Splish, splish, ploop.
A stone gently disturbs
the plane of the mirror,
before descending
into undisclosed depths.
Ripples erupt, breaking
the surface of the tarn.
As the current subsides—
splish, splish, ploop.

What if we could
live and die,
creating such soft—
such token undulations?
Splish, splish, ploop.
Let’s cause cosmic waves
of compassion and aegis
for the planet,
our companion-
leaving, as such, small
wrinkles and blemishes
upon the surface.
Splish, splish, ploop.

A. I. Myles   2o June, 2o19
@athenaeumthoughts

A “mailbox” is
a funny thing.
It used to be a means
of keeping in touch
with the ones that we loved—
a tool for connections
and correspondences.
What do we even have
mailboxes for now?
Stores send out coupons
for us to accumulate
goods now.
Credit card companies
send out reminders
to pay off our debts now.
Everyone’s circulating love,
but of status and wealth now.
We’ve become so consumed
with our phones, with fashion
and greed...
how?


A. I. Myles   19 June, 2o19
@athenaeumthoughts

Please don’t tell me
“you’re too young
to be tired.”
I’ll be as tired
as I dang-we’ll please.
There are so many ways
to be “spent”
beyond what you see
physically—
weariness runs more
than skin-deep.
So don’t tell me how
you think I should feel,
because you could
never understand.
My brain, it thrums constantly
and drains me emotionally,
in ways that you
can’t fix with sleep.

A. I. Myles   18 June, 2o19 @athenaeumthoughts

I’ve experienced more
than my eyes could
ever show you.
Steal a glimpse
through the window
when the moonlight hits
just right,
and you might
find the faintest flicker-
vivid imagery.

I’ve experienced more
than my lips could
ever tell you.
Put your ear to the door.
Listen closely.
Deeply.
Don’t take a breathe.
You could miss my
faintest of whispering-
subtle mysteries.

A. I. Myles   14 June, 2o19 @athenaeumdreams

I haven’t been able
to sleep so well lately.
Going to bed late,
I stir from dreams constantly.
During the day
I feel so awake,
and I’ve been writing consistently.
I have words in my brain,
like it’s tuned into
some frequency.

- A. I. Myles   12 June, 2019 @athenaeumthoughts

The thoughts of a writer
can be a terrific
and terrible chasm,
simultaneously.
They spring from one precipice
to another,
dangerously, no-
longingly
peering over the edge,
ready to bound
head-first
towards the next
afflatus.

A. I. Myles   11 June, 2019
@athenaeumthoughts

Some plants,
they bloom
in the summer.
Others—
in autumn or spring.
Oh!
But you my dear
have weathered
through so many
struggles.
You will blossom
through so many
others.

-A. I. Myles   1o June, 2019 @athenaeumthoughts

I was a moth,
drawn to you
like a candle-
until you blew out
the flame.

- A. I. Myles   o9 June, 2019
@athenaeumthoughts

Give me the thick, dark clouds
that blanket the sky in grey.
Give me the fat, cold globules
of H2O,
falling from the firmament.
I would gladly gaze up,
and allow them to land
upon my head and my neck
and my shoulders,
sending a flutter down my spine—
straight through
to my fingertips.

Give me the cracklings of
those super-charged particles,
displacing the air
clearing the horizon
as it illuminates
just like Independence Day.
Give me the hot, sticky,
sweat-filled calm,
and let the tides roll in
to wash it away
on the back of the
thunderstorm.

A. I. Myles   o9 June, 2019

It is ok to say “no.”
There are moments
where a reply of
“not today” and
“maybe another time”
are more important
than pleasing everyone—
regardless.

The Sun will continue to shine,
rain will continue to fall,
and grass will continue to grow—
regardless.
Birds will sing their songs,
life will go on,
and taking time to breathe
could be just what is needed.

Those who understand
will accept your self-care,
and they will choose to love you—
regardless.

A. I. Myles   o9 June, 2019

Some flowers have no petals,
some bugs have no wings,
and some trees have no leaves.

Some fires make no smoke,
some bottles may be broken,
and some books have no words,

Some humans have no humanity.

A. I. Myles   o7 June, 2019

I love the smell that lingers
as I spend these moments
with you,
the curve of your spine
against my fingertips,
and the sounds you make
as I take my time discovering your secrets.
Your untold stories unfurl,
inspiring my thoughts by day
and my dreams by night.
My imagination runs wild
at the thought
of holding you again.
Your words flow through me,
like a river of
music for the soul.
Books.

A. I. Myles o5 June, 2019

Some may say
that you are “strange”,
but why would that matter?

With over 7 billion strangers,
and each different in their own,
what, then, is peculiar?

Contrary to popular belief,
amidst meaningless meanderings,
I say:

“there is no such thing.”

A. I. Myles   o3 June, 2019

Gold and brown and red,
I long for the colors of fall;
for the nip of the wind
at my nose,
and the crispness I feel
when I take a breath in.

I have a hankering
to stare out across
those golden fields,
as the grass
takes a long-awaited
vacation.

I long to gaze into
the night-time sky,
searching for the hunter
as he raises that silver bow,
scouting out his prey:
Ursa Major.

I desire crackling campfires,
sweet treats, and nights spent
keeping good company.
I want to be illuminated
in that effervescent light,
hot to the touch, but soft to my skin.

I long for Autumn to return again.

-A. I. Myles   o2 June, 2019

I have pine
growing inside of me.
Strong and thick and
resilient,
but not unbendable–
and able to be shaped.

There have been fires
inside of me as well—
burning away the old
beliefs and scars,
and shaping me once again
into something new.

From the tiniest of sprouts—
from sapling, to mighty
young fir, and old wise
redwood; I will grow
peace and endurance
and strength and hope.

- A. I. Myles     26 May, 2019

Is this what “it” looks like?
The jumbled and frantic mess of
a wit
without constraint-
without silence,
calm, or congeniality?

Is this what it “feels” like?
A tornado of turbulent misconceptions,
strewn about
like leaves on the wind-
peppered with the biting
chill
of crisp droplets,
soaking through to skin and bone.

Is this “just how it goes”?
When the grey and black blanket of night
and sadness and just existential emptiness
cloud the sky.
When the darkness that surrounds encroaches,
blurring the point where the horizon
meets terra firma.

Would the power lines
connecting the neurological
pathways break?
Would the ceiling of introspection
fly off of the supports that so long
held it in place?

What is left when the
onslaught of the brain
brouhaha slows and only the
photographs, the memories linger;
when the dust of duress settles?

What follows when
the final downpour
of shattered expectations
fall,
leaving the silent and still
dejection
that comes at the end?

Is that the end?

Could I wipe the rain from my eyes,
to see the brightening of the day?
Could I see the illumination of the sun
and the clearing of the sky?
What about the curve of crystalline
precipitation, lingering in empyrean;
brimming with a wash of beauty
known only to those who behold it?

Is that the end?
When and what and
where is the end?

- A. I. Myles   30 May, 2019