Lying embedded in velvet gloom and night,
You and I are gazing up the northern hemisphere.
Within the sea of darkness is the stars' stained light.

Hidden inside the fabric of interstellar space,
Might be a kind of universal truth
That answers all the questions of human race.

Sensing the pull of the universe
I feel like we're lost between the infinite vastness
That none of us could ever dream to traverse.

Suddenly you get up on your knees -
Head in the sky and feet on the ground.
“Perhaps the stars only made us feel lost,
because we both wanted to be found.”

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Petals fell from her head
        Leaves withering
        Her mind was dead
        But she was breathing

--the truth of growing up

No one ever asks, if I tell them i write, why? I suppose it's an answer intertwined with why my idols and inspiration are the romantic poets, and Oscar Wilde. It is because I love the poetic ideals, the idea, the oil painting life captured in pieces such as Wordsworth's "daffodils" or Byron's "she walks in beauty". I desire the poetic love, that unattainable, perfect, still moment. I love the Romantic response to their world, in a time of endless discovery of new things far off, the Romantics discovered new things in and around themselves. The poetry in the green fields, exploration of human expression and sexuality. I write, because I wish to both create and experience these perfect, still life, oil painting moments. And, to, in a time where everything is a click away, bring new discovery and a sense of wonder. I want to be surrounded by the fruits of boundless creativity. In a world of sleek, monochromatic, identical, functionality, I want to be surrounded by messy colours on canvas, by people with souls in all hues, barely contained by their bodies, with paint in their hair, ink on their hands, and adventure in their very essence. That, that is why I write.