You brought me a bag of journals
And told me that I had enough books
Written by other people, it was time
To start writing my own.

So I tucked that sentence into my heart
For safekeeping because it was the
Prettiest thing I had ever heard and
It sounded like poetry to me.

The sun shines on my petals and I open up,
Drinking in the daylight, my leaves stretching
Towards the clouds, soaking in the warmth

How blessed I am to finally have a break from
Stormy days that damaged my stalk and shook
My foundation, almost ripping me from the soil.

How blessed to be free from the torment of the
Raindrops as they fell and shattered on every piece
Of me, leaving me breathless and beaten, shaking

How blessed to still be alive and well, despite the
Abuse of the storms and the lack of shelter. I see
That I can always remain strong and tall and glorious.

Despite any storms that may come my way, I remain.

Fallen words like skyscrapers
Bludgeoned by airplanes in the sky
Toppling over, creating destruction
When did this become my life.

“We get it, you write.”
What a laugh
You get it that I write
But you don’t understand
That this is the only way
I can say how I feel,
Say what I think,
And I can say it masked
By metaphors or
Similes
That would leave the
Reader guessing what
I mean.

“We get it, you write.”
But you don’t understand
That the words flow through
My head every waking moment
And I’m constantly thinking
Of the next line to be typed,
The next word.
I can’t go a day without
Thinking in poetry,
Without wanting to express
Myself with these paragraphs,
Without needing to release these
Feelings.

“We get it, you write.”
You get that it’s frustrating
That I take a random sentence
You may say that intrigues me
And turn it into something
That you never noticed when
You were saying it.
You don’t see the world of
Possibilities
That are unleashed with
Each word you mutter
Under your breath
But I do

“We get it, you write.”*
And I get it that you will
Never understand that
It isn’t just writing to me
Because, after all,
I am the
Poetry
And the poetry
Is me.

And we sat on your couch
Making out
While La Dispute sang in
The background

Spoken poetry
and
Tied tongues
Blended together

And became hands
On bodies
And heavy breathing
Touching in all

Of the right places
And I was consumed
By fire in my belly
And you stared

At me with the same
Fire in your eyes
And your fingers
Were greedy

As they discovered
All of my secrets
And my creases
And you kissed me

"You set on me, but you are not the sun."* - Brand New, Not the Sun

I wish I could turn everything into a poetic statement.  I wish, instead of saying, “You touched my hair,” I could replace it with how it felt as though the world would crumble if you ever stopped touching me, how every single letter in your vocabulary always had me on the edge of my seat, hoping that they could form into words that said something along the lines of you need me like the sun needs the moon in the sky and the elephant never forgets those types of things.  

I wish I was articulate enough to explain in a way that wasn’t too emotional how I held my breath waiting for your calls until my lips turned blue and I grew a little fuzzy around the edges.  How each time my phone rang with you on the other line, I could finally take in that fresh air and smell you even though you weren’t there.  How many lonely nights I sat with that bright light in my eyes, looking at every incoming message with malice as not one of them had your name on it.

Even if I could form all of this into a lovely form of poetry, free flowing and wild, I would never be able to tell you how much I thought of you before you disappeared like the sun right after it set and how now I sometimes feel like my life is filled with unbearable nights with no hope for the morning rise.

I still miss you sometimes.

I belong surrounded by tall trees
And babbling brooks
With green grass
And picnic lunches.
I belong in dusty bookshelves
And worn out couches
Patterned rugs
And book marks
I belong in warm living rooms
With the fireplace going
Hot chocolate in hand
And family movies.
I belong in smiling faces
And drawn out hugs.
I belong folded between
The cracks in fingers and toes
Wedged inside bright eyes
And eyelashes.
I belong in all of these places
But
Above all
I belong with you.

Too much to go on
Too much to write
And my hands are tired

Unfortunately you give me
Such good reasons

To break my hands
On pens and paper

(I wish you didn't)

You told me you loved my hair
And you would twirl it
Between your fingers
While you sat and stared at me
With that smirk I knew so well
You hated when I talked of
Cutting it off
So I kept it long and always clean
So you would have something
Beautiful to look at
Whenever you looked at me
My hair is still long
But you can no longer see it
Because you are gone
And I've thought of chopping it
All off
So I couldn't remember the feel
Of your hands running through it
But I know I would still feel you
On my scalp,
No matter how short I cut it