can Her head looks up  Wide-eyed, messy hair A face of innocence, I wish I could prepare Her for the messes of life The anxieties, the pressure Being pretty, being skinny,  Everyone uses success Read More …

Nostalgia has become a crutch Even though reality was flawed Things tend to look better in the frame Where I placed my memory in the first place Are the pictures and writings what I’ll remember? Are my own memories being manufactured? Editing the honesty out and attaching fake sentiment? Will they restore my memory, or Read More …

“describe a sensory image” keyboard taps fluorescent lights mask pressing against my mouth the pilly fabric is scraping at my chin dad used to leave loose fabric laying around when he would sew gramma would hem my prom dresses and give me the fabric back i brought colin a swatch of it so he could Read More …

Four years ago, I used to pick my shirt off the floor, Clutch it to my chest, feel it on my collarbone, And find a hint of the night before. I’d stand there and wonder what I should do with myself. Jasmine. Sweet, warm, and inviting. We stood there swaying in a dark parking lot, Read More …

Our embrace melting the ice on which we rest, The sound of your voice stretching the muscles of my cheeks. The sun photosynthesized in your eyes— Sixty-two inches of kinetic energy. The tropical breeze flowing through your hair, Into my lungs. The lively rumble of your feet in the halls, Shaking life into my heavy, Read More …

I have seen moss cradle rock, And shift towards the sun’s gaze. I have seen trees rise and fall, And submit to the haze. I remove earth And in it take refuge. My shield from hawk and wind. I breathe thin air And exhale life. Upon this rock I depend. At times when water is Read More …