Yesterday you began to share with me
Quick shrieks from their tapping shoes shouted as a slight reminder we were in the real though this recollection is dripping In lethargy.
Your chip began to shimmer in the dimmed, shared air
Your pain and strength barreling against one another for a place to burn in your eyes
I saw it then
Different than any other time I had seen it before
Quieter, yet somehow more powerful than ever.
I understood it then.
We are the juxtaposition,
The cool, supple texture from the rawness mocking our conversation.
You fought to be here and ****** to hell with the rest.
When I was walking in
I couldn’t tell if falling
Out of the sky
Was snow or ash
It seemed logical that
The small bits
Slowly flaking through the air
As if both heavy and weightless
Would be snow.
But given the circumstances
Blood still wet on the classroom floor,
Ash seems more appropriate
Tiny little reminders
Clogging my confidence
Defining my self
When the moon first met the stars,
Did she question
Whether or not
Made her brighter?
A poem every day.
make sure nothing is left outside of its boundaries,
which are both restrictive and comforting
like the love of a mother.
Add a little weight so that it is not only concrete in its existence
but its understandable
its a nice little pill we can all swallow and digest
a little burn in the stomach means that it’s really working
it is important all air pockets are filled in the box
we want no space to wander.
fill it with war
fill it with peace
the only box the two could ever coexist
When it’s totally full,
close the lid quickly
the longer the box is closed
the sooner you can put it away and reminisce.
store it away so that you can find it in twenty years and remember the feeling
the burn in your belly
the slight rose colored memories
when you wipe the dust of the box
it’s easy to remember what it all was
because the aged letters still read
the word for it all
I’m hoping to write a poem a day for a month. I am also new to writing and would love some feed back or useful practices that would help strengthen my craft, or our craft really.
The dance is beautiful
The rhythm of the universe pulses throughout
Intertwined with the sun and the moon and the starts
It is slow and elegant, without measure but limitless
The growth lives in a place intangible to the physical realities’
One in which dreams go to bathe in lush admiration and the whimsicality of existence
The growth can be dangerous but worth the bloom
The slow movement like a ballerina with a lover
It is us, both existing and not
Dependent and singular
But it is the growth that we all depend
For the flower is beautiful.