Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

I think the Moon knows
I'm watching Her
Because sometimes,
                           She leaves me presents
It may sound silly
But I've got a jar full of Her secrets
That I keep in a lockbox under my bed
The pass code; Luna
So I'll praise Her title
Each time I uncover
The hidden gifts She's given to me

Purified droplets of moonlight.

The size of a jewel
The weight of a diamond
The glow of an angel
The shine of a star

The Moon probably knows
I'm watching Her
Because sometimes,
                            I find a drop
In the bud of a flower
Sometimes,
                  in the pit of a well
Sometimes,
                  in the cave of an animal
Sometimes,
                  in the crack of a rock
Sometimes,
                  in the hollow of a tree
Sometimes,
                  in the current of a stream
And on the rarest of occasions
I'll find Her lodged between the pages
Of my notebook

I've collected a dreams worth of gems now
So whenever I find myself,
                                       Lost.
- Swallowed by the void -
I'll have enough moonlight in my jar
To ignite the darkest of days
And the presence
                             of Her presents
Will go unnoticed by no shadow
Or creature of the night.

Luna knows I'm watching Her.

I'll continue to gaze from below
And let no stone go unturned
So when the Moon drips again
I'll be there to catch Her
Another crystallized droplet of a blessing
To tuck away
In the box under my bed.