I spend too many nights thinking
Wondering, writing, dreaming
Of someone who doesn't even think of me

you get one day to cry
but tomorrow
it’s time to fix your crown

The inevitability of growing older breathes louder at night.

Creeps in faster during the hours of the am, and smothers you until you slowly dream of a life you’ll never have.

Wake up and repeat.

You’ll never be younger than what you are today they say and that worries you more than it did yesterday, but this is only the beginning from now until the rest of your days.

You remember that line forever.

Life doesn’t get better, it just gets more adjustable.

I still remember
third grade.
When poetry was made
of rhymes...
Oh, the good times.

We were taught the sun
was a happy thing
and we would sit on a swing
smiling at its wonder,
unable to wait for summer.

And I know while
the sun's wonder
does indeed bring summer,
it also gives way to thunder
and rain.

Now that I'm older
poems have grown colder
and I know sorrows
are not conveyed
in rhymes.

As you grow
they'll try to prop you up
with rigid twig
and twist you round their garden rules
not realizing you have already sprung
and bloomed round your own forested path
     -I will not be a vine