An Octopus has Three Hearts.

An octopus has 3 hearts.
Me too:

One heart carefully crafted completely out of poems;
With meter-made-metaphors and a beat that
opens doors to my self-made,
and doubt-paved home.
It has windows of motivation
as clear as a page
before my writer’s rage
makes it mine.

An octopus has 3 hearts,
and so do I.

With triangle veins that tangle and complain
like there’s something else to prove;
I have half-a-heart stained with paint and pain,
and eraser residue, from you, in its grooves.

I have half-a-heart that grew from the trees;
Covered in finger-print memories,
and you can read all of my tragedies on the leaves.

An octopus has 3 hearts,
and there are 3 hearts in me.

I have one for writing, one for art,
and the one I’ll keep fighting
before it falls apart
any faster than you could blink or doubt it.
But here’s the way that I think about it:

An octopus has 3 hearts and 8 legs.
3 chances to love, and 8 to run away.
2 enhancers to pump the blood, and one to keep the rhythm the same;
To stop it from fading
or rearranging,
and to keep the other 2 from changing.

But in my mind,
I keep some things locked away,
and those things are things I’d like to say;
Like the other day when I was told that I have 206-or-so bones
in my body.
And that I’ve grown from everything that you’ve taught me,
and that even if my writing stays unknown,
Well, it’s never gonna stop me.

Because I have the motivation and the heart
to make it to the top-seat.

Because if an octopus has 3 hearts, and 8 legs
just to maintain its sense of balance,
then why is it so hard for us to say
that with the one heart that beats within us every day,
That we, too, will accept the challenge?

Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry

May 16, 2013

Dear 26.

Dear 26,
This is it. 

Whether the fear is clear,
or still exists,
This is it. 

I remember last December, and how we lost all those kids to anger.
And how I watched this world grow stranger,
as I saw our world for all its danger. 
So I held my breath for the remainder
of the year—
And then  on Christmas,  
I spoke a prayer, because I actually care about
lost souls and their struggle to grow,
Even if there’s a hole in my own. 

And I didn’t go to church.
But I still felt the hurt
that none of their families deserved;
As our babies’s bodies were buried in the earth.

Dear 26, this is it…
But I’ll remember who you were.

-Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry
May 4, 2013.

The First Thing You Notice When It Stops Happening.

One look is all it takes.
Like an unread book
with a permanent taste.
Like the way the earth shook
when her mind made space
for all the aches.
As she found her frowns
never upside-down,
but all over the place.

When there was no when,
and only now.
As her leaking pen came bleeding out.
She made her friends in a different way;
She had arches of art in her heart and enjoyed squishing clay.
As it was the only way
not to take part in another lonesome day.

But she’s grown this way,
she’s shown decay—
Not knowing that she’s sewing
stitches over her wishes
as she itches
her innocence away.

Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry
March 6, 2013.

To Say the Least, to Slay the Beast.

Darkness used to inspire me, 
but now it’s just the words.
It’s the light they put inside of me
that can guide me through my worst.

Like marble-barbells,
I lift my pride.
As I think about how far I fell,
and how when I hit the ground
I found my way around
the profound sounds of wanting to die,
or haunting the night with the thoughts that got tied
to my terrified mind.

And as if what decays remains stained
in refrains on the page
and my brain’s on the stage— Juggling a million different ways
to mess up.

But I still have a billion things to say
until these feelings go away.
And so every single day,
I let go and then I pray
to my pen, so I can make the change
and not depend on the bridge,
but the waves.

-Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry
March 20, 2013

Q:I saw you @ Student Day Of Poetry today when you were writing down your url! Decided to follow, because why not? (:

adequate-sunlight

You did?!?!
Thank you so much… In fact, thank you all of the much for following!

I want you to have a fantastic day!
You know what, Have a terrific tomorrow too!

P.S. I followed back! 

-Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry
 

Q:A dandelion Some say its a weed. Others say a flower. Or a magical flower. To me, Its much more then that. Its a beautiful thing. I found one almost two years ago. It shows me love. Makes me warm. Something not any human could do. This flower, this “weed”, Is planted in my heart, like it is planted in the ground. It is very rare to find this flower in a crowd. It usally grows alone. High above the grass. Sticks out like lightness in the dark. Like the sun in the sky. Like a sunset across the ho

deadwhereistand

Great job!

I find myself being drawn to the line:
 “I found one almost two years ago.”
The mysteriousness behind the significance of that dandelion in particular catches my curiosity as to where the inspiration of this poem was born. 

Thanks for sharing!
-Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry


“Weeds are flowers too, 
Once you get to know them.”
-Eeyore, Whinnie the Pooh

Paying for College.

Our present-day government says 
I can pay for my own college.
But I can’t afford it. 
Though my résumé cover says
I got straight A’s and expanded my knowledge
for 4-years worth of days—
which is about one-thousand three-hundred and 78 separate ways to convey
that my devotion stays solid.

That’s about 3 years, 9 months, and a week (including weekends) that I’ve lost sleep
because I just can’t stand to be
anything less than an A-Minus.

Because I want to build my dreams up with my hands;
I want the world to see exactly who I am,
and what I can achieve at my finest. 

But I only receive fees
and it makes it harder to believe
that one day
I’m gonna find it
and finally sign my name where the bottom line is.
And it’s just such a shame, that despite my grades, there’s not enough aid.
….and I’ve never made enough pay to be as rich as my mind is. 

-Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry 
April 30, 2013.

Endless Extended.

I’m never gonna die.
And even if I tried,
I wouldn’t ever mention
My lack of attention,
or all the times I skipped detention to write lines in rhymes about my preexisting suspension away from my mind.

But as the tension of everyday unwinds,
I see how its easier to say and harder to find
That not everybody’s gonna play in such a way that hides the lies.

But who really wrote the lie?
And all mirrors aside
Reflections tend to multiply and sometimes even divide.

So I hold my breath
When I float too high,
And I feel like death
Because if nothing’s left,
I’ll promote the lie
Until I choke inside.
Just like I smoke my pride
Though I’ve never ever tried
To swallow it.

So I ask you to
regurgitate all the hurt you ate.
Like my words can state a better fate.
Haven’t you heard of the days
I learned to appreciate?
When the sadness stayed,
but I couldn’t keep the hate.

So I filled the page
to clean the slate,
and killed the rage that kept me awake.
Because the second you admit that you’re really alive,
It’s like every single breath becomes the biggest surprise.

-Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry

On The Spot, Here and Now.


The past is a boulder;
The future, a stream
running off the reoccurrent current
and yesterday’s dream…

We are America, a miracle.
And it’s hysterical
that they thought the world was flat.
Because it proved to be spherical
as they thought they were moving forward, but they just kept walking the same paths. 

We are America,almost a miracle.
But still a Million and four wars
And 2001 more gore
stories.
Like we had to do the math
because we couldn’t figure it out in our heads.

So we had to count our fingers, pointing doubt down at the dead
because we were 
just too sore
to be sorry.

We are America.


Dylan McDougall- Sandbox Poetry
April 11th, 2013.

We Are America.

I am relativity.
I am the initial migration,
the only original creation.
I created
creativity.

I am the seed
planted in the pockets
of the farmer.
The one who landed
right and left handed,
but both bandaged
by the damage.

I am the one that can’t stand it.

I am the street
slanted under the feet
of the wanderer.
— And of the wonderer
who often pondered
why coughing could conjure toxins
and put good men inside of coffins.

WE ARE AMERICA.
I just hope we haven’t forgotten.

I am the idea
that I thought I could be.
I am the dream,
but we are nowhere near
the age of no fear
that we should be.

So I scream.
I mean, honey, can’t you hear?
I’m as American as I would be,
I’m right back here again, lying to the other side through my wood teeth.

 As these sincere tears smear from my pen
like the splinters in my tongue,
or the rust on my iron lungs,
I keep trying to breathe in the things that I think
we should teach.

Are we America?

 

-Dylan McDougall - Sandbox Poetry
March 3, 2013.