The blue squares were safe.
The white squares were lava.
The cool kids huddled in their corners were irrelevant.
It didn't matter where I was going
or what I was exploring.
Maybe ancient pyramids,
perhaps a dinosaur dig.
Probably "the jungle," wherever that was.
I always changed my mind half-a-dozen times.
It didn't matter where I went
because I could handle every adventure
all by myself.
The benches were safe.
The wood chips were lava.
The crawl space under the rock wall was my escape pod.
My crew both was and wasn't imaginary.
If they had names, they had the names of real people.
Just versions of those people who were
around a little more often.
The loud days were safe.
The quiet was lava.
Then the quiet was safe,
and loudness was lava,
and then I never could tell what was safe anymore,
really.
But, oh, I'm so glad I found You again.
Your embrace is safe.
Your heart is lava,
and every day is a quiet adventure.
This is one of my favorite recent writings. I would like it to be longer, but I couldn't think of any more stanzas that added anything, and I didn't want to drag it out for the sake of dragging it out. Also, a longer poem calls for a really strong conclusion to keep from feeling anticlimactic.
In my first draft, the final few stanzas were pretty rushed and disconnected and overall not great. I think they're better now but still don't feel quite confident with them.