I remember the first poem I wrote like it was yesterday.

Lyon, France. The dead of July. The heat was all-consuming to the point where I could feel it against my skin. I looked down the long boulevard that seemed to stretch for miles, lined with Linden trees. I felt like this was something I could only put into words on paper.

We sat down to eat dinner, a traditional french meal that oozed beurre and crème, like a dream. I sat down with my ratchet, brown journal that had followed my travels for years and began writing. Here is what I wrote:

french by: sydney j. kuester

the heat was sweltering, it was suffocating

like two large hands grasped around a

much smaller throat,

crushing it with finger

the pavement burned

each step a hotter coal

the corners were desolate

quite with despair

quite with eer

sweat didn't drip but rather scampered.

The year of 2019 was one that crushed me, destroyed me. I felt like a had lost battle after battle.

A way of escapism for me was through writing, specifically poems. At times, I feel as though I can't get my words across for people to understand. It's as though words just won't come out and I feel like it's easier to write it down. It allows me to write my truth, without feeling like I need to change it for the people around me.

Most times when I sat down to write, my choppy thoughts turned into poems. I had always admired poetry. I was constantly that one student in English class that loved the sappy, little poetry unit at the end of the year.

I lived for that.

Reading words from people just like me, who couldn't get what they were feeling into a coherent conversation and instead turned to write. As a way to get through the desolation that was 2019, I wrote poem after poem. About people, places, and emotions.

Once I got to college, I was constantly writing poems. It was something that I would do while walking through campus, right into my notes section on my phone. I filled it to the gill with what I was experiencing and feeling.

Now, you are probably reading this, wondering why I chose to talk about boring poetry. I am simply writing it as a challenge. If you are going through emotions that you can't explain. If you are experiencing a season in life that you can't comprehend, write it down. It could be a ballad or a novel, or it could be a poem. It could rhyme or be scattered.

It is your work. Expression is the most magical art a person can create. Make it your own.

switerland sound by: sydney j. kuester

The bells

A sound ill never forget

Amongst the soft wind

Against the long grass

Dispersed along the mountain top

The trolley rode slowly

The tracks churning

Click, clack

The top, breathtaking

Tiny flowers,

Purple and blue

The melody of the cows

Refracted along the streams of wind

As a large wind chime

Swaying softly

The bells

A sound ill never forget.

a love letter to pain by: sydney j. kuester

please don't forget about me

please don't be bored of me

cuz as much as you make my heartthrob

with every word

my mind knows the truth

nothing gold can stay.

lexington, in fall by: sydney j. kuester

each street unique

twisting and turning

silently full of noise

tudor homes covered in fresh ivy

lined the boulevards

each unique but a mirror

of agreeableness

blue and white debris

on a saturday

fresh picket fences

stretched along broadway

the mixing pot of people

living and learning

it is a love

a welcoming love.