When I say
that you are my Sun,
I don’t mean that you are
Or even the center of my universe.
I simply mean that
I cannot look at you
blinking in the night sky
“is it a star?”
i tell my sister yes
The poem is supposed to look like a star, but it only kinda worked. Oh well.
I was tired of the suns
that had left me burnt.
They shone so bright,
but in the end, they just hurt.
But you are the rain,
so calm, so clear.
All I see is color
when you are near.
But literally, I am very pale and am tired of sunburns pls help
“Love is a feeling!” they said to me then,
their eyes all a-twinkle, their mouths a big grin.
“You’ll feel flapping in your stomach, like the wings of a dove,
and that’s how you know that it is true love.”
“Love isn’t real,” they said to me after,
tears on their cheeks, and lives void of laughter.
“I guess it’s not something you feel in your gut;
they tell you they love you, then choose to give up.”
“Love is a choice,” I’m telling you now.
It’s not about the what, but instead the how.
It’s ok to choose that it’s just not right,
but remember: you must also choose to
What is love, really? Does anyone know?
They look at me
Without really looking at me
All They can see
Is what They want me to be
I hear all critiques
They try to disguise
They’ve burned me to ashes
I’m no phoenix; I can’t rise
I’ve tried and failed and tried
To desecrate who I am
No matter what I change
It’s not good enough for Them
So I lay here in the blackness
And try and fail and try
I lay here in the ashes
I’m no phoenix; I can’t rise.
Maybe I should’ve called it Phoenix, but whatevs
From the dust of chaos comes order,
For in that rubble, ideas are gleaned.
From the bright light of death comes the darkness of life,
From us comes everything in between.
We are all in spring,
our lives budding and blooming.
Shifting, changing, rearranging,
rushing, always moving.
Our future will be so different
than what we’ve always known.
Some may run from this strange new world,
some will embrace the unknown.
We are all in spring,
and summer will soon arrive.
The winds of change are blowing;
It’s the end of the beginning of our lives.
Written in 10th grade to reflect how I felt about teenage years and high school.
— The End —