From one Penn Stater to another YOUR WRITING IS BREATHTAKING!!!

Hey, thank you so much! (:

Twenty-Somethings Can’t Afford Gas

Pop open tank:
$3.37 a gallon.
Insert card; remove quickly.
Enter pin.
Regular? Plus? Premium?
Receipt? No.

Bacon, egg, and cheese Shmagelz—
breakfast at Sheetz in the same
skirt I wore last night.

I noticed your eyes were brown
for the first time yesterday.
I guess we should leave the light on more.

We make excuses (we’re twenty-something
young and beautiful mouths on the can of a Natty Light)
laughing at commitments we don’t need
right now—
and no, Lana Del Rey, he won’t, I won’t.

Right now—
we’ll tie ourselves down with sheets we don’t know
and morning-after strands of hair
dressed up like birds
singing freedom from feeling anything—
(but only the caged and the courting
bird sings).

You’re impossibly pretty and empty,
useless
like the fourth button on my cardigan
I forget exists until I dress in the morning
and notice it’s missing.

Right now,
you take my hand absentmindedly,
I let you,
absentheartedly.

I’ll burn through you
until I get where I want to go.

Because if you pulled me in,
sober, and asked me to stay,
I’d go (running
on empty).

What made you choose the name "Opera House Girl"?

My name is Sydney. It’s a play on the Sydney Opera House in Australia. 

Wow, just found out your name is Sydney, which is cool cause so is mine! And I also love and adore poetry, and now...I hope one day I'll be in ur position w/ people admiring my poems like they admire yours<3

Thank you so much (:

Complete Yourself

You see my eyelids like butterfly wings
stilled on flowering cheeks,
you lie so still
hoping they’ll land on you.

But I never was anything so peaceful;
I am not the color of my cheeks.

I don’t remember stepping into this light
to read lines,
but I’ve already got the role.

You love me like stars.
You love me like looking back.
You love me like a compliment—

like I fit into you—
a seed you swallow,
plant in your esophagus—
and grow within you.

You make me a moon
just your size to eclipse your light.
(I’d rather be a shape that won’t stack with yours—
I want everything of me to show).

You reduce me to tides
And I push into you, pull away,
push you to throw your mother’s music box
out the second story window
and drive to Sunoco for a pack of Newports,
though you quit 8 months ago.

I don’t laugh like skips of sunlight
off the Swarovski crystal hung in the rearview mirror.
It’s just a sound in my throat.

Sometimes I think
you think
you produced that sound:
stuck a nickel in my ear;
pressed play, repeat—
your favorite song.

I breathe out carbon dioxide;
I won’t breathe your oxygen.
I won’t try to give your heart a beat.

I cross my arms around my chest,
reaching nails in my back,
checking for wings.

I want to rip open my skin and show you my spine—
how it doesn’t have your signature on it,

how I’m a quarter-broken inside,
the way you are a quarter-broken inside.
How I’m breathing my way
through my own life

how that life doesn’t exist
as a completion to yours.

I stayed up late reading your poems. They're amazing! I honestly fell in love with your writing. Please keep them coming :)

Thank you so much! I will (:

can't believe I just found your blog just now. I'm staying here for awhile.

Thank you, and welcome. <3

How to Sort Tomatoes

At the A&P my grandmother rolled her hands
over produce aisles, picking up tomatoes
checking for color, for cracks, for sunken soft spots

making sure it didn’t sink in on itself as she held it;
that the skin didn’t slide.

You keep your arms crossed
covering soft spots—
left on the windowsill past ripe.

We lay in the garden 
your eyes to mine, 
my eyes to the moon, then,
to the grass.

I leave my body’s impression too easily.
When I hold you,
you fold under the weight of me.

I pull your face into new expressions,
funny ones, sad ones.
I pull your fingers encircling mine.

Morning comes:
I stare at the spaces around the sun,
checking for color, for shape, for sunspots
but it’s too bright to see.

How fast did she toss you—did she feel you sinking in—
didn’t want to be pulled down into you?
She asked why you weren’t red,
and touched your too-soon wrinkles.

She picked at you,
you pick at them;
thumbing over spots and discarding.

I’d trace your freckles with my fingertip,
but your brightness obscures
your body’s starspots.

Your poem Wine Tasting, is just incredible. I can't express it into words! Thank you! :)

Thank you so much! (:

Your writing seems so personal and insightful, are they based of off people in your life, or just how you perceive others feel?

Both! Everyone says to write about what you know. But everyone knows heartbreak, tragedy, happiness, etc. Whatever degree we’ve all felt them, is relative to our own experiences. Our most painful experience is still our most painful experience. Therefore, if we just apply our feelings to what we’ve already experienced and put them into ones we haven’t yet experienced—we should be able to write about it. I usually start out trying to write from experience, but then something else entirely takes over and I realize what I’ve written is something that’s never actually happened to me—but feelings sometimes become more real when shown through a fictional situation. Also, for the sake of art, one usually needs to alter reality or create something entirely fictional.