I am not a poet.

My words were never made for the masses,
Made to pry emotions from your heart.
Rhyme can sometimes leave me at a loss,
And my inkwell is more often empty than not.

I am not a poet.

I can write only what I know and feel,
Each poem I give a little piece of me.
Every line is just a wisp away from existence.
Each poem might just be the last I write.

I am not a poet.

Yet why do you feel like my muse?
Your eyes remind me of a thousand places,
Like sea glass glinting green in the hush of tide.
Your voice has its command over my pulse.

I am not a poet.

But poetry you are.
How else do I describe this feeling,
If not with flowery words and rhyme.
And yet no words can hold it right.

I am not a poet.

I would be lost if I were.
For if I give a piece of me,
It will always be here in this poem,
With You.

My heart danced every shift
Every hour of our work
This friendship born form a myth
On a timetable-
Ready to be clocked in

I was down further than-
Just being down on your knees
I was six feet deep
This all was when we met

You might've never know
The impact you had on my soul
Life flashing by like a still full
Why is it after all these months

I still regret the way we never talked
I was committed to someone
Who wasn't you, and yet it was nice
A friendship ready to bloom

It felt like you say me
With all the colors and hues
And yet you said, let me unpack
And sit back, with a coffee

Watch this woman love life
And fall back in love with it
Right beside my own heart
That's stopped beating when-
She blocked my number

And maybe you were never mine,  
not even in kindness,  
but for every shift we stayed late  
I healed within the silence,  
while your voice reminded me  
how worth showing up I still was

Even when work would drive me crazy
When you showed up I knew
That life didn't have to sit still
Even when after I left- you,
You never left, me.

A tender sea rocks my boat
it is lulling me to sleep,
gentle breeze is like coat
I fall into it deep.

I trust this stormy water
I won't be on my own
endless waves sing softer
almost semi tone.

I love this sea, these seagulls
this noisy wind and sheer sky,
some stretched canvas on easel
and painting now is dyed.

https://youtu.be/MLIWD-uVus4

I can't even remember six-year-old me.
I don't know if she liked yellow like I do now.
I don't know if she hated spaghetti the way I do.
I don't know if she loved the sky and the clouds and the stars and the moon the way my big self does.

And I always wonder...
What would she think of me?
Are we following the dreams we had at that age?
Are we facing life with the same joy I think we would’ve had at six?
Would she ask me why I like yellow so much if she used to love pink?
What if she loved spaghetti and wanted to eat it every day?
I think maybe she did like the sky like I do.

(What’s not to like?)

i have seen the heaven created in you—  
one they could not understand.  
and so they named it wrong,  
because they could not hold what they feared in their hand.  

you were fire, and i the very same.  
they said we’d burn the world down—  
but all we ever wanted was to be warm.  

her touch: psalm.  
her gaze: prayer.  
and still, they call it sin—  
as if holiness can’t wear soft skin and hold my hand.  

they could not understand  
that when she loves me,  
the sky listens more closely  
and the stars stay a little longer.  

her eyes, gently pulling me in—  
her gaze sweeping me beneath her tides  
as i pry to the surface  
to utter her sacred name.  

and even the breath feels borrowed,  
as if the universe conspired to see it through.  

how can my sin be love?  
oh, they would never understand.