My Poem - Blog Posts
To create
I have been itching to create something,
to have my fingers covered in bright paint.
I just want to make something worth loving.
Bright colored art to make life seem less quaint,
dull tones to assure you, it will be alright.
Paintings big enough to cover a wall.
Five sculptures, all worth being basked in light.
Too much art to fill just a single hall
I want to cover canvas with dark ink.
To make something that evokes emotion
With shadows and highlights that make you think.
Maybe it will be a dark, vast ocean.
All I can say is that until I do,
I must settle and cherish the sky’s blue
explode
I am afraid of so much.
Of getting older.
Of change.
Of moving on.
Of sleep.
Of school.
Of never finding love.
Of routine.
Of the fact that my friends probably don’t love me.
Of failure.
Of loss.
Of me.
My collection of fears has grown so large, that my brain has become a museum for them.
Stuffed to the brim.
But new fears continue to be added to my collection everyday.
I wonder to myself, in a whisper of thought, “Will I have enough space?”
Or will my brain overflow and explode.
That is my greatest fear.
Explosion.
The Moon Is Charging
My Brain Is Burning
The Phone Is Dying
And My sanity Is wilting
My Cat Sleeps Soundly
Paws On My Face
The Crickets Chirp Louder
The More My Minds Race
I Don't Feel Attached
But I'm In Pain
How Can I Get Rid Of This Feeling
When All I Have Left Is Insane
Can Someone Take It Away
I Feel All Alone
My Cat Purrs Louder
And Reminds Me I'm Home.
A Basil-inspired poem I made a few months ago :D
🌻
Sand bags Piled onto my shoulders One On The Other On The Other On The Other On Me Needing it to end I drop one of the sandbags But it falls Into my garden Of dreams Suffocating my plants Crushing my flowers But at least The weight is gone For now Until the next sandbag Is placed On my shoulders
Tending to my garden Watering the flowers Pruning the leaves Waiting for the blooms Of the flowers that are long dead Crushed by the weight But Continue To try to save what's left Of the dead flowers The withered white tulips The sunflowers that have gone Too long without the sun's Golden rays Until the sun returns And warms the garden again But the dead flowers Are gone So maybe it's time To plant new seeds In the soft soil And begin again
I wait patiently Tending to the seeds Waiting for the first sign Of soft green leaves Emerging from the earth And eventually As the sun shines And I continue To water The small seeds Of hope Eventually The seeds Turn To Sprouts And my garden Begins to bloom And to thrive And the flowerbuds bloom And the white tulips unfurl Green leaves And the sunflowers Face the sun And all is right And the garden grows Once again
Memory of a Soup
In my kitchen bubbles a soup.
Simmering around a bundle of scraps
are pieces of a meal left to remain.
Sitting in a bag for months at a time,
Meals that I shared with people,
Ones that aren't here now.
It sits alone now,
with me, like my soup,
in a room with no other people.
Sitting in tinting water are the scraps,
steeping liquid with the essence of time.
There is a deep gold as remain.
Golden memories remain,
And they are made liquid now.
A pot containing fragmented time.
Is soup really about soup?
Is it about the scraps,
or perhaps about the people?
I think about the people,
as I strain the golden remain
from the old, useless scraps.
They are a piece of it now,
a droplet of warm memory in soup.
A way to contain months of time.
The golden stock burbles over time.
Still, there come no people,
and I am alone with my soup.
Within its quiet flavor, I remain,
tasting pieces of memory in the now.
But all I feel like is discarded scraps.
I put new scraps
in a bag to freeze time.
The soup boils now,
and yet there are no people.
A pile of ingredients remain
alone in a pot of unshared soup.
There's no memory in these new scraps
because there are no people.
It boils away for hours at a time,
until theres only ingredients that remain.
I eat alone and quiet now
as the warmth of love leaves my soup.
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