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Reading And Writing - Blog Posts
i think writers don’t understand that siblings being enemies/on opposing sides would be so much more impactful if they allowed them to still laugh at the inside jokes they share
I'm a complex little thing
and you're woven into my shards
such a part of me
that I'll never let you go
kiddos
these kids lick everything they touch, I swear
they ask a question per sentence at least
their emotions are big and volatile and scary
and I look at the messy hair and sticky fingers
and I want to scoop up every single kid I see
and tell them to stay little for just a tiny bit.
Keep painting, playing, telling crazy stories,
because one day, someone is going to tell
these hyper, beautiful, creative, perfect kids
that they aren't worth the space they consume
and they might believe it.
So stay sunny, you little kiddos. Please.
The world needs you.
connect
I'm bluetooth headphones
always activiating at inconvenient times
glitching into normal phone calls
longing for soft sound to pass through me
to feel connected
to something other than myself
what does this moment want to say
in it's complicated quiet way?
what small secrets are cowering in the corners
of my tangled twisted mind?
what shadow wants to kiss the light
with a million tired words?
I stare at the blank paper
and wonder.
Write
Why?
Why do I do this?
I sit at my keyboard, picking at useless letters,
trying to chart the unmappable.
If I thought that a single word I wrote would comfort someone,
or touch someone's grief, or reflect someone's joy,
I would never stop.
But some days, I do.
I stop, and I pick through my poems
and I wonder why.
Why do I even try?
My shaky metaphors and weak adjectives will never know
what it means to be human.
I will never know how to share how anxiety sits on my chest,
or how excitement taps its irregular rhythm through my respiration,
or how my lip shivers so gently when I'm about to cry.
If I thought one person would read my poems and think,
"Wow, she really felt the same way I do,"
I would pour every goddamn emotion I've ever felt into words.
I would never sit, idly as a fallen leaf, wondering how I can live.
I would never ignore the vague compulsion to write.
I would never second guess if something was worth publishing.
If I knew that a solitary person felt or remembered an emotion through something I wrote, maybe I would know why I write.