I think...
i think writing poetry
is a delicate art form.
When the words come,
they overwhelm my jumbled mind,
until i can barely distinguish
my own penmanship.
It's beautiful, getting hopelessly lost
in intricate poems forever tangled in my brain.

(but sometimes,
the page fills with blah blah blahs,
and my head with la la las,
while my guitar gathers dust in the corner.)

I come from a town
where the stop signs are purple,
the children are inquisitive,
and the music is pure.
Melodic lines pursue me
from the places I've come,
with close harmonies, intricate rhythms,
and beautiful women to sing them.
My curls dance with the steel strings
of my favorite guitar as I play
on the corner by the coffee shop,
but I barely notice; for
I finger my favorite
guitar pick necklace,
remember the bow-tied boy
who gave it to me.
The corners of my lips turn up,
remembering
the bow-tied handsome boy
who lives away from
my purple stop sign town,
where the children are inquisitive,
and the music is pure.

I look at you
Or what's more,
Look through you.

I miss the days
When things were simple.
You and I...
We used to catch fireflies
Every Friday night in summer,
And have races to the pool
at the end of the road.
And even though you usually won,
I always ran with you
Because in that moment
Nothing else mattered.
Your eyes lit up,
And your infectious smile
Spread across the street.

Now, we're going into senior year
And I don't see you anymore.
I see through you.
Right through you.

On good days,
I can almost see a jar of fireflies
In your 9 year old hands.