Apparently she has a knack for these things. I’m reproducing a poem but not citing the source because I’m not sure who is or is not supposed to know where she posts. For a gateway into shaina’s soul (or something), read on…

*Different*
I haven’t poemed in a while
because all artists are liars.
Especially poets,
according to some smart old guy.
Or not smart,
But different.
Very different.
My room is an explosion
so my thoughts are equally cluttered.
I thought to escape to the kitchen
but my sister has claimed the space
So my mind remains disheveled.
I have a pack of candles
buried in the mounds on my desk
And instead of saying 24 candles
(like any other candles)
It says 24 wishes,
like these candles are more powerful or different from the rest.
Very different.
But they are the same wax and string.
I am discombobulated balls of wax and string
all tangled and melted into this thing called my brain.
And I should pick it apart, really;
The stresses
And the college apps
And the phone calls
And the homework
And the giant stress ball called my mother
(Whom I never forget to mention),
But I won’t.
At least not at once.
I will let it sog in the fog for a little while longer.
But I can start on my room
and make stacks of clutter
instead of layers.
At least it’s something different.
Very different.