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571 · Apr 2021
Soft rains and sunshine
white clouds and blue skies

green leaves
shaking trees

pretty birds
close suburbs

tall mountains
low plains


our pretty Earth is filled with many things.
happy earth day:)
What music do you like?
sorry, i just wanna know
427 · May 2019
As I finish the final exam of the year and wait to be released, I cannot help but wonder about the peculiar fluorescent lights.
How many things have these lights seen?
I know they've seen the wondering eyes of bored students, but what else?
Spilled secrets
Notes to cheat
Teary eyes
Little doodles
A birds-eye view of our whole world.
What would it be like, always shining and looking from beyond?
Is it lonely?
( we're all wondering it, do they see down girls shirts?)
388 · May 2019
wait a minute
i just had to tell someone, even if it doesnt matter.

my dress has pockets.....
357 · Feb 2019
this is where i write my words,
words of angst,
words of depression,
words of imagination,
words of me,
words of you,
words of what i wish,  
words of what is,
326 · May 2019
The stars began to fall as I spoke to you.
They shattered and sprinkled downward, taking light from the world.
The aftermath of the forsaken far more beautiful than the solidarity of the perfect.

I want to forever capture this beautiful moment,
but I know I can only do so in my brain,
forever singular in this beauty.
This lovely little piece of the sky will be mine,
and mine alone.

But now I give it to you, dear reader.
To take from this slip of infinity to make your own,
to help inspire you and to let you wonderful poets see all the beauty there is to behold.
Here's my present to you,
to hold, forevermore.
I know it doesn't make sense.
315 · Mar 2019
Good riddance,
to two people who hurt,
and hurt,
and hurt.
You were my best friend, and because you called my mom a 'stupid ***',
I got mad.
Then you got mad.
And you decided you were done.
You gave a letter to our friend stating "I'm just done with her ****."
Oh, alrighty then.
The next day you came to school.
You had a bag,
one which you handed to me.
One that contained everything I've ever made and/or given you.
Funny though, how it didn't contain items that I bought.
I cried and wrote you a letter.
Saying I was sorry when I did nothing wrong.
Our other friend, Ariana,
told our friend Hailey to "be there for me so I can be there for her."
I asked her about it, she said it was true and with her "condition", she couldn't be there for two people at once.
Yet she can do it any other day.
She moved her seat in class so she wouldn't sit with me, funny I thought best friends were supposed to be there forever.
Alright then, I won't cry over them anymore, seeing as they won't do so for me.
Good riddance then.
This is about my best friends.
The other friend is R-ee fyi.
272 · Mar 2019
I feel numb.
I don't know what mad is,
what sad is,
what happy is,
what anything is.
I'm just not feeling,
it's worse than anything else
I'm numb.
Just numb, nothing else.
I see my old friends in the hallways and I get nervous,
but confident.
I think of you,
and say I don't care.
I don't even really miss you anymore,
just how we felt.
I think of too many things,
but I still feel my mind being blank.
Can't I just feel and be done with it?
I feel numb,
and I hate it,
but I love it.

Nothing, just numb
I'm just wanting to feel something.
268 · Apr 2019
I do not know where I am going,
for I have no clue where I've truly been.
I  would like to see the world in its entirety,
but I am so scared of the unknown.
I want to be lost in the sea of people I know,
but I want to be exceptional.
I think of you,
but I know I will never have you.
I need security,
but I ruin what I have.
I write fickle things,
but I yearn to weave beautiful words about important issues.
I hate myself,
but I love being different.
259 · Feb 2019
Not a poem-a thank you
This isn't a poem, it's a thank you to a couple of people who reposted my poem "WORK IN PROGRESS". Thank you Perry and thank you to FallenAngel33. This makes me want to keep writing my poems and keep sharing.

I love you guys.
255 · Jul 2019
While I cannot say that I have experienced a "true", once in a lifetime love, I do believe that I know what love is.
Love, to me, is not just an emotion, but also a thing or a person or a memory or a place.  

Love can be a memory or moment.
Love can be the blissful lazy Sundays spent with your favorite people after a long night.
Love can be the family meal with sudden, abrupt laughter that just bubbles up from your throat.
Love can be the hugs you never knew you needed and the words you thought you'd never hear.
Love can be that favorite song that makes you want to scream its lyrics until your voice is hoarse.

Love can be a thing.
Love can be the last gift your grandmother gave you.
Love can be a picture of your best friend right after you did the flamingo challenge.
Love can be a book of poems that gave you the start you desperately wanted.

Love can be any place.
Love can be a library that gives you an endless amount of worlds to choose from.
Love can be the school cafeteria where you spend your favorite minutes of every day with the people who make you laugh and not care about how you may be perceived by others.
Love can be the small space in the back of the house where you paint and listen to the rain.

Love can be anything or everything or both.
It can be life, and it can be warmth, and it can be the good standing hand in hand with the bad, and it can be what makes you happiest.

I do not believe that you have to have a significant other to have love, I believe that you can be fulfilled by others and by the things you enjoy.

Love is just, love.
these are just my feelings, they may differ from yours
251 · Apr 2019
I often think about college
and the leering sense of doom I feel as I get closer and closer.
I am so scared
about failing
about disappointing further
of not having the true "college experience".
I often think about college.
i had no more ideas, sorry
245 · Apr 2019
The biological makeup of all things fascinates me.
How can everyone look so different?
How can we judge people for that?
Is it not in our genes, something which we ourselves cannot control?
Our minds forged in the fires of societies views.
Why do our genes affect our different outcomes based solely on specific situations molded by other organisms?
Why do we get one thing from a parent or grandparent or aunt or uncle or whoever, but not the other?
Different genetic traits plucked from DNA strands so complex.
Is this why people are some complicated?
Biology is defined as the study of all living things.
Isn't this what we, as humans, do to others?
We study other people hoping to attain just some illusion of what we think they may contain within their pretty faces and perfect bodies.
We classify and organize and break down and try to understand those around us.
How fickle we are to think one thing is pretty and one is ugly.
It's like a dark day, a heavy weightlessness, a bright smoke, and blackened windows.
Biology is not as scientific as we might think at first glance.
215 · Mar 2019
I have to keep taking steps forward,
  for if I don't,
    I will surely fall backward.

If I take a step back,
  I will shatter,
    from the weight of expectations,
      of judging eyes
        and of false pretenses.

If I take too many steps forward,
  I might just fall into a chaotic beauty
    of problematic situations.

I must not take a single wrong step.
  Not one backward.
    Not one too many forward.
      Not the wrong step, just the absolute right step.

209 · Mar 2019
I wish I was as fluid as water.
Just drip, drip, dripping.
I wish I could just mold to fit anything.
I wish I was as fluid as water.

I want to be as fluid as water.
Just crashing beautifully.
But also flowing freely.
I want to be as fluid as water.

I will be as fluid as water.
I will flow and bend and crash all at once.
I will love in abundance, but make sure not to stretch too thin.
I will be as fluid as water.

I wish
and want
and will
be as fluid as water.
208 · Mar 2019
What is "happy"?
                                                     Is it love?
                                                                                            Is it material things?
Love cannot be defined.
It is as fluid as water, but as solid as stone.

I thought I loved you.
Secretly, I still do.
If anyone asks, I will always say no.

I know you don't love me.
I wish you did.
                                                                      But I'm also happy that you don't.

Your "love", is not a genuine love.
                                                  It is a corrupt love.
                                                                                                       A toxic love.

A love that I
203 · Apr 2019
Because I want to be a poet,
  I constantly look for beautiful things in the world.
  Whether it's a moment or a song or a person or even a moonlit scene.
Because I want to be a poet,
   I let my emotions flow freely through my work,
   anger, melancholy, wonderment, peace, true bliss.
Because I want to be a poet,
    I want to be truly genuine,
    to show that I am not just the ambivert girl who seems to always be

Because I want to be a poet,
    I encourage writing,
    the pouring of your soul spun into gentle words of compassion.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I only put my favorite writings out here,
    to show I might have some spark of Edgar or Abraham or Shel.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I continue to write,
    even though I sometimes don't even want to try and get up.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I thank you all for your kind words,
     they keep me writing.
❤thank you for all you all do for me❤
199 · Mar 2019
The greatest things are not holy, nor are they evil.
    They are not real, nor are they fake.
The greatest things do not hurt us, yet they crack us into billions of fragments and fractures.
    They do not define us, yet they are us.

The greatest things are nothing, but also everything.
   They are the winter and summer and fall and spring, yet they don't move.

The greatest things are beautiful, both in horrifying and angelic ways.
    They are breathtaking, but insignificant.

The greatest things are best experienced half-drunk on wanderlust, but also sober in a rooted reality.
     They are satisfying, but they also leave you feeling empty and lost.

The greatest things are the worst things.
This is just my opinion, don't get mad
195 · Aug 2019
a note...
sorry for not really being active lately, I've just been relaxing and trying not to feel the pressures of thw=e outside world while I drink coffee and watch the office all day.
186 · Feb 2020
There are many things I find beautiful:

Boys who love flowers,

children laughing,

flower crowns.

Drawings on wrists,

shimmery eyeshadow,

dainty jewelry,

worn pictures,

hands covered in acrylic paint,

but all the while,
nothing can compare to you, love.
For you, are the greatest beauty of all.
185 · Apr 2019
I say that I don't want you back in my life, but I really do.
I miss your hugs,
I miss your hands, so soft and warm in comparison to mine.
I miss the sweet little words and the flirtatious glances.
But most of all, I miss how it was being with someone.
Oh, God.
When did I get to be another stereotypical teenage girl?
Why did I have to like you?
You of all people?
Who I knew would leave, but I chose you anyway.
One stupid text was all it took to see you that way.
But now you're coming back, and it's supposed to be today.
I'll see you in the halls again, fleeting glances.
I asked you, even though I knew I shouldn't have,
"Do you think we can date again?"
But I did, and you just said
Even through the phone, I felt your disinterest in us.
But here I am, dressing up in hopes you notice me when you get here.
Oh, God.
why am i like this?
181 · Oct 2019
A little bit of nothing can go a long way.

A little bit of quiet remembrance of the lovely past,
or perhaps a little bit of silent, spinning thoughts.

Maybe a little bit of everything that feels like nothing.
Could it be the little bit of music as we paint pictures on the canvas' of our minds?

Let's have a little bit of useless thinking to drown the white noise of our collective consciousnesses.
Indulge me in the little bit of pretty moments.

Perhaps we all need a little bit of nothing with just a touch of everything.
176 · Feb 2019
I stand, but she doesn’t speak. It isn’t because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t.

She's “asleep”,

but I know that isn't it.

I know we came to this hospital because they couldn't “fix” her at the other one.

This is the fifth time her heart has seized, I know this is the last time I’ll see her “alive”, but I can't speak myself.

I'm embarrassed and awkward;

    And I hate myself for it.

I don't tell her I love her, I don't tell her it's okay if she leaves, I don't say goodbye.

    And I hate myself for it.

Mama says she can hear us, but I know she's trying to make it better. Jayden accepts her statement indifferently. I look at him and plead for him to say something first.

To say goodbye, to say anything because I don't want to be the first.

Mama asks if I don't speak because I'm heartbroken. I tell her that's it,

because if I do tell her, I will accept and acknowledge the fact that I hate myself for it.

I want to say something,

     I want her to hear me,

          I want to hear her laugh,

                I want to say something,

                     I want her to hug me and say it will be better tomorrow,

                           I want to say something.

But I can’t. And I hate myself for it.

Because I know her soul has left and this is an empty shell that is only “alive” because of that stupid machine that keeps talking.

That stupid machine that beeps.

     And beeps.

           And beeps.

It will forever be imprinted within me, with the smell of that bleak room, along with that hate and bitterness. That doesn’t even measure to that stupid soulless self-love of me.

That stupid hatred that bubbles like a bathtub overflowing if I even think of her and how brutally big-headed I was.

The problem is that I don’t hate her, I hate me and my elite mindset that is egotistical and so incredibly egocentric.

So vain, so incredibly vain I am.

I’m horrible.

      And I hate myself for it.

Then we leave and I didn’t even say goodbye!
160 · Oct 2019
Whether it be the ceiling tiles in the classroom or the hospital tiles in hospice, everyone has a memory of tiles tied in.
These little square pieces that can trigger a violent vision.

However, it might not be physical tiles either.

They may be tiles your run across as you try to escape from the monster your mind creates.
The pieces falling out from under you, giving way to an immense fear.
These tiles are background characters, always looming.

The tiles we see are mere placeholders in our minds for our most substantial moments.
Do you have memories of tiles?
guess whose back
149 · Feb 2019
My friends who keep me sane,

the ones with laughter that chimes louder than any church bells

The people with amber, ombre, raven, ruby, teal, and sandy hair.

With sparkling eyes and warm hearts,

comforting hugs and lighthearted remarks.

Accompanied by the giving of equal parts and the openness of our hearts.

We go through each day together merrily.

But at night, we battle with our minds over common ground.

Tomorrow, however, we start anew.

From the tap…tap...tap of our feet down the empty hallways after eighth,

to the face times that relieve us of our worries and daily stresses.

We glide through the woeful emotions and dramatic labyrinths,

these of which are caused by high schools many intricate obstacles.

They are the people with whom I share my deepest secrets and greatest happiness.

Unique people that say “what’s poppin’”, “this is true”, “meeee”,

Peculiar people that will howl song lyrics in hallways bursting with people,

but cannot, however, say how they truly feel sometimes.

The people with the brightest of smiles, but the darkest of hearts.

We break us down only to put on a Broadway standard performance for everyone but us.  

We don’t have to be cheery around us.

We each have our many emotional support items.

From rings, to sweaters, to jackets, to blankets, to pillows, to pictures.

They are the people who are mine,

while I am theirs.

These are not my friends,

But my family.

They are the ones that make sure I will not let the mask of a perfectly sound mind slip.

Wonderful people who know how to make me white and not gray,

They are the memories and inside jokes and photographs and films and most importantly,

they do not care what race, sexuality or gender, or anything I may identify as.

They keep me being me.

My favorite people who keep me right in the head.
147 · Dec 2019
I have begun to be uninspired.
Little pieces of poems with a blank, surrounding screen.
I do not remember when writers block set in.
I do feel, however, that I can escape this listless typing.
With a little help and a lot of research on new words,
I can become un uninspired and unlost.
143 · Mar 2019
How lovely you are,
in your isolated state,
away from differing opinions,
of judging eyes and prideful flaunting.

How lovely we were,
only us,
only laughter and happy midnight tears,
only the truth we let each other see, no lies.

How lovely the way we fell apart.
141 · Feb 2019
I am a work in progress.
A half-baked pie and a runny omelet.
A party-shaded masterpiece and a book waiting to be resumed.
5 nails painted and 1 earring put in.
A marathon half-ran and a bearly put together bed.

I am a work in progress.
A page colored outside the lines.
The only remembered lines of a song.
A site without a link and a cut cake.
A sunset on a cloudy day.

I am a work in progress.
I am not a bad thing.
I am not a good thing.
I am not pretty.
I am not ugly.

I am a work in progress.
I am not tall.
I am not short.
I am not stupid.
I am not dumb.

I am a work in progress.
I am me and you are you and we are perfect.
4th line-that's what she said
140 · Aug 2019
The cascades of rain fall silently outside my window.
The lights are off, music is playing, and it is peaceful.
I think back to the time I felt true peace.
When my mind was silent and my heart was full.

I believe I was a small child, around 5.
My grandmother was sewing in the little room at the back of the house.
I was coloring and writing stories of the future I wished to behold.
I had no further inclinations that she might fall into a deep sleep and never wake up.

I believed she was immortal because she never changed.
Though she wasn't societies idea of pretty, I found her captivatingly beautiful.
Her light blonde hair which I too possessed, was a gift only we shared.
Her luminescent blue eyes were the same for me as well.

We watched tales of princesses and their matching princes.
We performed plays that I wrote.
We sang along to Elvis and Sinatra.
We shared tales of school and her early life.

I wanted to live like that forever.
Always together and smiling.
Laughing and playing.
Loving each day as it was given to us.

I will never forget those days blanketed in warm sunshine, especially in the cascades of rain.
137 · May 2019
My brain used to explode with ideas at the thought of writing,
but now they come slow and take so much time to fully develop.
I have no more ideas, and those I do have,
I execute poorly.
The creative energy that used to come forth so easily and spilled over the top of my heart,
is just gone.
I just want to feel that fire inside reignite.
I want to feel like I can be great.
It's just,
I've got nothing else.
135 · Dec 2019
Oh, God.
I dreamed of you and you promised to return.
Even through your uninterested replies, I still believed.
You had tod me you were coming back on a Tuesday.
So I waited for Tuesday.
It came and I dressed for the occasion, but it went by unnoticed.
So I dressed for Wednesday, thinking you were just late.
But Wednesday went away too.
So Thursday came and I prayed, it too bore the same outcome.
So I did the same for Friday,
because just maybe it was going to be a dramatic entrance, befitting of you.
And you know what happened?
Nothing, nothing in the slightest.
Oh, God.
When did I get to be like this,
I never cared before.
So I texted to make sure I wasn't wrong.
I wasn't, you just changed your mind.
And even to this day,
it shatters me inside.
Well, I have moved on, I think.
I will dress for me and my happiness.
I will no longer be better for you, or anyone for that matter.
So this is a thank you for showing me I'm better.
Oh, God.
I wrote the first one quite a while ago
131 · Aug 2019
I know it has been quite a while since I have written.
My fingers dancing lazily across the keyboard.

It has not, however, been quite a while since I've dreamed.
Much of my life has been spent not having the auspicious scenarios dreamt up by my brain, but by empty spaces lacking color.

For the past month, I've had vivid and vivacious dreams of the past.
Memories I didn't even know I had.
Stored away in a lifetime of experiences.

I dream of past friends and long past grandmothers.
I dream of friends and foes.
I dream of those who have been one but become another.

It has been quite a while since I have had a full nights sleep.
Waking in the odd hours and reflecting on these illustrious illusions.
Waiting for the presumptuous pieces to connect.

It has been quite a while since I've written,
but it has not been quite a while since I've dreamt.
what are some weird things you guys have dreamt?
128 · Mar 2019
It was beautiful.
It was maical.
It was enchanting and breathtaking and stunning.
However, it was fake.
120 · Feb 2021
I have not written in quite some time.
I have not jotted down my thoughts or committed to a rhyme.
But I think of poems each day,
of words spun with careful concentration.
I believe in the mind and its prowess,
and of the power I possess.
While I have taken a break,
I refuse to sit and stop,
for I am not done writing.
I have greatly missed this place and the people I have encountered. I have missed poetry.
119 · Feb 2019
Acrylic, watercolor, oil, pigment, ink, fresco.

The brushes gliding across the paper like Goblin King Jareth in the ballroom.

The colors are beautifully radiant, even more so than the sun.

The water blends with the paints, invoking a visually appealing swatch of color.

A shade placed with a tint, bringing forth a new and equally unique hue.

The colors spiral like Edgar’s mind.

Laying colors down to make a masterpiece,

leaving me at peace.

When the piece dries, it creates a whole new world.

If you’re lucky, your piece is presented to the world.

You feel like Picasso showing off how talented you are.

Then you start over fresh.

The new sketches that you hate,

you feel like a four-year-old scribbling.

The gestures, the movement, the eraser marks that are so prominent.

The marks stand out like the Berlin wall.  

You will try and try and try until you start over.

You give up for now,

until you start anew again.

A million blank pages pile over with your failures.

The failures are endless, so you give up.

Until tomorrow,

when you start again,

     and again,

            and again.
119 · Apr 2021
maybe i'm still longing and looking for the poem to end all poems.
i need them to mean something
to be great
to be moving
to be from me to you.
i want that recognition from poets
i don't want the attention, just to be told i'm good.
i love to write, and maybe
i'm still good enough right now
117 · May 2019
Little doodles on the sides of essays.
Tiny drawings on the cufflinks of jeans.
Light sketches on the soles of shoes.
Limited drafts on the insides of wrists and the ankles of many.

Flowers, crosses, words, names, dates, so many pretty designs.
All unique to its canvas of an owner.
Perfect ways to pass time in this boredom.
My favorite ways to express myself, with things drawn in my own style.

I love little doodles.
Aesthetic, harsh, bold, offensive, all of them.
Just doodles.
114 · Mar 2019
I am a contradiction.
I hate and love myself.
I want to die but I love living.
I say I hate you, but I really love you.
Everything is too fast but also way too slow.
I hate eating healthy but wonder why I'm not thin.
I want to run away but I am so afraid.

I am a contradiction.
I want to be happy, yet I do things that make me so incredibly sad.
I hate popular people, but I want to be one.
I want to see better but I don't ever wear my glasses.
I say I'm pretty but also that I'm ugly.
I want you but I tell you I don't know hat you're talking about.
I love being weird but I also want to be just normal.

I am a contradiction
of the most unusual kind.
just a glimpse into my mind.
107 · Mar 2019
Oh, don't you just love me?
the sound or my voice,
my laughter,
my sparkling eyes,
my beautiful smile,
my pretty meaningless words,
my ever-full heart,
the make-up that appears to be picture-perfect.
How conceited I must sound.
Oh, don't you hate it?
It' s a reverse poem too.
(read it backward)
107 · Aug 2019
You, whom I dreamed of and wanted for so long, is whom I have faithfully forgotten.
You, who no longer hound my thoughts with your words and pretty smiles.
I have taken back my mind and my heart and am ready to live for me and only me.
So to you, I say goodbye and farewell, because you have been faithfully forgotten.
106 · Aug 2019
Beauty doesn't begin to describe your stained glass eyes.
Full of wisdom shaped by deep cuts of sorrow.
Yet, they are light, almost airy, and full of love.
Those eyes have caught mine from across the room and have countlessly captivated my conscious.

But behind those stained glass eyes, is also beautiful.
So intelligent and kind is your mind.
Not sorrowful, but thoughtful.
That mind understands the world and its paper-like people.

Your mind is not, however, like stained glass.
Rather, it's like a tree.
Strong and unwavering, yet dazzlingly fluid.
How incredible.

God, none other can compare to your stained glass eyes and fluid-like mind.
I am friends with my demons,
for they know me better than most.
Swirling black masses,
of contempt and understanding.

They know the pain,
and the places it takes me.
For they see,
the disdain.

I am friends with my demons,
for people are scarier.
90 · Aug 2019
more thank yous
to those of you who heart, comment on, repost or like my work, thank you
86 · Nov 2019
We all have a little bit of historical context backing up our stories.

   It is what he did in the past the effects the present,
or it is what she said the controls how I think and feel.
It is past poems and songs and writings giving fuel to new ones,
it is the memories of people who only exist in our minds and hearts.

   There is truth to the stories told from both sides of the mirror.
There are intricately spun lies to help rather than hurt.
There is that little bit of peace and love that has shaped you and me and us.

But there is also no historical context at all.

   Maybe something is caused by nothing and it is rather unexpected.
Maybe a new friendship, a new place, a new feeling or maybe it is even a new person that invokes all listed above.

   There is an old past and a new present to each person and their own story, we just need to learn how to appreciate them.
86 · Apr 2019
I've written so much just for the sake of writing something meaningful.
I still feel as if it isn't truly deep, just a mirage of what true, genuine feelings are.
I still feel like I'm playing pretend and that all the hurt I feel is just a child's game where your favorite character dies.
I just want to make something real, something worth remembering, something that I truly feel has impacted someone and stayed with them.
I am proud of my writing, yes, but I want it to be more.
    I want my writing to envoke so many emotions from the reader, but not your mainstream emotions of happy or sad or scared, but one that makes them feel like they're not alone in the world.
I want them to think "they're like me, they feel like me and they think like me."
Oh, how wonderful it would be. To make someone think something like that.
I feel like it would be something so substantial that they would repost it or just save it.
Maybe even take a picture of it.
That is my secret wish in a poetic world.
86 · Feb 2019
It’s beautiful. The rhythm. The instruments

blending to construct a uniform of posse-

ssing noises. The voices cascading

   together to create a melody, one

     quite similar to sweet dew on

       flowers in the bright, early

        morning. It fills you until

           you feel the wonde-

             rful notes within

             your very being.

           The tones dance a-

          round you until you

        are nothing but that. T-

      he different feels of each

   individual song are incredible.

They can either make you feel as

if anything is possible, as if there is

no greater sadness than your own,

as if you are the best thing in the w-

orld to someone, as if you are not

  who you are but who you alwa-

   ys wish to be, or as if even th-

     e most substantial disadva-

      ntages can never lift the

       brilliant veil of the warm,

          fuzzy happy you are

                  drunk on.

                   It’s as if

                    in that

                   one mi-

                 niscule m-

              oment, you a-

           re free of everyth-

       ing and nothing could

   possibly be anything oth-

  er than jubilant. These chor-

ds remain in your head and you

can change them on will like a radio.

They give you a needed distraction, a

relief from the pressure, an ungodly am-

ount of confidence, or even just something

to center yourself around. The patterns make that overbearing uncertainty

melt from your mind to puddles of woe on the ground. The alluring collections of each portion make

an enchanting thing that will forever be commemorated

in the minds of others.
it's a structure poem
85 · Dec 2019
The letters never sent are the hardest ones to write.
They burn on shelves where or they sit and radiate emotion from drawers.
We fill them with the things left unsaid or to clarify those opinions voiced.
We either cry or smile or feel fear as we pen them,
much like how we write our collective stories in poetry.

As we write, we are taken away.
We may be in a coffee shop,
or our rooms,
or like me, in the middle of school.
But when we display our feelings on paper things, we go into our mind-space.

Our letters never sent dripping in passion.
Saturated with our shared feelings and remembered embraces.
Of the feverish past and the heat-wrenching present.
They can be poetic and charming, but have a sharper edge of a fast mind and slow hand.

Our letters never sent are precious, so I think we should send them.
84 · Aug 2019
What does it mean to be truly alive?

Is it the glittering tales of love and its rose-colored glasses?
Or can it be the solitary solidity that we find in special relationships, both platonic and romantic?

What about the stories spun to entrance us into their mystifying glory?
Or is it the memories of those who have so greatly influenced us?

What will it feel like?

Will it be the brush of delicate fingertips between lovers?
Or will it be the sacred, shared smiles of siblings?

What about the tapping away at a keyboard to express our bountiful desires and ambitions?
What about the feel of paper as our eyes dance hurriedly to finish a captivating story?

Even though I am young and have not experienced the world like the wise seniors before me, I believe I have captured in my mind what it means to be truly alive.

I believe it is the stories and the dancing and the singing and the smiles and all the little moments we have so much of but do not think are important.
These little momentous moments are what make us human.
The little pieces of others we collect that harm and heal us.

I believe being truly alive is what makes us human.
this poem was inspired by a webcomic called 'Winter Woods'. This comic made me really evaluate what it meant to be really alive and why we are human. If you have the time, please do read it, you will be greatly moved by this lovely piece. It's on Webtoons and it is free.

srsly go read it.

Also, if you have any suggestions to help me better my writing, pls share because I always want me to be better.
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