I will build you a house
like it's meant to be
where nothing is a coincidence
or just is.
where you can read along every line
thoughts meet at every corner
the windows won't just look in or look out
but also look back
I will plan with precision
and lay every brick down with intent.
knowing me,
it won't be symmetric or beautiful
but it will be earnest and it will be for you.
This much I promise.
It is a spiral
not up, not down
but to the middle
the long way round
round and round
slowly but surely
we will get there
except of course,
if it isn't a spiral at all
and we are running
round and round
in circles.
We are young but not young enough to be carefree
We are old but not old enough to be responsible.
We can see change so close we can almost touch.taste.
We are restless to leave but afraid of letting go.
We are not the future anymore.
We are the present.
We have our whole life ahead of us.
We just figured out it is way more tricky than we thought.
We may have time but our time to make mistakes is running out.
We heard this was normal. those who made it insisted.
We can't understand how anything this nerve wracking is normal.
We wonder where those who don't make it are sent.
We had a lot of lessons in the art of growing up.
We feel cheated and uneducated and unready.
We get frustrated and insecure and frustrated with being insecure.
We know it's not the end of the world, only some days we hope it is.
We feel alone in crowds.
We would much rather be alone in our rooms.
We are young enough and angry enough and naive enough to put the world on hold
and dance to our favorite songs
and laugh at our problems
and trivialize our fears
and crib about salt shakers
and other things that don't matter
with people who do
and it's okay.
We're okay.
This isn't some childish desire
to stay a mystery
or that I like ambiguity.
This is a guessing game
with the odds stacked against me
I'm going to need a lot of luck indeed
to fill these gaps in me
half as well
as your imagination does.
embers
of forgotten times
that burnt a lot brighter.
quiet
after an animated conversation
having run eachother
out of breath
and out of words.
stolen glances,
unsaid words,
and careless shrugs.
A battle
against the force of habit
longing
for the memory
of a time
when
I had you
and
you had me.
My imaginary friend
who I used to pretend
held the other end
to the conversations in my mind,
hasn't lately been around
because now, all of them,
these conversations in my head
have me, it would seem,
sprawled at the edge of your bed.
If two roads did diverge in a wood,
I'm sure someone would have
raked, paved and painted both
to charge for passage at either end.
because when morning arrives,
with its well pressed suits and ties
In reality's harsh weather, poetry dies.
I'm lost in space and
it's all around me, black.
I look in the mirror and
my fears are showing, black.
I laugh out loud and
my tears are flowing, black.
I dance bare foot and
my toes are bleeding, black.
I fall free, too fast and
hit too fast, the bottom, black.
I burn brightly lit and
there is nothing but ashes, black.
I sleep to certainty and
everything fades to black.
Friends and family
can show up support and cheer.
but when push comes to shove,
It's only you in the battlefield
with your demons.
You are inside your head here,
After all.
I want to read a lot of Neruda,
then write a lot like Neruda.
The thing is,
I've read Neruda before
that didn't make me want to read more,
or write at all.
guess what's changed