Nostalgia is the little girl you see drawing on the sidewalk with colorful chalk. Her favorite lollipop flavor is watermelon. She also likes cotton candy and Blues Clues (she sings along with the theme song and yells “pawprint!” and “clue!” to her TV). She is the girl who lives in the big blue house at the end of the cul-de-sac. She wears silly bandz from her wrist up to her elbow and makes all the other kids want that limited edition glow-in-the-dark piece of rubber. Nostalgia is a gets a little sad when she falls and scrapes her knee. And sometimes― sometimes, when she breaks one of her precious silly bandz, or loses one of the jibbitz on her blue crocs, or doesn’t want to wake up in the morning but has to anyway― she gets a little sadder.
Nostalgia doesn’t really know what she’s going to be like in the future. She wants to be a pet doctor, as she calls it. She wants nothing more than to not be sad, but who knows who she will turn into. Bitterness? Grief? Wistfulness? All she knows is she will eventually turn into someone else. Nostalgia just wants to keep her silly bandz, keep playing in the woods, fake sick in bed, and never move out of her big blue house on the corner of the cul-de-sac. Nostalgia never wants to grow up. Does she really have to?
not really a traditional poem, but more imagery and emotion. wrote this pretty quick, but hope you enjoy !
The world is grey. Well...slightly more so now. The nerve endings have healed. Yet the numbness has lingered. I stumble on my own feet getting out of bed. Is it that hard to believe I’m simply. Average. I get more lost with compass in hand. Although I can tell you how to find north. Theoretical knowledge always worked in school. But my life mentor is absent. What happens when there is no teacher in gym. A bunch of kids wandering the grounds. Some fighting. More aimlessly wagging their tongues. Trying to figure out the social heirarchy. Then there is me. Smoking a cig at the edge of the property. Day dreaming of past events. Even then I secluded myself. Unknowingly laying the ground work for the next ten years. Countless routines repeated with different faces and surroundings. Sometimes even the words would transition into the other. In those moments I was living faux dejavu. Losing my mind to my own reflections shadow. If only I had read the letter My past self had written to my future self telling present me to listen to the mistakes I already made. Maybe things would have been different. The possibilities is what destroys the intellegent mind. Not pain. It’s the “why”. The only question that will truly have no answer if asked enough. And I can’t seem to stop asking.
It’s strange. Not for the fact that i feel this way but because i don’t know any other way to be. I don’t consider it holding it in because it’s not a burden. My fathers memory will never be a burden to me. His absence...now that is a different story.
Each time the wind blows a soft whisper through the trees, floats past petals on flowers, carries bees, birds, higher, slides clouds across the sky, the soul of the world listens intently, desperately, trying to recall a memory about to surface, but just out of reach.
A shaky breath on a window- fogging the glass- I draw a smile in it- the condensation runs down- and now the smile cries- and I wonder- do you think about me- because sometimes- on days like today- I think of you- and the missed chances- and I think of you- and the wasted time- and I think of you- and I get nostalgic- and I think of you- I think of you.
Cover my body with a sheets made of silk Imagine me walking amongst the daffodils Under a silver moon light Lie there and watch Hear the wolf's howling Watch me coming to you and ask "Shall we sleep or shall we sing Or we shall weep for those whom are no longer here? " You said nothing, my dear.
You took my hand and quietly said "I'll play for you the song you've always wanted to hear." The man was holding his harp next to his chest and quietly his fingers the strings embraced. He closed his eyes and played. "What a beautiful song, I have never listened" - I said, "That it made me forget.. that I should let the man with the harp go away."
"Wake up, wake up!" - the man said, holding my hand. I heard his voice in my head: "It's just a dream." "What a sad dream... " - I though, "Such a sad poem I wrote", "What a distant memory of a melody..."
I can warm you like a cup of tea on a winter's day, I can chill you like a winter in the U.K. I can lift you up and send you reaching for the stars or I can make you feel the weight of a thousand pulsars. I am the worst feeling in this paradigm, while, at the same time, I am the best feeling you can conjure; I am nostalgia.
There was a time I wanted to go home Rainbow acid pop in my grip and grilled chicken in my gut a power to pull my lips sideways for a wistful smile. I lie now at the base of a grave sharing my chicken with worms and snakes! And snakes with their **** fangs rob me off my pop and the evergreen beauty I thought infinite Lost in my eyes gone with my tears. The fair land of my heart barren of any light to harvest, And I'm degraded through the mocking momentum of life.. If there was any path to home at all One to the rainwashed windows and one to the tender fall I would go back and stand tall. Left to the hands of time, Right, it is lost! There is no path at all..
Home is where you feel you belong to. Home could be a state of mind, a feeling, a person..What is your home?