Poems · writing

Anxiety

I am indifferent

I am closed off

I am jumping to conclusions

I am a wrinkled shirt at the bottom of the dryer

Forgotten in a frenzied morning filled with burnt coffee and runny eggs

I am a thunderclap sounding a second too late

I am a friendship bracelet frayed at the edges

I am a stomach filled with squirming snakes

I am a June night where you can’t get comfortable

No matter how many times pillows are flipped, sheep are counted, eyelids flutter. Still awake.

I am late acceptance letters

I am sleeping until noon

I am “all in your mind”

I am breaking into pieces as I shudder you apart

And as long as you let me, I will stay.

Poems · writing

Benign Morality

How can someone love a stunted bloom?

Same way the sun says goodnight to the moon,

Same way a dish can run away with a spoon

Differences are celebrated, but aren’t they often charged?

The moon was too shy to say hello to the sun,

And Dish often wondered whether it were Fork with which Spoon would rather run

Nuances in these “what if’s” are rather pointless, though the rate at which they’re indulged in have the potency to ruin a day, week, year.

The bloom will cry over her crooked stem, shed tears over her fallen petals but then,

What can she do?

All things grow, despite the rain,

The world finds a way to bounce back again

Every Saturday morning I see the moon in the sky, blushing sweetly at the sun as he waves her goodnight

Dish told Spoon every one of her fears, and last I heard they’ve been happy for years

The bloom is still stunted, and she smiles sadly, but last time I saw her, she looked a little taller, and her petals will come back gradually

Stories · writing

Pressurized Sentiment

Sometimes being an adult feels like an elongated version of deciding what to play when you’re a kid

Run around until dusk and your only concerns are when lunch or dinner is.

I liked that because it was a lot simpler

You didn’t have a lot of options so you just sort of experienced whatever was in your path

I remember waking up without a plan and just being excited to get out and “explore” even though I could easily run around our neighborhood with my eyes shut,

But I always found something new. A family of rabbits, a conversation with a mockingbird, stashing a makeshift time capsule in the safe crook of a tree.

I really don’t like how far away that feels, sometimes. I get caught up in this day-to-day

Worrying over every word I say

Am I creative or am I just fueled by consumption of media

Am I smart or do I just parrot words that I hear

What part of me is me and what parts are a conglomerate of everything else?

And do I live for myself?

Hard to tell.

I have yet to sort it all out.

Poems · writing

Write My Poetry

Fear of failure I’m close to giving up

Untethered froM reality

The vowels they compound and we—

I’m lost when I’ve fallen into you

Authenticity,

Your electricity

You enrage and enlighten me

Frightening prospects and the sound of your name

Risking a cliche I’m too afraid to say it casts lightning

All the same.

Drunk on my inhibitions,

These admissions,

They’d never let me in.

My ticket was stamped for yesterday and there is no way to see the show, now.

Did I mention feeling exposed? Yes.

Surviving on instinct,

I’m sure I’m meant to act this way, why not?

Who can ever tell, anyway, between what’s real,

What is blocked.

Configurations.

I’ll wait for the circus to come to town

Write to me then, when the madness comes back around


I’ve been a little disjointed lately, and I’m sure this reflects that. Doesn’t that suck? When you feel like you’ve got a grip on yourself and your brain goes “hahahaha nope. You’ve gotta do it again.”? Oh well. It’s fiiiine! It’s fine. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

Poems · writing

A Message

I woke up one morning, seventeen, and a ghost had left a message for me. Ominous words written down in a digital hand, that I have since transcribed to paper. I’ve never been one to believe in visits from another realm, and indeed any “experiences” I’ve had since then have done nothing to recreate the feeling of utter violation and dread I felt that day, reading words that I knew were not mine.

Yet, something about it.

“Where was I half the time?”

Felt vaguely…familiar. The structure of the poem wasn’t my style, but the language seemed close to what I’d written in the past.

Had I somehow found a way to send a message to an earlier-version me? And why 3:29pm? Why hadn’t I noticed it that afternoon instead of the next morning?

I know how crazy this sounds, but I just can’t get it out of my head. Its been almost six years and I still think about it. Nothing I’ve found online can explain where it’s from, they’re not lyrics, not a quote, it’s like they conjured themselves into my phone for me to find and no one else.

I’m attaching a picture from when I wrote the words down in my notebook. I don’t like looking at them too long because they make me feel a little sick, but I’ll copy them below, too, in case my writing was a little shaky.

EDIT: I’m realizing that the original, below, has three opening lines instead of the two I had written down initially. Operator error? Or has it changed again? I need to look into this.


Where was I half the time?

Where was I half the time?

Where was I half the time?

All these colors

All these colors

Haunting my heart

Haunting my heart

Where is my mother?

Where is my father?

Where is my mother?