My most complex
Are always followed
by a question,
A human jawbreaker
With a layer for every occasion
And a center just for you.
How many people
Think of me
As a piece of lint
In their memories
A thought with no disdain
How I got in there.
Nostalgia is one of the strangest feelings.
Even If i tied
The strongest chains
To everyone I have ever loved
Everyone who I have let in and told them "you belong here"
Eventually the chains would break
And I would lose them
We aren't meant to be kept
We are meant to love, and be loved
And then, vanish.
The morning dew shines a crystal blue
A mirrored sky welcomes a fresh dawn
Worries from yesterday lie behind us
Bask in the weightlessness of a new day.
An old poem, one I wrote ages ago that I suddenly remembered.
The Moon is home to those lost in the night
We are drawn to her like moths
In the glow of her pale light
The world feels soft
Suddenly I understand
Details that daylight cannot expose
I wonder why so many people write poems and songs about the moon.
Do I write to fill?
Or to empty?
A question better left unanswered.
I think writing can suit any need, some days I yearn for something else and I write about that, but some days I find that there is something in me that I can only get out if I write it on a page. Maybe that is where poems come from.