I am dying
Because I am running out of yarn
But I don't mean this literally
Of course not
Laugh near me
But don't laugh with me.
What if all of our lives
Are woven into a tapestry
Called fate?
And I'm dying because I'm running out of yarn.
No knitting for the knitter
Girl
The artist is out of supplies
Full of ideas
But where are the practicalities
In ideas without the supplies?
No one knows
So here's me
Wanting yarn
More scarves, more hats
More happy faces
That I can give them smiles
And I am dying
Without happiness

Sitting on my bed eating noodles
And thinking of when
People didn't like rap in their poetry
After all, it is not rap
That makes a poem beautiful,
But the passion, emotion
And the creation of the soft, silky
Syllables as they slide out of
Your mind and onto the page.
Where is the rap in that?
Why is my poetry to be squished
Underfoot,
My heart trampled on
My pearls before the swine
Because it contains no rap
Nor rhyme
Does a poem need these things
To be beautiful?
According to those who
Judge it so narrowly
They cannot see the beauty
To them words coming
Out of my mouth
Must be in order
A straight line
But where is the beauty in that?
Art is not made from straight
Lines but from curved ones.
Poetry is not made
From rap and rhyme scheme
But from the strings and emotions
Of the heart,
When plucked,
Made a mellifluous melody.
There is beauty in that.

The beginning
And it seems like
The next hill is
Unattainable,
Too tall,
Too scary,
And you're an ant next to
A mountain,
And you wonder why
You're here in the first place?
I too have crawled across those cracks and crevices, crying out in confusion and complexity. Crippled.
I too have thought it was impossibility
That held me back
Broken
Hoping
That this was destiny
That it isn't too big for me
And that impossibility
Is possibility
I'm so tired I let go
And for an eternal moment
I am falling
Breathless, heart pounding in my ears
I am terrified.
And when I fall, I land, perhaps
For the better
In square 1
And it's back to the beginning with me
Is square 1 really that bad?
We have to start somewhere.
Why not here?
Why not in the silent solitude of square 1
Sometimes I wonder why I must start over
Why am I so frail
So weak that it can't be attained
But there is always hope
And life allows plan Bs
And second chances
And perhaps one day
I  will climb that mountain after all
And look into the blistering sunlight
And see tons of other ants
That we're brave enough to do so

Some days it is better
To be silent
Some days it is better
To be as frail as a feather
One day I will be known
For a name not my own
One day I will see the face
Of God almighty
And witness his amazing glory
And none day I will be who I secretly
Hope to be
None day, not some day not one day
But none day
For that is the realist inside of me
The inner critic
They say none day
Because it can't be done
I cannot explain what I have done
None day I will understand
None day others will
Understand my intentions
And I will be
Accepted

They say 4/3 people
Are bad at math,
I guess I am one of them,
Belonging to something finally.
Belonging to a society that hates the
Shape of the number 3
And when asked the
Cosine of pi,the
Best answer
Is the silence of the dead
Welcome to the torture chamber
There's no need for that sign
The sentiments are already
Felt.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here
There's no need for those famous
Lines they are already
Inside every breathing body
Whose sweat slides down
The sides of their minds
In horror of having to learn the
Pythagorean theorem.
And yet there are some who have
Mastered this death
Some who we call geniuses
Not writers
Not artists
Nor talented speakers
But people who are smart
At what most people are not
Those are the geniuses
Not us
Never us
Never me

I'm can't apt being creative
My thoughts are overflowing
The muse is not being interrupted
And I am writing
And God is good
Today