Poetry

Sunrise

the night

 

she sleeps

deep in meaningless dream

 

a strange sensation

waking up in the deep crimson heartbeat

that is the dawn

 

throwing open the door to let in the world

light floods the room

only knowing the sun’s death

the night owl is entranced by the sun’s rebirth

 

running, now, to the edge of the mighty lake

the sun cuts a bright path on the water

she longs to skip on this road

to the sun

and in this instant she believes there are miracles

 

her mother and father join her in celebration

as the new day is etched in pure gold

she reaches up and cups the newborn sun

in her hand

 

the moment passes

voices break the magical silence

the smell of coffee and pancakes

 

she feels the bubbly secret

of witnessing the miracle of

 

the day

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Poetry

Sonnet

The city glistens in the morning light

that shines upon the people moving fast.

A little girl, pigtails tied up with bright

bubblegum colored ribbons hurries past.

She pauses by the vender stalls to think

and run her quiv’ring fingers through her hair.

Her darting eyes catch sight of red and pink

and rest upon the flowers lying there.

“Here is your daily flower,” says a boy.

The vender hands the girl a sturdy rose.

“Roses are beauties!” the girl says with joy.

She skips along, as love inside her grows.

She brings the rose to stony gardens blue

and sets it on a headstone there. For you.

 

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Poetry

The Taste of Water

cool

smooth

fresh

the whistling wind in autumn leaves

kneeling

nose to the ground

breathing in the musty scent

leaves rustle

life moves

the world hums

peaceful

fresh

smooth

cool

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Poetry

Words, Words

birds flit

flutter, fly

but never will they

rattle or howl

to daintly flit

across the sky

instead of a purr

a yap or a prowl

 

a flit-flutter

pitter-patter

tip-toe tapping

jumpy jiggle

a noise, a sound

what does it matter

if it is

a snort or a giggle?

 

a honk or a beep

a weary sigh

a swish or a splash

an inch or a mile

don’t know about you

but I think that I

would rather grin

than smirk or smile

 

to be mischievous

and have joy

instead of a prankster

and be happy

which is the better

to be quiet or coy

emotional

or sappy?

 

you might argue

hey, these are the same

the synonyms are easy

to see

but, like a religion

a belief or a name

words matter

to me

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Poetry

Navigating the Dark

I’m getting good

at navigating the dark

without a light to guide me,

and I guess I don’t need one

when it’s easy to find your way deeper

without guidance.

 

I’m getting good

at navigating the dark

because I’m not afraid of it anymore,

not afraid of the monsters

that lurk in its depths

or the harm they might bring.

I’m not afraid of them

because I’m no longer afraid of death,

because I cannot fear

a monster I crave.

I no longer fear them

because I have walked through the darkness

in the dead of night

to speak to the worst of them.

 

I no longer run

from the monsters that lurk in the dark.

Instead, I look deep

into their shining yellow and red eyes

and I smile,

and they smile back

and let me pass,

because they know I’m becoming

just like them.

 

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Poetry

Calling to Me, Remember

But there was comfort there

In the pain

In the hurt

A struggle to keep breathing

When you felt you couldn’t move

The triumph of looking back

Of seeing yourself working

Loving

Living

While struggling to break free

Fighting against your thoughts

 

I was broken

But I was a warrior

The pills took that fight away

They replaced my ocean with a lake

They took the sinking sand around me

And placed me on concrete floors

Somehow

I feel more alive

And less myself

 

Sometimes I fear those pills

I’m scared they took away my ability to think

My ability to create

My will to struggle

 

If there is nothing stopping me from going forwards

Nothing in my way pushing me back

What reason is there for me to do it

 

After living a life

With impossible obstacles

After wandering through deserted woods

The paved road is uninviting

And tempts me to return

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4
Poetry

How to Create Art

Editor's Note:

Lack of punctuation and capitalization is intentional.

first you must open your eyes

and watch the world

see time crawl

see it whiz by

see the colors hidden in shadows

see the heat from the sun

see soft

see rough

see the slope of the earth

see joy

see pain

see the creatures in the trees

see young

see old

see the sun’s rebirth

see light

see dark

see the leaves in the breeze

see all that the world has to offer

then

create

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Poetry

ocean shores.

Editor's Note: 

The lack of capitalization is intentional. Enjoy!

the crest of her lips

is the tide by which

you fall. gulls sing

your praise as you

reach, fingers grasping,

for a love never there.

 

you dash yourself on her

rocks. worn cold, bloody as

you are, you are helpless to

the curve of her claws as they

dig heartbreak into the already

empty chasm of your chest.

 

the sand is cold and strewn with

the bodies of others you thought you

could outlast. you ache, nevertheless,

for the gentle red of her legs stretched

around you, the quiet hum of her heart.

you taste sand, and it tastes like her.

 

she is eternal, like the ocean,

and every bit as beautiful,

and vindictive.

 

 

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Poetry

Burning Like Lava

Like a teapot I boil,

Like a volcano I explode.

There is no in between

When it comes to my anger mode.

 

It bubbles in the cauldron

Deep in my heart,

Waiting for just that little something

To make the flaming rain start.

 

A barrage of words I never use,

Evil laced with venom on my tongue,

I scream and cry and refuse

That I could possibly be wrong.

 

I can’t just say ‘I’m angry’

I always hide when I’m sad,

Because pain isn’t something you share, is it?

Yet why do I hide that it feels so bad?

 

I cry out because I’m angry,

And being angry gives me pain-

As if my heart is about to burst

Into a bath of bloody rain…

 

Listen well, if you might

And if nothing else, remember this:

It’s best to be honest from the start.

Instead of at war, you’d surely feel bliss.

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21
Poetry

Autopilot

The rises and falls are frequent,

somehow,

should there exist a possibility

of waves being locked in,

no,

waves being pumped from

this cardiac muscle?

The walls of my chest

must be holding

the bottom of an ocean,

A barrel, quite strong enough

to hold crests and troughs

A drum, so loud

so loud only when you’re near.

I could not be mistaken,

could I?

Science has taught me

that the moon can pull

all moving waters

the Earth cannot hold onto.

You must be made out of

the celestial bodies I’ve known

like the back of my hand,

affecting,

no,

messing

with all the supposed

gravitational pull,

How can you pull

all heartstrings in my chest,

the ones I can never hold onto?

I must be a planet.

The rises and falls are frequent,

somehow,

since when did my heart

start running on autopilot?

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31