Late spring when the sparrows sang again
Ants make invisible trails across my legs, normally I would mind but they're moving steadily along their way.
Wind blowing my hair in every direction
Showing me grey I haven't really noticed before
My age spots, proof that youth is fading outwards.
Freshly brewed coffee from the Tim Hortons down the street.
A vice if you will
Something that often brings me comfort but can amp my anxiety into overdrive.
I drink the coffee anyways.
Strong aroma of freshly cut grass, the first cut of the season.
Lilac bushes with a hint of the unmistakable scent of fresh air.
Everything has sprung alive, which I am quite thankful for.
Yet I feel somber.
So many thoughts flow through my mind in a day, an abundance of questions and unanswered emotions.
Through age and maturity has taught me that I no longer wish to seek the aproval of strangers for I need not impress anyone but myself.
Yet I had hoped that growth and forgiving others had meant I too along the way would be forgiven for the actions of my former, younger self.
Sitting here opening my heart to the universe,  continuing to be the best I can be and to grow.
Looking inward, and attempt to seek out the approval I didn't have when I was a child.
I am nothing but myself.

I miss the days when I would find poetry resting peacefully on the kitchen counter, hiding skillfully between the cracks of the tile bathroom floor. Back then, it shuttled out from the tips of my fingers like golden lightning that kept my heart pulsing, my eyelids propped open wide with all of the secrets I had been struck with.  

There were nights I found it in the soft flutter of his eyelashes against my cheek, the glowing warmth of his hand that held mine like something he would never grow tired of carrying, even though that was where I kept all of the words that had been stolen from my lips since the first moment I knew that I loved him.

But back then, they were everywhere-- the words-- nestling in high nests perched upon branches I was always tall enough to reach, settling in the pockets of worn denim overalls and the creases of watercolor smiles I had secretly painted on strangers with no names to match the dim light of their faces.

There was a time. There is a time.

Now, I sit at my desk with trembling hands and words stuck jumbled and uncharted in the aftermath of the past. And poetry no longer spills from the cracks of the baby pink teapot, no longer falls with every tear that still remembers how to emulate the rain.

But it is here when I am with him, his arms becoming the paper I have spilled my soul onto back before I memorized the melody of his heartbeat. In the sound of our voices filling all of the vacant spaces that used to haunt my bones, in the hushed music that plays every time my name drips like honey from the edges of his laughter.

There is a time. It is now. Poetry was once written, now it is living.

its good to be written off  
of being of not much use
not a threat to any ego

-to be able to weave your invisible self
all along your invisible road
the gentle steps of a liberated spirit

Isn't it lovely
When pervy men
Pop up in your DM box
And try to make you feel
That you are a failure

Hmm
Someone's pen
Is thicker than his ****

it wasn't the way that she said goodbye,
the way she
gently departed,
leaving no stone unturned.

it wasn't the way that she
did her part,
staying behind a bit longer
to make sure no lovers
were left unjust.

it wasn't the way that she wished all those well,
fixating them always
within her heart's reach.

it was the way she cared;
for she spoke with her heart
and she moved
with an aura of awareness
in every step.

it was the way she appreciated
all that was given to her,
years after
it was thought to have been detached.

it wasn't the way that she said goodbye,
but the way that her actions
ached,
"hello".