i try to be soft
but it translates to fury.

i try to be water
but i am ice.

the closest i'll ever be to snow
is a hail storm.

sometimes when I drive to work
the city looks like it is burning.

the sun slipping into the horizon
its wrath ablaze.

it casts raging orange hues across
glass windowed skyscrapers.
it creates a skyline filled with furious fire.

the back of my neck burning
from the warmth of the sun still setting,
and if i think about it long enough,
i can feel the glass windows melting.

i've always imagined the city like this,
raging
and chaos
with life fleeting.

and if i turn the music down,
and roll down the window slightly,
i think i can hear the souls screaming.

deep cries
while life just slips
from their fingertips

the point is,
it looks like the city is dying,
skin blistering, ash breathing

and just for a minute here I think
that this is the cityscape of my mind

all the rage,
and the fury.

and it makes me question why the reflected orange
brings me such peace.

my grandpa packs the dishwasher
because my nan doesn’t like to.

my brother cuts the chicken
because his wife hates the texture.

and i read my students poems
with the same reverence that my teacher read mine.

and i've noticed this all around,
all of these humans being human.

people picking up  
each others lost and littered items.

offering a listening ear
and a wise word or two.

bringing things to homes
as a gift and a 'thank you' for hosting.

still making tea in unfamiliar kitchens
and putting friends’ children to sleep.

still holding things for each other
when hands are too full.

still doing life together,
like plants that share the same soil

facing each other, like sunflowers,
on days when the world is more shade.

giving flowers and heart shaped petals.
still celebrating, and singing songs.

so despite all of the suffering
scattered and dispersed in the world,

there are alters to love everywhere,
and people are still worshipping.

nineteen years,
238 months,
1,034 weeks,
7,238 days,
of my life.

i can compress my existence
into numbers.
lay them out like statistics.

tell people i am made of days, hours, minutes.

numbers.
they are easy.
finite.
simple.

but will i ever be able to translate my existence in words?

will i ever be able to speak such complexities?
or only count?

if anyone cares enough
to ask:
“why poetry?”
i'll breathe deep

and i'll tell them about Keats.
i’ll tell them that his was the first poem
i truly ever read.
really understood.

because despite years of schooling,
i hadn’t connected with anyone else’s work,
and it was solely because he wrote what i couldn’t.
the things i couldn't yet form into cohesive thoughts.

i’ll tell them about my english teacher,
who wrote the book that ignited my love for reading,
who read the first draft of every poem i wrote,
and every poem i’ve written since.

who encouraged me
endlessly,
(even if those drafts were entirely unreadable).
and i’ll tell them that i owe her my craft.

i’ll tell them about all of my failed narratives
that still sit incomplete on my computer,
and i’ll tell them about all of the finished
and polished poetry in comparison.

so if one day someone cares enough to ask me:
“why poetry?”
i’ll tell them that i stumbled upon it,
but have chosen it since.

most importantly,
i’ll tell them that it’s what allowed me to dig
up all that i have buried.
feel all the things that i have kept hidden

underneath.

my bedroom walls are filled with framed art.
a desperate plea for me to get up in the morning,
to search for beauty that is replicated
inside the golden frames that cling to my wall.

and i tattoo pretty things
onto my arms
in an attempt to remind myself that there are
pretty things left in the world.

if i don’t remind myself with the tangible
i will forget about all the sweetness.
and i will never leave this sour.

my soul is made of
moonlight and pixie dust.

i find myself in them.
i see the way the moon changes me
and how magic brings me to life.

my heart is made of
fine art and scented candles.

i see myself in the strokes of oil.
feel all my emotions poured out in perfect pigment,
feel my soul storm soothe as i trim and light the wick.

i hear my inspiration
in music and nature.

i listen to my thoughts in song
as if someone has dug through my mind,
and i see leaves as a reminder that change is good.

isn’t that beautiful?
to find yourself in all of the smaller things?
to be everything all at once
and still feel free?