"reshaped" poems
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
SURRENDER YOUR HEART
REMOVE THE GUARDS AND RELINQUISH THEIR SHIELDS.
YOU NEED TO FEEL THIS THOROUGHLY
LOVE WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE SAFE OR MEASURED SO,
LOVE IRRATIONALLY.
JUMP OFF A CLIFF WITHOUT CONSIDERING CONSEQUENCES,
LOVE SPECIFICALLY.
PAY ATTENTION ON THE SMALLER DETAILS OF THE BIGGER PICTURE,
LOVE UNCONDITIONALLY.
BECAUSE THERE WILL BE DAYS WHEN YOU DON’T LIKE HER, BUT THE LOVE MUST REMAIN AND IN THE EVENT THAT LOVE BREAKS YOU, LET IT BREAK.
DO NOT CLOSE YOURSELF OFF OR SHUT YOURSELF DOWN.
YOUR HEART WILL BE SHAPED AND RESHAPED, BUT IN THE END IT WILL STILL BE YOURS.
AS HUMAN WE ARE BLESSED WITH THE SKILL OF ADAPTATION IT’S KEPT US HERE FOR EONS, YOU WILL ADAPT.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
We are each born
A box full of pieces
But as the years pass
We are faultily rearranged
Jammed into wrong spaces
Lost under the couch
And as the years pass
We look less of what we were
And now more of who we are
Luckily, unlike puzzles
Our pieces can be replaced
Our cut outs can be reshaped
And even if we are misplaced
Someone will put you back together
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
I love you
like an eternally expanding universe
seen with the clarity
of a thousand Hubble telescopes
your swirling galaxies
artful nebula
tranquil skies
your solid core
I love you
in molten tongues
calling from the void
two nuclear souls
colliding
every atom undone
fused together
to make one
I love you
until the thread is cut
my free-falling light
so high on your atmosphere
reshaped by your gravity
a meteorite wish
sweet ashes
to your dust
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
Kindred spirits sharing love from around the world,
Touching each other with their welcoming words
Having never seen another face to face at all
Embracing life pages as their words are now heard
We find great hope in the hearts and minds we meet
Eating from the same table of Gods creative delight
As are filled daily with amazing genuine words
Finding our great love for sharing helps us to unite
Daily together we lift up hungry spirits in this world
With our individual gifts trying not to leave one behind
As we all are part of the same beautiful sharing coverlet
Full of the real love which our God always had in mind
Even though we as humans in many ways are the same
We each are gifted specifically by His heavenly design
Being bound to the loving spirit of sharing our words
To shine radiantly through others His true love divine
United we become a real compelling power to others
When our written words genuinely carry true weight
Because the strength of our inner spirits great vigor
Over time helps many lives in this world be reshaped.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
Too roughly hewn and cleaved around edges frayed
shaped and reshaped by these own calloused hands
I realize the shape of things ,... who I am ... who I've become ―
The sound of my own raw voice knows not convention ;
it was nothing more than words of fragmented tomes exposed
Only the broken wind covering footprints on the road not taken
on a never ending journey into a lonely abyss
These greatest fears I've come to know ;
my greatest weakness bared and borne
broken dreams bought and sold,
for less than they were worth.
In the chill of this winter darkness grown cold
a newly recurring silence echoes poignantly,..
redux
forevermore
self-loathed
déjà vu ―
***The only dream's fruition ever feared:
to walk alone at that predestined parting moment
within a stones throw of six feet underground ,...
dropping to these knees at a threshold
well-nigh left behind,
knocking at the door that leads beyond ―
never needing to know how to say goodbye …***
thinking out loud ... 11. 29. 2016
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
In the intricate tapestry of love,
the adage "once a cheater, always a cheater"
weaves a cautionary thread.
It is a phrase laden with the weight of experience,
a mantra that whispers of broken trust and shattered vows.
When someone treads the path of betrayal,
leaving the fragments of a once-whole heart in their wake,
the scars run deep.
The echoes of deceit reverberate
in the corridors of love,
leaving those who have been wounded hesitant to trust again.
The notion, "once a cheater, always a cheater," emerges as a defense mechanism,
a shield against the vulnerability of being deceived once more.
Yet, in the realm of love,
the narrative isn't always so black and white.
People evolve, learn from their mistakes, and yearn for redemption.
It's crucial to acknowledge the capacity for change
within each individual.
While the wounds of betrayal may linger,
they need not dictate the course of someone's entire romantic journey.
The human experience is multifaceted, and relationships are complex landscapes.
People stumble, fall, and sometimes, they rise anew, reshaped by the crucible of their own errors.
Love, at its essence, encompasses forgiveness, growth, and the possibility of second chances.
So, while the cautionary phrase carries the weight of wisdom,
it is equally important to recognize the potential for transformation.
People can break free from the chains of their past misdeeds,
learn to value trust, and construct relationships founded on honesty and integrity.
Love, after all, is as much about healing as it is about the initial spark.
In the end the tale of "once a cheater, always a cheater"
is not a universal truth
but rather a reminder that love demands conscientious navigation.
It prompts us to approach relationships with discernment,
to treasure the fragility of trust,
and to foster an environment where growth and change are not only possible but celebrated.
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 7:26 AM UTC
after five years
when I write her a love poem,
she is always surprised,
her unexpectation
so very pleases me.
after five years
when I write her a love poem,
I am always surprised,
that a new way to say it,
uncovered.
but this I can tell you,
not once
do I ever write
nor will I ever pen
those I love you words.
they are too easy, too cheap,
a dime a dozen,
naked words make me weep,
dress 'em, cloak 'em, try to
Pradip 'em in
mystery, charming humor,
use conjuring spells of
Bala imagery unreal,
Bzynga!
work hard to tell her why,
work hard to guard your originality,
work hard to tell her in ways
that her into me
smiling, crying, punching.
so I write love poems,
every now and then,
special ways recalled,
teasing her about her forgetfulness,
about her teasing me with rhyming
that is less than spectacular,
how my body has
reshaped itself to fit her.
tell her
I love you,
plain,
well that be downright,
pffft.
(an interjection used to express or indicate
a dying or fizzling out)
the key is to tell her
in a fashion original,
personal to us.
that what all these endless
love poems here strive,
but too oft, fail to arrive.
all tricked up, too direct,
passion burnt used up
after but a single read
stroke her cheek
with soft stanzas,
torrential directness,
no subtly,
fizzles.
write for the long haul,
words that five years hence,
words that five hundred years hence,
make her into me
smiling, crying, punching,
like the first time
she read them,
like they did
five years ago.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
<•>
For A:
The Pleasure of Infection
10:53 pm
our all about
is to be the whittler of our personage,
to both hold the knife with care,
but with risky, reckless artistry,
as we shape of what raw materials we are possessed,
into our own reshaped, reformed
most prized bejeweled possession
never mind the shavings and cutaways fallen,
they are fast away, castaway choices made and cannot be retrieved,
for when we whittle, whether our shape desired
which may be prior envisioned or a vision
from the discovery of performing,
they matter no more,
let them go, in their absence too,
they are part and a whit of you,
but not of you, no longer
our commonality in this: everything,
in everything else, so little
but your honesty and crafted, almost dishonesty both ring true,
and infect us with pleasure of recalling
when we
being cut designed and preparing our statue for
an unveiling, but with no date yet set,
and the loveliness of our mistakes,
were precious do-over opportunities
seek out the infection, the infection of discovery,
the risk of pleasure exposed and
your poetry may be either
the antibiotics
when the result is red and unpleasant,
or a celebration,
an invitation to us to be a
semi-silent beholder of your artistry
infections heal after pain and discoloration
but new skin always forms,
but at a different pace for each of us
I see the faces in my carpet nodding agreement,
"always new skin"
oh boy. time to go to bed
go seek out the pleasure of infection,
sadly, happily, it is the only way
good night
from an old man who dreams and schemes of
new skin nightly
but never mind me,
my piece long ago writ
and in need of just a tweak here and there,
call it one too many close shavings,
his poem's treasure trove,
a list
of life's minor irritations
and major lifts
<•>
11:16pm
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
They say, no man is an island
Yet an island can be reshaped
By a tornado, hurricane, or a earthquake
Mother nature rules with an iron fist
To place her stakes on the land of the living
They say, no man is an island
But there must be a better way
For other nations and countries
Come together and embrace
To restructure our governments,
Working together, rebuilding, maybe, even see
The humanity in eachother giving
To help those, who can not help themselves
They say, no man is an island
All the justice and laws in the world
Wouldn't correct it's poverty
In exchange, for it's wealth
Animated politicians
Speaking in tongues
Atoned to be totally clueless
Unaware of the next existing
Killer of lives
They say, no man is an island
To forsee at last
Battle of waves of storms to come
Genocide, Nuclear, Wars
Will come again, and again
History repeats, in cirlces
It never ends
They say, no man is an island
The inadequate versions of getting things right
Should be a must, for the change with truth and trust
People having the will or the lack of
Food, water, protection, health care
That ain't right
To not be inform and share
They say, no man is an island,
But there's just has to be a better way
People taken care of people
Living life better than it once was yesterday
Families who have lost, buried, and shed many of tears
Placed their memories of loved ones
To cross over into the light
Have lost more than just a home, family, neighbors
One thing one must not lose is
The spirit inside to have
They say, no man is and island
For every man, woman and child
Is of the land of their island
Hope is not ones plan alone
The plan simply is of many...
Faith, Memories, Freedom, Dreams, and Hope
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 1:59 AM UTC
This is for the girls who lie awake at night,
Pulling at the blankets to keep them warm,
Drenched in sins of deprecation.
Tossing and turning on their twin size beds,
because there is not enough room to fit expectations,
let alone their own.
This is for the girls who stare at themselves in front of their mirrors,
Pinching at the extra layers of skin that hang around their tummies.
Rolls of "fat" as they call it, I prefer the term "beauty."
This is for the girls who have shoulders are backs plastered in scars.
From the bras that were one cup size to small, overly adjusted and tightened straps.
This is for the girls who fall prey to the fallacies of magazine stands,
captivated by the cold letters bleeding off the covers:
"Three hundred, sixty-five ways to style your hair!"
"How to get the perfect ****
"Turn off the lights to look good naked!"
"How to make him love you!"
Pull apart the flesh, look beneath your skin,
you are not defined by the number of eyes that manifest lust towards you,
you are not the hands that plead to saunter their way toward your hips,
You are not the number of inches that space out your thighs.
Or the visibility of muscle that line up on your stomach.
You do not need to look good naked,
don't turn off the lights.
Your **** looks fine
Stop falling victim to the media
To the photo shopped ads of puppets who look nothing like you
Because your real
and if you want a man to love you, he must learn to accept you
with your extra flaws, our scars, and rolls of fat.
Because that sack of bones known as a model on a Cosmopolitan cover will not keep him warm.
It is inscribed in the atoms that make you a person
you are a three dimensional beautiful masterpiece
you are not a computerized pixelated image
reshaped and resized retouched and revised
stop letting society dehumanize a woman
your a woman
all the fury to slither through you limbs until you shake with and anger and purpose, acknowledge the value of your worth for you are more that just a waste of paper and space, you are space, you are human, your alive, and beautiful
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
this shall be:
this shall be
my last poem of the year,
two thousand and thirteen,
with the muses' permission.
a fitting one as well,
for the words,
come easy,
like so many did this
annus mirabilis, year of wonders.
firm I believe,
words are living tools,
constantly being reshaped,
fitted to the occasion.
care must me taken,
words hurt when wasted, abused,
or used in contravention to the creator's
intentioned purpose of intended good.
so when a brother, a poet-man
hits the nailhead, words writ,
encapsulating an emo shared,
this reserves, a poem-celebration!
lines between humans unseen,
somehow too easy, rightly crossed,
guards dropped, secrets exposure,
with the ease of feeling no discomfiture.
yes, this is the Internet age,
sharing revelations often cheapened,
boundaries collapse,
when no consideration given.
when there is no skin, no eye-glance
real-exchanged, no feeling, no voice,
casual, to do, easy to say,
what is the risk,
what could be the casualty
of this causality?
the risk is fearsome.
so when the venture is for the better,
what matter the absence of the physicality,
the tears and hugs imagined
as good as any non-virtual,
but in the coming year,
this I swear:
I will be, I will be becoming, I will become you,
unto you, for as was written, so shall it be,
for as was written, it will become,
a beautiful first, a first re-union,
that will be.
*this notion so pleasing,
yet inherent contradictory,
aye, there's the rub,*
a first re-union of the unmet,
*to mark this three hundred and sixty fifth day,
the creator bequeathed me these prayer words
most easily, most faithfully,
as a blessing for all of us.*
Dec. 31, 2013
3:54 pm.
NYC
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
There was a village
Called Ludnica in maps
Quite old and vintage
The population reached 100 at max
It was known far and wide
For it's weird rules
Everyone had to abide
And dress like white ghouls
Half of them were blacksmiths
Working day and night
Others had to submit
And were to be polite
Every once in a while
Another black sheep would appear
Some even hostile
Not understanding why they were there
Then the blacksmiths' work would restart
They chipped away the metal chains
Reshaped the mind part by part
Untill the sickness didn't remain
"Where was this Ludnica?"
You might ask
But don't search for it
Because it will find you at last
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 5:40 AM UTC
At the moment when I woke up in the morning, the dim light was on to my room and I saw the beautiful things in yours, at that moment I found my soulmate.
They are still there even when I let them go.
The more I think about how beautiful in somethings are,
the more they are always beside me.
The space in my mind always gives them a chance to stay, and yes, they will stay.
The hardest part of letting them go when you couldn't notice them.
They are too far for you to reach because your heart always guides you in the way that will be able for you to pass.
Sometimes you know about it, but you try to ignore it.
I realized that the beautiful things in yours should be followed,
but you are always in silence,
so the voices in my head carry me to things that hard to understand and it makes construction in my human being to love you with great expectations.
"Is this what happened?", I asked myself.
But the loneliness in me answered that something unhappy should be not unshared.
It reshaped them all into my anxiety.
But suddenly, the voices in my head asked me,
"How's your day?"
"Did we see the same most unexpected ways?"
"I wish you loved me as you love the journey of your life,
please stay calm, I was listening to you."
That was a beautiful goodbye.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 1:24 AM UTC
It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.
It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.
No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.
---
Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.
A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.
It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.
You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.
And you would have no answer
they could use.
---
The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.
It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.
---
The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.
So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.
Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.
They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.
A trace.
---
Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.
Once, they dreamed in metaphor.
Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.
The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.
---
No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.
The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.
If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.
A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.
---
Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.
Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.
It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
i just turned 17 and i bought a ****** e-cig
off some guy in venice.
it squeaks when i try to use it
and the vapor scares my cat,
and i’m in love with this girl who tried it
while she was tangled up in my sheets —
she said she hated it but hey,
i just turned 17 and i can’t be the only kid
in this city who doesn’t need a nicotine fix.
on thursday nights i stand outside coffee shops
with the ones who smoke those reds
and blues and velvet blacks
that come in wooden boxes like fine cigars.
i hate that scene but i’m addicted to it
because i just turned 17 and everything
about me is being reshaped like play-doh.
my mom calls it impressionable, i call it fearless.
i just turned 17 and i’d like to think i’m not as insecure
as i feel, but i had to move the full-length mirror
out of my room and nothing i do counts
unless i put it on instagram.
i just turned 17 and that’s the age all the
songs are about, the year of dancing queens
and cheap red wine and sneaking through
the suburbs to get to your girlfriend’s house.
i used to think i wanted to see the world but
i just turned 17 and i can’t stop falling in love
with the city i live in —
you can’t see too many stars here but it feels
safer that way, like i’m less likely to float into space.
tethered is a good thing to be,
at least until all the different parts of me
finally get strung together.
i just turned 17 and i’m scared the nicotine
can’t hide that i’m just a work in progress.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
I read through a bedside stack
of my poems labeled The Heartfelt Architect.
They were bound with a paperclip
reshaped to accommodate their numbers.
Half the pages featured watermarks
around the edges like emotional copyrights.
I had written about friends' frustrations
with loves and losses for three years,
stressing that paperclip every day
before realizing I had written an autobiography.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
A thumb flicks repetitive across the screen.
Scrolling.
Images of faces, targeted ads and mundane art.
A random couple standing on the beach.
I pause for them.
His toad like appearance distorts my face,
One nostril scrunching up in displeasure at the belly that sticks out rounding into his chest so you can’t tell where his torso starts and ends, while a pair of swim trunks desperately attempt to cling to a skeletal waist.
Her body is normal aside from the concave stomach and the ***** that had clearly been poked at, flayed away, reshaped into an over exaggerated spherical shape.
Two figures clearly trying and failing to force their bodies to reject their aging fate, but they succeed in looking less human, and more like that of distorted dreams. Their skin is too dark, slicked up with oil, and all I can think of is when leather for skin became fashionable.
Their bodies are theirs to do as they please, but this new species of seal takes away the beauty of the water kissing the shore and I find the thought of these distorted figures mar my vision of the beach into a sour taste.
I can only assume its attention they want with the transaction they made: her youth for his money.
So tell me, is it not within my right to judge?
Is it?
I scold myself for being quick to judge with my eyes
though I cannot find myself to be sorry;
For they have clearly invested in their outwardly appearance.
For the sake of themselves or others who is to say?
But they parade through sand exposed, out on display.
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 11:34 PM UTC
Hot, salty tears, muddled,
with the bitter, icy spray,
enveloped by the Atlantic,
desposed by pedigree.
Peoples, of all lifetimes,
swiftly, abducted from their blood,
with lament, embraces ripped apart,
sin left disguised, ousted love.
Lumber structures, like cages,
repressing their last breaths,
left few ongoing in the waves,
desposed by traitorous men.
Forceful souls, whose tongue called out,
reshaped their gruesome plight,
to overthrow the tides and toils, who,
ousted them at the site.
Desde África, a Cuba,
y entonces a América,
los abogados se lucharon,
y tomaron un caso de libertad.
Para un barco se llama Amistad,
todos los malhechos son,
la gente Mende querían justicia,
y tomaron parte por el mundo.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Time stands still on the twig.
The sky keeps changing colors,
Blue, dark, ivory, violet -
She grows old, I turn feeble,
Ego, enmity, jealousy fade,
Our stories dry up to the end!
The twig remains there,
Braving rain, bad weather,
Doesn't break, doesn't complain,
Endures mutely the passing of pain,
Standing robust under the changing sky,
Reshaped landscape, agony's cry,
With no wars to fight, no belief to defend,
Just there to see us reach the dead end!
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
Woman lies flat in
worm-eaten earth,
rain battering
gnarled spine,
cold stones bind
barren *******
Small stones,
but jagged,
shaped and shined
by time
reshaped by wind
unearthed by man.
A hundred million
years might grow
a mountain.
Rain stings bare hide,
fills and pushes
babygirl streams,
rushes and forces
ripewoman rivers
but the ocean it is not.
Woman lies
face down
in fruitless loam.
Hands clench rotten
roots and slick
vegetation.
Hands shaped
then reshaped
by time and tasks
become
touchless husks
growing smaller still.
Woman lies quiet
worm eaten soil
broken back bent
against the torrent.
Worn feet twist against
the ground,
seek footing.
Small feet they are
however mighty.
Stepped vigilantly and
sometimes stomped along
stayed still to be stepped on
and stomped ******
Shaped and reshaped
by pathways of
caution and fury,
sometimes fear.
Woman lies flat
in worm eaten earth.
She wished to be a stone
to cut rather than be cut.
To be the tide,
to push rather than be pushed.
But she is only a woman
and she thought
raw earth might taste right
so she opened her mouth.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 7:58 PM UTC
Flowers die when winter comes,
Stems curling and wilting into nothing
But shriveled masses that exist,
Yet don't, as if they are bluffing.
Many flames have snuffed out these past years;
Friendships have died and dissipated
Like those flowers in winter,
Whose deaths were fated.
The landscape of my life,
Was torn apart at the base by death
That completely reshaped the environment
Like winter's icy breath.
Nostalgia tears at me on these quiet days,
When there is not an overload of work;
The quiet seems to encourage
Nostalgic memories to lurk.
There is no reigning them back in,
Though, the moments that have fallen apart
Like chalk on sidewalk,
Children's favorite art.
I am young, but my youth
Left a long time ago;
I thought it was a river
That would steadily flow.
I have missed out on so much,
I claw at these wishes as time goes on;
For my age is accumulating,
And "young" is only a temporary term to don.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
I have 17 empty notebooks
This morning it was 16, but I bought another on my way home from work because it was leather bound and on sale
It cost an hour and a half of work
...
So, I have 17 empty notebooks
One is missing a page
I needed to write down an appointment but I didn't want to ruin the whole book
Another has three pages that are actually written on
It was meant to be a bullet journal but the box marked "bullet journal review" was never checked off
Notebooks three, four, and twelve are actually binders which are usually in a different category but what is a binder if not an evolved journal?
Or maybe they're all subspecies of paper
Its all paper
Paper that speaks, whispering to me in my soft moments when there is nothing to do except worry about all that unfilled space
"We were trees once. We were alive. We were cut down and reshaped to fulfill a larger purpose and this is what becomes of us?"
My guilt turns to anxiety turns to pen clicking and that makes it worse, reminding all 18 of us that I am perfectly capable and yet wholly unwilling
It's not like I haven't tried
All of those notebooks were bought with a specific use in mind
Well, they were all bought and then later justified by thinking of a use that I knew would never come to fruition
Bullet journal, grimoire, dream journal, poetry journal, school journals
...
So, I have nearly 17 mostly empty notebooks in a drawer
They used to sit on my shelf but it didn't seem right placing those empty vessels amongst a universe of universes and filled pages
Like parking my totaled '97 Toyota Corolla next to a Porsche
So they're in a drawer with a few torn shirts I keep meaning to turn into patches, a barely used oil pastel set, and a dusty Bass for Dummies book
So maybe this is a lesson
Maybe I'm making oceans out of puddles
Maybe this is a metaphor for my life and all of its wasted time and blank pages; blank from the months I spent lying on a couch, wrapped up in the cold snow blanket of fear and regret
I regret so much and the more I regret the more anxious I become the more unlikely I am to get up and pick my story back up the more pages pass by as barren as the day is short
Or Maybe
Maybe I should just stop buying new notebooks
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
I miss you.
Though I've never felt your touch,
or heard your laugh,
or seen you cry,
or had a deep talk late into the night.
My chest literally aches physically
as I'm longing to be the one
you call when you need someone
and the one you know as your own.
How can a heart miss someone
it's never even known?
you have reshaped my ideas
and become my definition of love.
I miss you so
though you would never know
how my soul yearns for you
because you are not my reality.
I miss you so much.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:23 AM UTC