Eleanor Lee

Looky looky

I’m puzzled.

How do i map out

all of this mumbo-jumbo in my head.


a new chance,


I wish I could open up my skull, and take out my thoughts.

That way, I can stare at it for a long time.

i would stare at it, and stick all the scattered pieces together, one by one.

I would nod my head with vigor

and put my brainy puzzle back in.

Can you tell that I am a visual learner?

Little old Woman

There’s a little old woman that lives at the top of my chest,

always wringing, wringing the same old beaten rag.

She’s there when the music slips into my body and makes me soar through the clouds.

She’s there when I lay in bed,

thoughts running around like children who still haven’t learned fear.

She works hardest when my mother’s voice smashes the roof open

and my father’s sighs wobble over my head,

threatening to crack and spill.

The little old woman sometimes loses her mind and beats against the walls of my chest,

screams starting like a chit-chit engine,

the worn rag flopping limply in her hand as she runs around madly.

Even more sometimes,

she’ll get through,

but she falls down.

Down into my stomach and she splashes around,

punching and kicking.

I go mad too.

Her jabs hurt.

They poke through me like staples and thumbtacks.

If I’m not careful and keep my mouth shut,

the little old woman’s screams dart off my tongue and echoes in the air.