Charlene Hills
Glass Bottle Streets
I walk down glass bottle streets.
Mosaics of color that glisten in the sun.
Reds,
Blues,
Greens,
And Yellows.
Colors fill my view as I stare at my feet.
I stare because if I look up my dreams would be crushed.
Like the glass beneath my feet.
The sky was supposed to shine with possibility.
Why did it have nothing but dread?
Dread of what people would think of me.
Dread of what if I did the wrong thing.
Dread of what if I never got the chance to be one of the stars.
Stars are glassworks in the sky.
They twinkle.
They shine.
They exist thousands of miles away.
Out of reach.
Out of time.
​
The glass beneath my feet is old.
Or new,
Scratched,
Or shattered.
Nothing whole —
But if everyone is broken,
You never need to be fixed.
You are just you.
Cracked.
Scratched.
Shattered.
Glistening.
Sparkling.
A mosaic.
A mosaic that I stare upon as I walk these glass bottle streets.
My Crown of thoughts
My crown of thoughts weighs heavy on my mind.
To wear these jewels that glisten — that sparkle; what a price to pay.
​
Am I beautiful with these overbearing jewels?
These chains that cascade and drag with me as I dance around the world.
They fill my mind with illusions of grandeur, or of nightmarish
hellscapes. Fear bewitches me as I look upon these jewels that I can not
bear to lose.
​
Blue — like your mourning eyes shedding crystal tears.
Red — as the blood in your veins dripping down my side.
Green — like envy corrupting my soul out of fear.
Yellow — as the shining sun that I have long since seen.
The pieces I wear, they scream to be noticed.
Yet fade away with whatever mask I wear.
​
Few comment on my crown, decorated with my worst fears
and insecurities. Some know it is there, others blindly turn away.
I wear my crown, for I can never really take it off.
A part of me as it is a part of this never turning sea.
My crown, oh my dear crown.
Beautiful and torturous only to me.
I wear it, with pride and respect.
For I learned long ago that it’ll never leave.
I don’t wish for it to leave, for it is my own crown of thoughts.
paper trails
I crumble the paper with my written confession.
What truth could it possibly contain?
Let me try and tell you simply, like this.
​
Behold the confusing testimonial of my life—
​
I must confess I am a mess—
The scribbles become riddles on the page.
The confessions tell of lessons I have yet to learn.
​
To pursue the clues littered about my life is a hard sought
mystery. I seek the answers through this bleak life.
But the truth is harder to soothe than a burning wound.
​
Is it even obtainable?
These paper trails that tell the tales of my life.
I must confess these receipts have odd totals—
Totals I don’t truly understand.
Kinda like U.S. taxes—
When the fact is these paper trails are long.
​
Long as the highways, the dirt roads I traveled by.
Totals that don’t line up just right in my little average
life. Paper trails that fail to tell me what I need—
What I want—
What I desire.
I must confess this mystery is a mess—
The sheets I leave are cluttered amongst the streets.
For those just curious enough to follow—
To find—
To solve the bewildering mystery of my life.
Confession after confession.
Note after note.
Line after scribbled line—
​
I tried to explain but in the end just like my confessions they don’t make true
sense. Just new sheets to my paper trails.
Cigarette Daydreams
I sometimes daydream about sitting outside, on a balcony or porch, with a
cigarette between my fingers.
Hazy and dreamlike as I bring it to my lips.
Smoke being taken away by my own breath.
To preface, I have no intention of smoking,
Nightmares of nicotine infecting someone’s good image haunt me to this
day. The sick stench sticking to everything like some sort of twisted badge.
Yet still.
The daydreams persist.
After long days of tireless work, the smoke fills my lungs and I exhale with renewed
life. Twisted relaxation, I suppose.
Perhaps it’s just the image it provokes —
The tortured artist,
The workaholic wolf,
The ending chords of a sexual crescendo.
All these different feelings, sights, and sensations brought upon by a wisp of a
cigarette flame.
It embers, shedding ash all over my mindscape.
The daydreams persist.
Maybe one day the pack will be empty, no cigarettes left to pull —
the lighter runs out of its lifeblood —
Or I just run out of patience and actually light one for myself.
I’ll —
Tap, tap away the ashes of a dying bud.
Wipe, wipe away the tears of a tired
individual. Light, light away another cigarette.
The daydreams persist.
The ideas persist.
I persist—
Unlike the dying, intoxicating smoke of a cigarette daydream.
Treasured Friends
Friends are a treasure one wishes not to lose.
Some though are neverlasting, they tarnish, and we lose the very thing that brought us
close.
Others drift like a log down a stream, golden and loved in the moment but with
a different course.
Then there are the ones most cherished—
Ones that never dull or lessen in sparkle, these are prized and should be kept close.
Those who I can hug, and it feels like we never have even parted before. "Those
who feel ike a breath of fresh air, those I desperately need in a suffocating
room./Those who when we talk it feels natural like a heartbeat laced in
conversation."
​
Whether I see them often, or far and few between, I love those moments, they mean
the world to me.
For I trust and feel it in my heart that despite all our challenges, these friends will
never rust.
​
But if they do, I’m sure to say that I loved them all in the moment and wouldn’t change
a day.
For those treasures here and now, my love for you is endlessly bound, and I appreciate it
every living day.
For treasures can be found in hordes, I rather seek a few of my treasured friends.
Bio
Charlene Hills is a young writer and media creator currently majoring in Digital Media Production at UCM. With a current focus on poetry they particularly enjoy writing about themes of observation, mental health, and exploring the personal connections that poetry can help bring out in themselves and others. They also enjoy bringing together their passions for creating media and writing by making short film styled visual poems of their work, their first being “Glass Bottle Streets (A visual poem)” on YouTube.