And then,
As the moon glowed in the distance,
casting my shadow against the nearest wall
and the rain continued to pitter patter against my roof,
creating soft, iridescent music to my ears,
and the street light began to flicker,
placing a darkened shadow against my sullen face,
I began to realize
that our existence,
all high and mighty that it is,
isn't so bright and fabulous after all.
And that we are all just a tiny blip
in the existence of time.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
strong spirits
welcoming in nature-
powerful in instinct-
trying to find a moral compass-
one that they can believe in,
with all of their ****** hearts
searching for complete harmony
in a static world, charged by the sun.
their own saturated, sturdy bodies
learning to not know-
experiencing the now-
accepting that simplicity is beautiful-
realizing that no life has to be so complex.
—
no life needs to have so many thumbtacks
stuck in its cork board,
hanging on its bedroom wall-
only to be stared at by its owner
to distract from the present-
to keep sentimentality afloat-
to compare and contrast;
to remind a tired soul
of better moments and feelings
in its personal history.
but when those tiny memoirs
are reminisced upon,
the soul becomes vulnerable-
susceptible to reminding itself
of memories it does not want
to have as its own.
memories most likely forgotten-
blocked, and left somewhere
in the owner’s brain-
lost, due to lack of importance-
deterred from its conscious-
pushed back into its energy’s
open life storage, unconsciousness.
—
those memories like sharp tacks,
metal tips, dropped and unseen-
abandoned in a grey **** carpet-
left there so many months ago-
waiting for their owner
to decide their fate-
to either lay its bare foot
upon their thin metal,
creating a river of crimson-
so they may be finished with
their metaphorical life-
thrown in the trash can-
or they could taste the sweetness
of not being crushed-
of having one more day
to become as best as they can be-
to enjoy the soft, scraggily **** carpet-
to be unwanted, unfounded-
to aide in the growth of the now-
by refusing to resurface.
those memories, remembered or not-
are locked behind the purple indents
above the owner’s cheekbones-
below its red, puffy eyes-
violet crescents-
slowly caused by sleeplessness
and lack of nutrition.
—
if the past was not meant
to be consistently remembered,
why does humanity constantly try
to decode the future?
recorded history is meant so
living beings will not
repeat previous mistakes-
the human race is a cycle-
history will repeat itself-
mistakes and all-
the future is completely unknown.
predictions are never certain-
why spend the life one was given
trying to figure out why humanity
exists the way it does-
when in actuality, the researcher
is missing out on humanity as it is.
why try to figure out what happens
when someone’s energy is depleted-
when a mind is laid to rest, dead.
while searching, one is losing out
on actually being alive-
no one knows exactly
what happens when mortals die-
humans have been searching
ever since they developed cognizant
abilities, conscious minds…
the future will happen eventually-
people will experience it when it is time-
it is wasteful to spend one’s life
always looking for the answer-
instead of celebrating, and exploring
the earth that has given humanity
endless opportunities to love.
—
ghosts of creative minds
walking amongst the living-
ghosts encased in flesh
with no memory of their past lives-
their auras radiating-
saturated with ambition and kindness
following different dreams-
floating toward their goals
in a similar manner,
all with the same amount
of vigor and curiosity-
young (old) spirits;
hoping for their fellow
outspoken, anxious specters
to listen, and notice their potential-
to make their words understood-
to show their many points of view-
to let go of their pasts-
to stop worrying about the future-
to live in the present.
intelligent, brightly glowing entities-
the ones with flowing energies,
pigmented with color-
the ones striving for positivity;
the ones who really wish
for just one simple thing-
only for their peers
to consider clarity
as a degree or two on their own,
individual moral compasses.
to love this beautiful world
with no bias, with equality,
with excitement, and with
virtuous appreciation of life
as a common mystery-
one that would end a lot better
if it was left unsolved.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Kiss your lover gently, with care
Aide those in need
Realize the good in yourself
Make the best of what you have
And the universe will grant you
with kindness.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
I, in a field amongst my peers;
We are so similar
Almost all the same-
We grow together
From the soil beneath
Our stems, our roots
Combining, clustering,
We are all connected.
I feel like I am different though,
I have my own stem
My own hue of pink
My own pretty petals
My own green leaves
My own movement
My own form of life.
I realize there are others
That look like me,
That grow like me,
That sway in the wind as I do.
But I also know that
I am my own flower-
I am not like the rest-
I am an individual.
This field of wildflowers,
Filled with stems and petals
That may seem the same-
Yet so exceptionally different,
Is simply a community.
What makes this vast meadow
So whole and complete,
Is every distinct blossom
Coming together-
Creating a natural
Convergence of unique,
Beautiful, living beings.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
If you brush off what we say,
We will rip your ears off with our words-
Because our opinions matter.
We can be just as intelligent,
If not more so
Than you are.
But in your mind,
Because we have vaginas,
And you have a *****
The people whom with you share
The same kind of genitals are oh so
Much more creative than us.
But we will nail it into your stubborn
Skull, the fact that women matter.
We can be intellectuals.
We can be in galleries.
We can do your ******* job-
If we even want to in the first place.
Our opinions are valid and relevant.
We do not deserve to be brushed off
As if we do not have minds of our own.
We refuse to go through torture
To ‘earn’ your respect.
Respect that we do not even need
To be able to succeed.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
Real communication
Has been lost
In the depths
Of the cloud.
True feeling
Is seldom seen-
Now, thoughts
Are shown
Through emojis.
Does anyone feel
The wholesomeness
Of somebody else's
Voice anymore?
The smell of their
Skin, the faces
That they make, or
Simply- their presence.
Conversations are
Much more
Than the words
Typed out on a
Smartphone screen.
People are meant
To actually be
Seen.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Running through ancient Appalachia
Frolicking without a care
She had never felt more joy-
Never felt less aware.
As they followed the waterfall trail,
There was no time to spare-
Time was irrelevant,
As they were breathing in clean air.
Treetops swirling into one another,
Breeze slow and soft,
Sweeping salty tears off of her cheek-
They were lost.
Lost in their own minds,
Nothing left to exhaust.
Inspiration was the mountain peak-
Floral scents aloft.
Driving in a spiral
Down the rugged cracked road-
They pulled off to the side,
Anxieties and heart rates slowed.
There they found two cement half-
Pipes peering over the mountain side
They climbed down, sat in their grasps-
Contently contemplating their lives.
She turned to her love
To ask what he was doing.
He said “writing down ideas”
There, she saw her fate.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
Sweet subtle serendipity
Following the scattered lines
That make-up the maps,
And the roads, and the veins
In our softly melting
Hearts- slowly dripping
Like suede candle wax
Peeling from skin,
Smooth- with the scent
Of a million rose petals
Floating in the scattered lines
Which make-up the rivers
And the roads, on the maps
Of our world, peeling back
To spill the inner core
Out into the speckled cosmos-
Like freckles on your back,
Soaking in the spring light.
A lone daisy on a windowsill
Wrapped in a burlap bow,
Bowing to the sun.
Life- evading through its
Glossy white petals, glowing.
Glowing like the moon
That rises in the east.
And as we watch
From our scattered lines
From our rivers and our roads
From our map of the cosmos-
It stops in the middle of our sky,
And rests for a little while,
Wrapped in a burlap bow.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Fingertips and everlasting
Gaze
Following the scattered lines
Which make up the maps
And the roads
And the veins in our melting
Hearts.
Slowly dripping-
Like candle wax
Peeling from skin,
Smooth and lovely
With the scent of
A million rose petals
Floating in the lines
Which make up the
Rivers
On the maps
Of our world.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
Validity is not a virtue;
For it is you
And only you
Who can prove yourself true.
A breathing being-
Only if you want to be anything
But a spec of dust,
Searching for validity
In a society
Which has done nothing for thee.
The real virtue is individuality-
The individual
Is valid enough
For themselves.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC