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Briana Nov 2014
We all have our moments,
here's a recipe I've been compiling
to help me grow, and heal, and learn:

softly whispered prayers
daydreams in the grass
naps in the sunshine
a hug from your best friend
squeezing poetry out of your wounds
driving, windows down
lifting heavier, running faster
warm plate of food
seeing the end in the beginning
long mathematical formulas
raindrops
deep, resonating breaths
not a poem, just a list for myself to look back on
Briana Nov 2014
?
Sometimes I ask,
What's the point?
Honestly.
What?

I tell myself:

emotions,
experiences,
exploration.

But those get worn down.
There are only so many shades of happy.

Waiting ,
wishing,
wanting.

Never content, almost content.
But never, not quite.

Seeking,
searching,
striving.

But every peak
is followed by another.

So why? Why am I here?
I want to want to be here.
I'm tired of waiting, wishing, wanting.
I just want to be.
Briana Nov 2014
there is dancing the the downpour,
and sadness in the sun.

there is calmness in the uproar,
and misery in all the fun.

there is black in all the white,
and grays between the colors

there is serenity in each fright,
and betrayal between two brothers.

for life is not two roads diverged,
or false dichotomies.
life will slap you in the face
and bring you to your knees

but life will help you rise again
before your drop back down
and life will bring you endless love,
and force your lips to frown.

life is full of the best of gifts,
and the worst surprises .
the secret is learning all the tricks,
and expecting it's demises.

for life can only cause such pain
to those who will allow.
for those few souls who play the game,
nirvana, you have found.
just some personal perspective
Briana Nov 2014
You are the last song note,
making everything make sense.
Briana Nov 2014
She comes like waves upon the shore
slowly at first,
then fast and heavy.
She whispers cruelly in my ear,
This is not a game.

She plays with my mind...
there one moment,
gone the next.

There is no rationalization
to be had here,
for she does not exist.
She is a figment,
such a powerful little figment,
of my imagination.
Briana Nov 2014
you're a spoonful of stardust,
the twinkle in an eye,
you're the laugh lines on the face
of the old man you passed by.

you're the crash of the ocean,
the spray of it's salt,
you're the crunch of dried leaves,
apologies where there is fault.

you're the sting of the cold,
turning my cheeks bright pink,
and the smell of pine trees,
and a clever man's wink.

you're the best tasting coffee,
and the feeling off grass,
and the warmth of a hug,
and good times that pass.

you're the best and the worst,
you're the perfect contraption,
you're soul glows so bright,
you're a little piece of perfection.

so when life gets loud,
and your journey hits a *****,
just remember who you are,
and there is always always hope
Briana Nov 2014
Why don't people write poetry
when they are happy?
Because you don't need to digest happiness,
you just let it wash over you.

What would happen if, instead,
we digested
happiness through words
and poured struggle and sorrow
onto our heads
so it dripped down our chins
and leaked in our minds
and slid down our shoulders
and backs
and legs
and made a puddle of tears at our feet?

Our books would be filled with joy
that generations could read
for years to come.
And they wouldn't think us a boring lot,
but find smiles
in our words,
and fondness
in our memories.
So the ground would be covered sadness...
it would water the plants,
and strengthen our souls,
and nourish our minds,
and that wouldn't be so bad
would it?

Because when it's all said and done...
you can step out of a puddle.
But if a pen is a sword
and the words are it's ink
I'd much prefer those words
to be loved.
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