i want to tell the whole world i love you,
that i don’t deserve to, but im so, so willing to try
i want to tell it you make me want to be better, that i didn’t know love made you feel that way, i want to tell the world every little thing it’s heard before about love, every little thing i’ve heard before about love that i’ve never once said for myself.
get me in line for the people turned poets wanting to have just a minute to speak with the world about the newfound, age old love they found in their chest. let it be on a mountain top, in the depths of the rainforest, invite the world to my living room for tea. i want to spend hours telling the world i loved her first. i want to smile over small, heart shaped cookies telling the story of my first love. i want the world to notice in between every word i speak is a love filled sigh. i don’t deserve to love her like this. i don’t deserve her at all.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
but i don't want to be one of those people who say "i don't watch tv" when people ask, so i just use my knowledge from all the late nights we spent rambling about your favorite tv show and say yours. and when they say they liked a certain part, or that it was a great show, i say, "yeah. it was."
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
silence reaches down from the farthest corners of space
claims my inner voices' be still and listen'
and I find myself listening for days unable to speak a word
and into the void of silence I touch the stars.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
i imagine that if i were to be given everything i've lost in my life
among all of the cellphones, hair ties, and water bottles
you would sit there in the middle of it all and smile at me.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
i thought i was okay but everything came rushing back, million year old lava shooting up and seeing the same sky after so long underground
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
love is like a flower.
it wilts and fades and dies, but
(and hear me out here
ive been writing so much about death, but this poem's positive i promise)
i hope you preserve my love.
i hope that even when the leaves start to fall off i am a fond memory.
i hope that you press my love into the books you read and keep my love underneath all of the heavy times.
i hope that the kisses i leave on your lips will blossom through your smile, that the way i held your hand will inspire you to help others. i hope that the way i looked at you made you realize just what i was looking at -- and that i inspire you to grow into what i saw.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
i keep seeing a ghost in the corner of my eye.
it sits on a box just outside my door, looking vacantly, vaguely in my direction. it's hard for me not to glance back.
it's sitting on a box of old clothes.
i cleaned my closet this morning, as well as my desk and floor.
but while i threw out the dust and old tissues, the clothes remain, in the box, outside my door, being used as a chair for the ghost. it's still there.
i just reread and edited all that i've written so far. still there.
it doesn't knock, or pace, or threaten, or cage. it just stares. and yet its gaze feels like it is doing all of the things i mentioned, and a little more.
why are all my poems about death? perhaps all these ghosts that pass by my house beg me to tell their story. perhaps i am an ouija board, with a laptop. perhaps i'm a dream-catcher, looking for some place to write down all these nightmares i catch. perhaps i'm just dumb and spiritual. ghost's still sitting on that box of old clothes. it's glanced away.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
she is
bright
a daughter meant to be a sun,
ready to light up every face her gaze meets.
she fights with shadows. she will never let them rest, keeps them moving, cowering.
glowing -- her eyes pierce through air, her hair curls, wisps around her face as a frame for a great piece of art, her hands flicker when she talks.
whatever she sees, she conquers. this does not always bring her joy.
but joyful she is. her cheeks are warm and radiant, bundling up at the sides of her face to make way for her smile.
her heart glows.
from it, her mouth speaks.
her voice is molten lava: it melts and it oozes and sparks around the edges.
she laughs like bright, yellow paint being spread across a canvas.
she is nothing short than beautiful, but
Lord help me
i am icarus
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
the earth will always be there for you.
although sometimes it shakes, for now, it is still and you may sit or stand or lay on it for as long as you'd like. and if you stay there long enough you may feel gravity gently tugging you lower, lower,
lower into the earths core to rot
for we are all simple satellites orbiting the earth; born high in arms and strollers we slowly learn to crawl, walk, run, limp, walk again, hunch over in age -- and no matter how many airplanes we ride high in the sky, everyday we are dragged a little more, sagging a little bit more, into death of the earth and of the bones. gravity is a constant reminder that one day our parents put us down and never picked us up again, and that soon enough the earth will drag our bones into the soil and earth from whence we came.
for it was there, in you, in birth; and soon you will be there, in it, in death.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
no painting is made up of an entirety of good strokes.
if a painting is started with a good stroke and slowly starts to deteriorate, good strokes can still be made. if a painting is horrible from the start, and the paint's already cakey and dry and stubborn, good strokes can still be made.
good strokes can be learned; precise and categorized and made with a focused eye. but education does not guarantee a good stroke.
good strokes can be random; flicking paint and getting it under your fingernails and ruining your brushes. but fate does not guarantee a good stroke.
a good stroke is found.
a good stroke is found by lucky people.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC