It shows up anyway
through open windows,
through sleeves rolled up without thinking,
through the quiet decision
to try again tomorrow.

The trees don’t rush it.
They don’t explain themselves
for standing bare all winter.
They trust green to arrive
when it’s ready.

I start doing the same.
Wearing the shoes I kept saving.
Raising my hand once.
Letting unfinished things
stay unfinished.

Some days I still feel small.
Some days I doubt myself.
But the light keeps finding me
on the walk home,
soft and steady.

Spring doesn’t ask me to be new.
Only present.
Only open.
Only brave enough
to grow in my own time.

The post Spring Is Not a Makeover appeared first on GirlSpring.

We don’t text all day anymore.
We send one photo, maybe two,
and trust the rest.

You still know when I’m tired.
I still know when you’re pretending
not to be.

We learned each other
in small places.
Bus rides.
Shared snacks.
Laughing too loud
when we were supposed to be quiet.

Somewhere, we stopped needing proof.
No constant updates.
No matching schedules.
Just the quiet understanding
that we’re still here.

When we meet again,
it’s easy.
Like sitting down in a chair
you once thought you lost.

We don’t hold each other tightly.
We don’t have to.

We stay
because we want to.

The post How We Stay Friends appeared first on GirlSpring.

The trees are twinkling

The lights are sparkling

The snowflakes are falling

Children waiting in line to sit on Santa’s lap

Parents shopping for presents in department stores

Carolers singing their favorite songs to strangers

Inflatable elves are waving from store fronts

Plastic reindeer are bounding in your neighbor’s yard

Plush snowmen are adjourning the surface of every restaurant counter

The lights and noise are mesmerizing

They are distracting 

In a forgotten corner a little baby lays in a manger

He is precious and small

Yet he is King of Israel 

He is the greatest gift given to the world

He is absolute perfection

He is love incarnate 

He is the only hope we need

He is the only peace we have

He is the only joy we know

He is all we need

He is all we desire

He is all we crave

He came to join us

He came to love us

He came to save us

The lights and noise try to be mesmerizing

They try to be distracting

Do not let them

Do not let the baby stay in the dusty corner

Do not forget the real reason to celebrate

The post The Forgotten Reason appeared first on GirlSpring.

Meet me in the meadow.
Where we were young and pure.
When life didn’t burn to the same degree as when we were 5.
Who could stop us from being us?

Just two little kids chasing dreams.
Believing in Santa and the Tooth Fairy.
Let’s sprint through the labyrinth like when we were 10,
where age does not matter, and we could just be free.

Let’s roll in the Myosotis oblongata
So that the memories will flow
Come back to the forefront
With powers of blinding gold

I dust off the gypsophila that don’t matter
Since you’re not pure anymore
Not since you tried to disintegrate the flowers
Attempting to erase you and me from this land of memories

I fold your hands over your heart
Act like you’re only sleeping
Or just breathing slow
As I cover you in Papaver rhoeas

You quietly seep into the ground
The vines rising up and making you part of them.
Your soul answer to their bludgeoning call,
that you could never ignore.

No matter how many times tried to command
this meadow of possibilities.
Now they’re here to prove to you once and for all that
you could never dominate what’s already been set in stone.

The post Greenhouse Overflowing with Time appeared first on GirlSpring.

By Charlie Lawley

Inspired by The House On Mango Street

We’ve lived in the same house all my life. It’s old. Before we moved in, it was Mimi and Pop’s house, but then Pop passed, so we moved in. It’s big, and I have a room all to myself, but it’s my house, not my home. My house always seems to feel colder than it should, like it’s slowly dying. Sometimes it’s as cold as January in Alabama, like no one really lives there. Because we don’t really live there, or at least I don’t. I live where my friends are, because they are my home. At my house, I don’t laugh like I do when I’m at home. It’s different. When I’m at my house, it’s just me, alone. I’m always kind of awkward there, like the whole house is telling me to take my shoes off or fix the pillow. But at home, I’m myself. Even though we’ve lived in the same house my whole life, it’s not my home.

My Name

My name is gentle. Light and gentle as cotton candy. It is calm and quiet—Charlotte Anne, sweet and soft, like a marshmallow. My great-grandmother was Anne. I loved her, but the name was more hers than it will ever be mine. She was gentle, like the wind the morning after a storm. She was warm, like the fresh cookies she made. But that is not me. I am not Charlotte Anne. I am not gentle, or light, or warm, or quiet, or anything that my name is. That’s why it’s not my name. My name is loud and funny; it is messy and not perfect. My name means a whole lot more than a soft, quiet, gentle daughter. It means I make mistakes, and I am mean sometimes. Even though my name is Charlotte Anne, I am Charlie.

Rich

People look at our house and think we are rich. People who come inside believe we are even richer. “Your house is huge,” they say, like it’s a mansion, with rooms big enough to get lost in. They say it so much, like a broken record, over and over and over. But that’s because they don’t see what goes on inside that huge house.

We’ve never struggled much, but my family is not wealthy. We have never needed help, but fights are inevitable. Fights in our house are like the seasons changing. It’s always going to happen, no matter what. And sometimes, that big house, which is not rich, is holding its breath. Even though we’re not rich, I am. Not because of my house, which is still holding its breath, but because of what else I have. What’s my own? I have my friends and my family. My nieces and my best friend. They are worth more than we have ever had. We are not rich with money, though some people think we are, but I am still rich in life.

Loud

Everyone in my family is loud. My sister is loud, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. She’s always been like my dad, funny and extroverted. She holds the conversation at family dinners, telling my parents about her day. My mom is quieter than that, but she is still loud. Sometimes she is as calm and placid as a mouse, and other times she is loud like the fireworks that are my sister. My dad is as loud as my sister, so when they’re together, it’s hard not to be quiet. They are like fire, and gasoline, and I have to be the water.

People say a lot about me because my sister and I are yin and yang. They say I’m both my mom and dad. People say I’m quiet when I want to be, but I can also be loud. They say that I am my own person, and my face talks before my mouth does. People say that I’m not loud, but expressive. They have a lot to say, like a parrot with opinions, but I think that I’m loud when I’m around the people that make me loud. It’s hard to be loud when you’re always the one who makes it too loud.

Notice

I pretend that I don’t notice anyone, but I do. Hiding behind a face that’s not mine. A mask. Pretending keeps me safe. It whispers in my ear that it’s better this way. I have to pretend so that no one knows, but I’m lying to myself, too. I pretend I don’t notice, I don’t wish, I don’t look. But I do. Every day, I notice him, like noticing a lamp clicking on in the corner. But he doesn’t notice me. He sees right through me; I’m invisible. He wouldn’t even realize if I were on fire. So I don’t notice him, because if I notice him and he doesn’t notice me, it would be like the bride saying no at a wedding. I would lose face. So I never notice. Not noticing keeps me safe from everyone. But also from myself. Because if I tell myself that I don’t notice, then I don’t have to wonder why I can’t notice. Because I don’t.

The post The Same House appeared first on GirlSpring.

and time sifts through my fingers

falling

as swiftly

as the golden burned leaves

struggle to fly off branches

the world

spins out of my control,

silk blue

swallows my head

I hold out my hand,

expectantly,

and a single leaf

drifts and catches

in some hole in my heart

my hand tightens,

it crunches against my dry palm

I cling

to desperation

to hope

for a better season.

The post Under the Oak Tree: A Poem appeared first on GirlSpring.

The best year of your life

The year filled with lasts, laughs, memories, and traditions

The year you spend every second with friends

Reconnect

Relive

Rejoice in the friendships you have made

The year you think back on all of the recesses, field trips, exam sessions, and group projects

When you remember old trends, fast fashion, and nostalgic movies

The year when you have to step into a new part of your life

The year when you have to leave what you know behind

The year you have to decide what you want to do 

And who you want to be

Senior year is the door into the unknown

And while the unknown can be terrifying

It can also be exciting

Not knowing what exactly comes next 

Leads to unexpected opportunities

Yes,

Senior year can be the best year of your life

But not because of the lasts, laughs, memories, and traditions

But because of the new path you are about to take

Senior year is a year of goodbyes 

And you are ready to say farewell

The post Senior Year appeared first on GirlSpring.

she looks in the mirror

But the girl she sees staring back,

is not who she once was

The grass beneath her feet,

the sound of her mother calling her back inside because it’s too dark

is replaced by scrolling endlessly

and full agendas

Stress, anxiety, fear,

all things that the girl she once was never had

When overcommitment was a word she could not spell

When missing school caused a celebration,

not long nights of extra work

When the blue sky was not replaced by navy folders

She didn’t realize that

her time in the sun was fleeting

Yet, amidst the replacements,

the girl that once was sits in her heart

And as she steps into the sun,

and feels the grass beneath her feet,

she realizes the girl that she still is.

The post The Girl That She Still Is appeared first on GirlSpring.

“Ghetto Roots”

They call it ghetto.
Pallets stacked into beds, lots of pig on the grill,
A hustle stretched thin just to make a meal.
But lemme take you back,
Way back to when our ancestors’ backs broke
Under a sun that didn’t love us either.

Pallets?
The wood scraps they tossed aside,
Used to carry cotton, sugar, and blood,
We turned into survival.
Beds from nothing ‘cause they gave us nothing.
Is it ghetto, or is it resilience?
Y’all mock the crib frame but not the system
That left us with splinters for a foundation.

Swine?
You wrinkle your nose at chitterlings,
Call ’em “chitlins,”
But who handed us the scraps?
Slave masters took the loins, the ribs, the ham,
Left intestines for the “less than,”
But we seasoned ‘em with soul and called it dinner.
Now y’all call it “soul food” at your overpriced bistros.
Who’s ghetto now?

Cornrows?
You call them ghetto, unprofessional, a fad.
But cornrows were blueprints for freedom.
We braided maps into our hair
Rows to show the way to the Underground Railroad.
We wove grains of rice into the plaits,
Because starvation wasn’t an option on the road to liberation.
What you call a hairstyle was a survival tool,
A resistance art form.
And now you wear it for clout,
Erase the roots but keep the look.
Who’s really ghetto?

The way we talk?
You laugh at the way we flip words,
Turn “ain’t” into an anthem,
Slang into a melody that flows like the rivers they crossed us over.
But did you know our tongue was stripped bare?
Forced to trade Yoruba for yes sir.
Plantation whispers became survival codes,
AAVE is rebellion embedded in rhythm.
“Ghetto” is what you call it;
We call it speaking in the key of freedom.
Y’all mock it, then remix it,
Put our dialect on TV, then say it’s yours.

Even love,
They call it hood love,
Laugh at how we yell out nicknames,
How we kiss with fire and hold on tight,
But our love is a miracle.
During slavery, they tore apart Black families,
Sold husbands to one state, wives to another.
We couldn’t legally marry,
So we jumped brooms and built bonds no whip could break.
They called us breeders;
We called it survival.
They punished us for loving at all.
Now they call our affection too loud,
But we’ve been loud for every ancestor
Who was forced to love in silence.

They made us ghetto.
Ripped us from lands where we were kings and queens,
Shoved us into projects,
Cracked our schools, and broke our communities.
They feared our brilliance,
So they tried to bury it.
But still, we rise,
Still, we flip struggle into culture.

You call us ghetto.
I call us genius.
We’ve turned struggle into style,
Pain into poetry,
Scraps into sustenance.
We spin survival into an art form,
Alchemy of the oppressed.
So keep your labels;
We’ll keep our ways, our culture, and our soul.

Learn more about the Be Empowered poetry contest here.

The post Ghetto Roots, Be Empowered Poetry Contest appeared first on GirlSpring.

Born of Soil, Sun, Soiled Sun

In the beginning, was the creation of heaven and earth.
Raw and reaching, pulled from the hollow hush.
Of earth, I came through the jagged jaws of the splintered stone, through fissures coughing up the breath of an everlasting joyous sun.
My skin was pressed from the caverns who guided the underground, damp and rich.
Stitched, with roots that stretched, alive.
The rivers ran, keeping my spirit true, the main source of my youth.
My fingertips kissed by the blue hush of dawn.
And when the wind curled against my back, it did not howl—it sang.
A hymn that felt like love.
I was Soil.

In the beginning, was the creation of heaven and earth.
Sunlight pooled in the valleys of my skin,
gold dripping, spilling, making me something more than stone and soil.
Trees grew thick at my spine, arms outstretched, aiming to graze the heights of heaven.
Clouds stitched themselves into the corners of my mind,
lazy and laughing, rolling figurative shadows over the grass.
The rivers carried my secrets downstream, delivered them to the sea,
where the waves cradled them, quiet and knowing.
I was everything and endless.
I was Sun.

In the beginning, was the creation of heaven and earth.
Soon time and I started a game of tag, and I never seemed to win.
Hungry and hurried they came,
touch peeled the green from my ribs,
cut open my breath and left me gasping in the dark.
The trees, once outstretched, bowed their heads in surrender.
Smoke curled in my lungs, immensely thick and choking,
They split my once powerful bones, carved them hollow,
pulled light from my veins and called it theirs.
They built themselves ladders, to climb through life,
while the very soul of my body was stripped.
A new distorted hymn I did not know.
I was Soiled.

In the beginning, was the creation of heaven and earth.
Though fractured and sore, I will not accept ruin.
I press seed to soil, whisper to the roots,
teach the wind my name again.
They cut me open, but they did not take it all.
My breath still lingers in the mist,
my veins still rush with the echo of rivers.
Even as my body aches under their weight,
I gather what remains—scattered light, quiet green, the hush of rain.
I will stitch myself whole again.
I will grow it from the dust.
Not as I was, but as I will be.
I will not be a Soiled Sun.

Check out more poetry here!

The post Born of Soil, Sun, Soiled Sun | Be Empowered Poetry Contest appeared first on GirlSpring.