i want you to know that
most of the time i am nothing
more than lost moments.
i am many things that are not myself
clumped into a soft vessel: bits and
pieces of surroundings i’ve vacuumed
into my being. i will always be
collecting seashells. and though my
vision may change, i promise
my laughter will never be stale, my
kisses will never be forced, and
no matter who you evolve into,
i will love you.
i have changed.
like my favorite jeans
in middle school,
i grow out of some things.
i shed.
and i will continue to.
we are as fluid as the
rivers and the seasons,
nothing is meant to
always stay the same and
we are no exception.yes, i have changed.
just as every single cell in
my skeleton will replace
itself,
my heart will be new, too.
and that is okay.
the mind of a poet
is composed mainly of
metaphors. memories
tucked away in dusty attic corners,
scents that reek of sadness
and love. it is always full,
always thoughtful,
almost always awake.
conscious.poets digest more in their minds
than their stomachs. always chewing
chewing chewing on
thoughts and words. always connecting
neurons to each other,
composting every experience to
fertilize the mind.
not always fruitful, but
always growing.
why are we always running
from this?
the galaxies behind
our eyelids. the answers
in our breaths. in-out in-out.
constant. steady. being.
there is a universe
within you;
why are you scared of
getting lost?
THROWBACK THURSDAY!!
So I thought something fun to start doing with the blog is to have “Throwback Thursday” every Thursday and reblog an older poem of mine so newer followers can read work that’s kind of buried in the back of the blog! So here’s the first throwback! 🙂
i am changing,
evolving. like the earth
(i was born from), i am
constantly eroding and
collecting. i am growing
strong and breaking down
walls. I am always made of
something new.
read my words
and you will
dissolve under my skin,
you will be the spirit behind
these scleras.
you will hear the earth crying
into the arms of the universe.
you will smell
destruction.
read my words and you will
understand
me.
I’m trying to write about you but I’m not sure how to: I can’t call you ‘mine’ because you aren’t, and I can’t call you an ‘ex’ because you never were. You were an ‘almost.’ A ‘not-quite.’ A ‘what could have been.’
If an artist created an extremely unique painting, they would work very hard not to sell it for any less than what they believed it was worth. Well, guess what? You are both the artist and the painting. Believe in your worth and do not sell yourself short.
you find the ingredients
to lose yourself
in the kitchen cabinets.
in twelve hours with coconut oil,
a chopstick and a fork,
you unkink your hair and
lose a piece of yourself in
the air that blows between the doorways
of the only home you’ve ever known.you’re down a limb, and you can
feel its phantom
brushing up against your body,
trapped
within these same walls.you shut the door quickly
when you leave so
that it cannot escape.
it has to stay inside.
you want to visit sometime
soon.
mother, don’t you know?
the boy with the golden
irises doesn’t smile anymore.
he’s packed, and there’s something
heavy in the bags he carries
underneath those eyes.
there’s no such thing as darkness
in the city of angels.
there’s no fear in death when
you welcome it.
perhaps the sun will thaw
him, perhaps the cold has
nothing to do with why he’s
so numb.
Silenticel 