Someday you’ll love you.
From the sparkle in your eye,
To the pitch of your laugh,
Even the color of your hair.

You will love every part,
From every wrinkle,
To every crinkle,
Every part of you.

But they will try to tear you down,
To make you frown,
To make you think you’re not worth it.

But darling you listen to me.

From the way you walk,
To the way you talk,
You will be mocked,
But don’t you listen.

From your weight,
To your height,
You are all wonderful to me.

Maybe one day you’ll see,
The beauty I see.
The way you were made,
So beautifully.

But until then,
Do not forget,
On how true beauty,
Comes from within.

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?

i want to dissolve into the sky
without a sound
without anyone noticing my empty space
in the most gentle and subtle way possible
i want to go away from here
i want to walk backwards and save myself
from what inevitability is ahead
i want to leave
i want you
to wish i’d stay

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.