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raingirlpoet Sep 2014
“It is time to write,” she says
I open a new Word Document.
A blank sheet.
My mind does not want to write an essay.
I write in verse and
chopped lines
not straight paragraphs that drone on and on about William Faulkner and his acceptance speech.
My mind, it drifts off and thinks in flowery words, much too flowery for an essay.
My fingers start typing and words appear on the screen.

Enter.
Type, type, type.
Enter. Type, type, type. Enter.

My thoughts appear in verse and William Faulkner goes unnoticed.

How many times have I written about the whirlwind of a storm inside my mind instead of
whether or not cohabitation is a good thing or
speeches about equal access and the themes in Harper Lee’s To **** a Mockingbird?
How many times have I given into my urge to write and relieve my brain of the pressure that gets built up instead of writing things that will earn me a grade?
The answer is often.
The grade,
Just a number
The conceptions?
Just words

What I write in procrastination?
Everything that bleeds from my heart.
The low grade I received on my speech because I couldn’t be bothered to write about horrid subjects when my soul yearned for something greater?
Worth it.
Lizley Feb 2019
Dear,

"Lucky"

are little stars
As they watch over as you walk at night;
Guide each step you make
and smile when you take a glimpse of the skies
Lucky are pouring tears
As they caress your cheeks and feel your warmth;
They're your sunshine, fire and storm—
The fragments you keep inside your beating heart
Lucky are silly jokes
As they make you blush and laugh out loud;
Making your eyes smile—
For a second at least, you're free from this world
Lucky are love songs
As they touch your lips whenever you sing;
They are the words you want
to say and to feel, to you they mean a thing

     To be the skies;
     To be inside your heart;
     To be a huge part of your world;
     To mean a thing;

Oh lucky are these lines
as they breathe out that, which I keep inside of me—
A letter, a scream, a poem;
How I wish for nothing great but just To be


truly yours,

dear
© Lizley (Maria Flordeliz Yamog)
|02.14.2019|
A letter for my Valentine.

— The End —