What if I could

What if I could write a poem
about the sun/ that would make you feel its warmth on your face
about her/ she’d feel like an old friend
about that day/ you would know how hard my heart pounded

What if I could write a poem

that left footprints in the sand/ followed by the curious

that clung to your arms

that never let you go

What if I could write a poem

that would leave you awake at 2AM/ eyes wide open/ searching for answers

that would make you call me/ demanding the answers you couldn't find in the glow in the dark stars on your ceiling/ (it's so nice to hear your voice)

that would make you wish you could forget my words/ so you can read them for the first time, once more

What if I could write a poem

like that?

What then?

if I write a poem

if a tree falls in a forest
and no one is around to hear it,
does it make a sound?

if I write a poem
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a sound?

if I write a poem
and it heals a scar on my soul,
if I write a poem
and it gives me peace of mind,
if I write a poem
and then throw it away...

all those poems were still written
even if I was the only one around
just like they would still have been written if a million people heard me

if I write a poem
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a sound?

poems are not trees
they are forests
and the creatures that live there
poems are living, breathing forests
and they all make
a lot of noise

i am not

if you had asked me who i was
(before) well,
i was taught to never
say, "I don't know."
so,
i would have had an answer for you

perhaps in poetic form
because that is what i do
but

"i am" poems are
overrated

i am not the
scratch of words across the page
or the pencil that just won't sharpen
i am a person
a writer at my very core,
strip away all of my layers
and words are what you will find

i am not the
tree that died to give
space to new life
i am a person
who lets everyone
trample all over me

i am not the
saxophone falling flat on every note
or the one that will give you sounds
that'll make you feel at home
i am a person
who needs music playing at all times
who feels the emotions of
every song in their bones
who plays the sax so lovely and yet
sometimes, so bad

if you had asked me who i was
(before) well,
i was taught to never
say, "I don't know."
so,
i would have had an answer for you

that was before,
before the day i heard a whisper
floating amongst the trees
telling me that i would
grow to unlearn
so much of what had been taught to me
before i could think for myself
i would do this in order to
reshape the knowledge
so that it held more people safe inside

people have more layers
than what they like or what they do

if you ask me who i am
(today) well,
i will have to say, "i don't know"
but, please, don't walk away
before i get a chance to add
that i am beginning to find out
(and that is a beautiful thing)

snippets of her mind [updated]

she thought she could write
poems using snippets of
her mind, but when it all
unraveled

she couldn’t
make sense of it

what was this new
layer, she asked
why does this memory
feel tainted,
spray painted
with regret, thin enough
to see through to what
she used to believe
was true-

she was stunned,
started backtracking, but got
turned around, lost in a forest
of memories and
miscommunication

she was too young then,
but now she has the
instincts, as women do,
to know it wasn't right

she thought she could write
poems using snippets of
her mind, but when it all
unraveled

it was too dark
for her to see anything

pieces of myself

i have these poems.
all incomplete.
in tatters, delicate
pieces of myself that i don't
want to break
feelings
happen to be irreplaceable.

i have these thoughts.
they won't fall into line.
blurred.
incomprehensible.

i have this love
i want to share
this fear
i hate to admit
this past
i need to work through

it all comes together
but whether it sticks
or not
depends
on the
humidity

words are falling out of my pockets

words are falling out of my pockets
overflowing, i can't get it all down
in time to catch them from their
fall, their tumble out of existence,
out of sight, out of mind
i need more pockets
more bags
more boxes
to hold these-
words that come to me, i need them
to hold on tighter, until i have a pen

words are falling out of my pockets

and this is an apology 

to the ones i couldn't catch

as writers.

This is my 200th poem on this blog since I started it 2,453 days ago (~6 years and 9 months) with my first poem, "Mother" 10/08/12 when I was 10-years-old.

as writers, we
often try to figure out
why we are
writers.
to decipher the mechanisms
in our brain that makes us
relive our pain over and over
just to get the poem right

I’ve heard that we’re seekers
mining for some truth;
others say we are looking for
explanations into our reactions to
our own traumas;
others claim downright insanity;

what about none of those
and all of them at once
what about the itch
to explain all of our truths
and explanations and insanity
to whoever will read it

Curiosity

Sometimes, I want to write,
but don’t know where to start.

I can’t explain the crashing seas
in my lungs or the buzzing bees
in my chest; my heart implodes
touching everything I’ve laid eyes on.

It’s crazy, to spell it out,
Believing I can capture
Curiosity.

I want to explore the world-
to crawl along its surface,
to read every alphabet,
to taste every story.

The words are close-
on the tip of my tongue, as they say-
But, I don’t know where to start
to paint the face of the world I see.

How do I describe a child’s big eyes?
What lyric could capture sunlight?
I want to stop birds mid-flight,
to ask them about the view.

I want to stop birds mid-flight
and beg them, “Take me with you.”

Soul on Keyboards

I write and I write
and I write and I write-
can you hear me?

Secrets are slipping through
my fingers, landing on the keys beneath,
don't worry, the letters stay put,
but my fingers are sliding
passion clouding my reason,
but I swear--
if you would just listen.

am I showing my soul?
place a world at my feet
and I will roll around in the mud
until I find the gem so full
of color that it drips
from its cracks

cracks like the ones
in my timeline, my story,
that I've created with
mistakes

ones that I've filled with gold.

A Runaway

Scuttling in the rafters,
I hear it, but don’t move
hoping to catch it by surprise.
I hold the empty page
of my worn notebook
- tattered with every thought I've ever managed to get down -
open,
ready to snap close on the idea.

This particular rascal is
running around my house
at the moment,
knocking over
meticulously stacked books and empty coffee mugs
and tearing up
every stray loose leaf
I had laying around.

“No!” I scold my poem,
her words at the tip of my tongue,
“We don’t run with knives! I repeat-”

She stops for that, but only to
wag her finger at me,
“Don’t bother writing
any words at all,
if they aren’t meant to wake someone up.”

And maybe she’s right.
If only she’d let me
write her down
on even just a napkin.

20 Words

It is simple, really, to leave a long lasting mark on this world because you will always have one thing.
Tens of thousands of years, and more than that of inconspicuous little things that have no real value alone.
Now, these things are curious, in the way they are set in stone, yet sometimes change without warning.
You may find yourself bonding with them in a completely abstract manner that haunts for the better.
I would like you to consider learning about them in depth just to grasp it all.

Physical remnants can be left, of course, but I encourage acknowledging the ripples you make.
The possibility of imprinting on someone else’s experience should be regarded with sincere care.
You may not yet understand my message so I would like to reiterate.

To leave your strongest mark you must understand each of them individually.

Wait. Noted, alone, they can give certain amounts of moldable information.

Just don’t forget that your real power here is design.
So many possibilities await because you become a magician.
Thought altering spells, but what are your goals?
Witches, who turn petty tyrants into frogs?

I hope you make it right.
This place that hates truth.

If you just look.
Find your Light.
Scream it.
Words.