hap*
/hap/

noun
1. luck; fortune

verb
1. come about by chance

And it hit me,
by happenstance,
that perhaps,
per-chance
I'd been
wrong.

Wrong in believing
a happiness
was owed
to people
and would
flow to me
not by happenstance
but by choice.

By choice
and by choosing
the right path.
But the path
of choice
and of choosing
the one
that is right
is a very wrong
and anxious
path
indeed.

And indeed
I am
the anxious type
from years
of fears
that by
trusting choice
over happenstance
I'd choose
wrong.

But I didn't
choose wrong.
Nor did I
choose right.
I chose
not to choose
at all.

I'm also
the sad type.
And now
I worry
that by
definition of
hap
and thus
of happiness
I'm not sad
by happenstance
but of
choice.

poetry is merely a composition of sophisticated words put together to portray some sort of emotion, but i still can't master my own definition of what it is.

And who am I apart from my wonder?
My sadness
My curiosity
My existential pondering?
Would I actually want that all to go away?
To live my life like this always or to have no idea of the feelings this way of life inspires; both options are depressing.
The depression is what gets to me
And is caused in part by both
I feel so little in such a grand universe, so pointless, conspicuous in my expiration date.
What's it like to die, I always wonder
I don't believe in heaven or God
I don't believe my consciousness will extend beyond.
I worry that every little thing is a sign that my life is becoming like sour milk.
And the idea of all of it gone is terrifying
Nothing to write about
Nothing to explore
For who am I apart from what defines me?
I am what I define myself as
And by that, I don't know who I am
The dictionary of me hasn't seen bookstores yet
Because the editor seems to be missing in action
All my calls for help have gone unanswered
She's probably somewhere beyond the reaches of cell service
Perhaps in a forest, climbing a mountain, or by the river
She needs that time to rejuvenate
And to create my story
I would say she's a designer of realities but I couldn't figure out what a reality was so I changed it.
I believe it's important to say what you know to be truthful
To follow the Maxims of Conversation
To compromise with yesterday in exchange for a better tomorrow.

This year,
love has so many more meanings than the last.
Love takes up more of the space in which emptiness lived until now.
This year, love can be definable,
or not.
I've learned that some types of love do not sound like
"I love you"
but can only be felt.
In the kind touches of a companion,
of a new little sister,
or of your cats.

Love that can only be seen,
in the pictures of you and your best friend at a party,
in the face of someone who will stay on the line until you say goodbye first,
in your co-star on stage when you realize you've got it down.

Love that can be defined, but only in the obscurist of ways
because who are we kidding;  we're teenagers.
"You are so good"
"I can't wait to see where life takes you"
become immense words of love.

Love only whispered,
in paying for your friend's coffee,
in adding a special touch on a card,
in promising to run away with your best friend when she shows up crying about her mother.

Love,
a light touch of mysticism, the kind that makes you stay out late talking in a Walmart parking lot,
the kind that fills you when you make plans to run away to the city after graduation,
the kind that takes you 40 minutes to get lost in before realizing it.

This year was spent loving,
maybe not even myself most of the time, but loving nonetheless.
A swift movement, a soft turn,
and here we are.
A new year of undefinable, definable, mystical, whispered, and purposeful love.
I can't wait to see where life takes us next.

Love is such a fragile thing
Its true definition unknown
Love is such a delicate thing

A broken heart equals unequal destruction
A soul may search through all eternity


True love is rare in a world of lust

Beauty is poetry
Its the expression of emotion
liturature with style
written for others or ones self
In silence or said out loud
Every word is specific
Written with quality
Not quantity
It's soft and soothing
Written with beauty
That's an art
That's poetry
Read one and fall into an illusion
It draws the action, the place
It keeps rhythmitic pace
Its graceful
And full of passion
Feelings you can't bare
Using words to slash them
Poetry is art it's an action
A battle with each verse
Expressing
The best and the worst
Breaking each emotion with taste
Moving with motion
Without haste
Its poetry not a waste
Its defining
Your feelings with grace
Poetry is words
With art
Its music without instruments
Its commonsense
To express
Poetry is Like ***
You can **** or  love
It can be beautful or rough
Did I define it enough
This is poetry
And It's not dead

4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

8 Love never fails.

On the living room couch,
I asked my phone a verbal question:
"What is an albatross?"

And before it could answer,
my father began his reply
from the kitchen counter--

To be cut short by my phone who had finished thinking,
the screen flashing a series of definitions for "albatross"
and reading them aloud to me.

My father stopped, and looked at me forlornly.

I daren't look back--
And the sound of a heart breaking,
whether mine or his,
and the silence it engulfed,
was hidden under the blanket of the contraption's monotone voice.

A little more humanity was lost today,
and my father yet again was faced with the reality that
even if he had all the answers,
as he had in my inquisitive childhood--

No one was left to ask him the questions.