If anyone knows me, truly knows me, they know that I love writing in all its forms-- including poetry. While poetry often times intimidates young writers, it is something I've found great reprieve in and rely on greatly. I would not have been able to make it through of life's greater challenges had it not been for poetry. Every emotion I felt during those times was transformed into words. Every story of pain was transformed into something beautiful-- my methodology of coping. I urge you all to do the same. Let writing be the thing that guides you, the thing that heals you, the thing that pieces you back together again. Here are just a few of my poems, some written during moments of glee, others written in times of despair. I am a firm believer in allowing your emotions guide your writing, as I have done below.
On love at its purest, most innocent form.
What is Love.
We laid there, silently
Allowing the cicadas to envelop us with their song
Allowing the moon to encapsulate us in her warm glow
The blades of untrimmed grass dug into our bare legs
But we didn't mind
He turned to me and suddenly the moon wasn't my only source of light that night
A smile fell upon his lips
“What is love to you?” he asked
I paused. I answered.
“When you fall asleep, longing to be in their arms, your head atop their bare chest, haunted by the thought of how inconceivably blissful it’d be.
When you lay awake and you wish they were beside you, sleeping peacefully, their chest pulsating with the steady rhythm of their heartbeat, their cheeks rosy with life.
When you have a bad day and all you want is to run into their welcoming arms, where you feel safe
where everything is better.
When you’re having a good day and everything has worked out favorably and all you want is to be able to share that special moment with them.
When you see something funny and you can’t help but imagine what their laugh would sound like if they saw it too.
When you see something beautiful, something so magnificently glorious, and you find yourself wishing they could be there, with you, in that moment, to share it with you.
You are in love.
That is love.”
He smiled again.
Bigger than the first.
“What is love to you?” I tentatively asked, my words reverberating in the cool air.
“It’s you,” he said.
“Love is you.”
On falling for the wrong person and meeting the right one.
Consequently the boy with the dimples and jade green eyes said all the right things.
Unfortunately, he knew just where to kiss me to send shivers up my spine.
And exactly the right rhythm to make my heart sing.
Tragically, he knew the right remedy to alight my eyes in a jovial shine.
Regrettably, I had hung on his words, had savored his kisses.
Had fallen for his pretty little lies.
And now I’m left to reminisce,
Because I hadn’t the proper sight to see right through your guise.
No longer are my eyes clouded, my judgment obscured.
No longer will I bare all.
Forced to fall.
Where you left only gloom,
He made joy resume.
On the mysteries we all harbor.
The Dance Within
A single brown tendril fell upon his eye
He shook it off, as if the tendril was a nuisance he wished to disappear
I studied it as it resumed its proper place
I studied the eye that had just been obscured by that tendril
I studied the way the colors intertwined so brilliantly
The way pools of green met pools of deep blue
an entanglement of glorious blues, greens, grays
The way the colors danced together, as if preforming a ballet performance one moment, and a rapid tango the next
It wasn't merely the color that attracted me to his eyes that day-
It was the emotions they conveyed so eloquently
Better than words ever could
They were deceptive yet revealing
They displayed passion, adoration, sadness, joy, and despair all at once
The dance within his eyes wasn't always graceful, nor beautiful
Sometimes it was chaotic, clumsy, inharmonious
But I so desperately longed to bring rhythm to this dance within.
On losing grasp of love.
The Loveliest Sound
nothing sounded quite as lovely as the way you said my name- the breathless way in which you spoke, and the manner in which you affectionately lingered on the last syllable.
it was the loveliest sound.
until you used it to say goodbye.
On passions and how they shape us.
I am a Writer.
I am the pen that gracefully glides across the paper, weaving itself through the harsh confines of lines
I am every poignant word that alights my pages with a warm glow
I am every messy, chaotic thought that enters my messy, chaotic mind
I am every emotion eloquently conveyed through my words
I am every coffee spill and torn page
I am every scribble and scratch
I am every late-night thought that tenaciously demands to be heard
I am every discarded page and every deleted file
I am the tattered journal that contains my colorful thoughts
I am every click click click of the keyboard as my fingers and mind join in harmonious unity
I am every bout of writer’s block that dares to threaten my work
I am every sonnet, haiku, and stanza
I am every unfinished manuscript, every forgotten poem, every story without an end
I am a writer
and I am my writing.