An informal catalog of my emotions. Experienced by me, written by me.
Poetry book (maybe) coming soon.. Enjoy.
If you have a request, please write it below..
I hope you find what you’re looking for,
whatever it may be.
Whether it be a small flower in the woods,
or a white shell along the sea.
I hope it’s not too hard to find,
whatever it may be.
I hope it brings you peace and joy,
and reminds you of a fond memory.
Although I can’t help you find what you’re looking for,
whatever it may be,
I hope it makes you smile awhile,
and maybe reminds you of me.
I pray you learn to walk again,
to stand up on your own two feet.
I pray God will help you, brings you peace,
and teaches you the right words to speak.
I pray he teaches you the kindness of words,
and the comfort of trusted eyes.
How sometimes life’s lessons aren’t what we think,
but instead are lessons in disguise.
And although it might take you sometime this time,
to stand up on your own two feet.
I pray the life lessons you learned this time,
for all time,
will be those you carry and speak.
Here I am and it’s 12:45am,
and I’m trying to write a poem about life.
It’s not going to be happy,
it’s not going to be sad,
it’s going to be about how this timing is right.
How these blankets feel warm resting against my skin,
and how my eyes are squinting at this screen.
How everything around me is completely pitch black,
this is the clearest I’ve thought in a while it seems.
I meant to write a poem about life,
and now you’re wondering–
I don’t get it, so what’s the meaning?
if you’re reading this poem,
and searching for the meaning of that something,
what’s the thing that gives you a 12:45am feeling?
I understand what it means to love someone now,
how to care and what it feels like.
How loving someone isn’t just saying “I love you more than life itself,”
but instead it’s doing what’s right.
It’s waking up 15 minutes earlier in the morning,
and making breakfast in bed for two.
It’s reading and storytelling and conversing on life,
and making sure to ask “how are you?”
It’s cuddling and kissing,
not just having sex,
whenever you feel like getting close.
It’s holding their hands and keeping them warm,
and being there when they need you most.
Love is not selfish,
it’s really very kind,
you need to hear this and understand it.
For the love we need most,
in our times of need,
is this love we usually take for granted.
Fire and Fury
Here lies a story of a man and a woman,
bound by string and love and lust.
There not once was a day that went by they can recall,
that they’d forgotten each other,
no not once.
For the love that had bound them was made of silver and gold,
and the string of fire and fury.
And although they’d be gone for a time,
He was her Saturn; Her his Mercury.
Between Our Thoughts and The Sky Above Us
There is a space,
well beyond the confines of your heart.
It lies between your thoughts
and the sky above you.
A place that no person can say they have been,
but every person who’s been lost can find.
It’s filled with heartbreak and pain,
joy and laughter.
It stores the stories we’ve shared with loved ones,
and stories we’ve kept hidden from the world.
In this space where no one has been,
but every lost person can find,
lies the stories we know of but won’t speak.
The untouchable words,
My mother tells me,
I used to write sad poetry,
and how it made her think.
Of what could’ve happened,
who I had met,
that would make me write of such things.
But I remember it quite differently,
how I came about sad poetry,
how the words just use to slip out.
How there was no source of sadness,
just words that would flow,
out of my mouth.
Love isn’t a foreign thing,
we all know it exists.
But it’s like we keep it foreign to protect ourselves–
Keep it within our reasoning,
keep it dismissed.
We build barriers to keep ourselves protected,
to keep foreign objects out.
And sometimes in the midst of building protection,
we forget we also need a way out.
For the stones we learn to build with,
could be those that start to fall.
They could wither, they could fade,
and before we know it,
we have no wall.
Meadow of Memories
There is a meadow with pink and yellow flowers–
I’m standing in the middle,
in the grass.
There are clouds in the sky
and woods all around,
and I’m staring into the horizon,
bright and vast.
There are no birds in the sky,
there is no one in sight–
you can’t hear a single sound.
But here in this meadow,
with pink and yellow flowers,
are where memories of us can be found.
I normally get lost in other people’s realms,
in their hopes,
I start to forget my essence in life,
and begin to fuel their fires.
It’s natural for me,
to lose myself in people,
and to make sure they are okay.
But sometimes I get lost,
and forget myself completely,
in an effort to comfort them and stay.
I wonder why God made me like this,
how I can be so giving but feel numb at times.
Is there no one who wants the same for me and my fire?
To build with me,
and be mine?
Because here I am,
and there you are.
With our stories,
and detailed scars.
The space between us,
isn’t quite as far,
as they say the sun is,
from it’s closest star.
We’re built of galaxies,
and star dust
and memories in time.
And our lives tell the oldest love story:
of how I am yours,
and you are mine.
It’s hard to say goodbye to people we love,
especially when we’re not sure when we’ll see them again.
The moment they leave and we’re standing alone,
we feel like we’ve lost them–
like we lost a good friend.
We all know,
a good friend isn’t easy to come by at times–
Our good friends are our timeless collections,
For how can we say goodbye to our beds and our clothes,
and to the fireplaces that keep us warm?
My love for you will be everlasting,
and I’m sure now it will never fade.
We’ve been through hell,
and high water,
and here I am feeling the same.
Maybe this love was always meant to be everlasting,
patient and kind.
Even when we aren’t together,
at a distance–
we’ll know each other exists,
still have each other on mind.
I wouldn’t give up a day we had,
even if someone asked me otherwise.
It was beautiful,
This is love everlasting and the best thing I’ve known,
the best of it’s kind.
When I was younger,
at night my father and I,
would lay in bed,
and watch the planes go by.
We would watch as the stars shimmered
We would lay in my bed and watch the planes go by–
talk about the strangers,
and their stories,
at the windows and aisles.
We wondered what secrets they held inside.
As they sat in their seats,
as the planes went by.
To be continued..