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and when we got tired of god

the people shook Him down from the heavens

we carved something new from His bones

a cycle He had started long ago in His first garden

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I used to hate poetry

But I think I’ve changed my mind

It’s awfully hypocritical to start off a post this way when all I do is wax poetic online about my own stupidly small problems

I think my problem with poetry was that I was experiencing it in 2D

A poem is when you’re next to the love of your life, watching the sunset off of her New York City fire escape, 5 months before you’ll even kiss for the first time but so so so sure you are head over heels in love with them

A poem is also consoling your friend over Minecraft’s in-game chat because she was just broken up with; it is poetry that she told her ex she’s blocking her and if she needs to contact her again, she has her email

A poem might be lost in though during a daily smoke break; A poem is definitely the album created of the cats you see watching you through your neighbors windows while you’re on your daily smoke break

A poem is a line your friend says to you so casually they barely notice it, but since that moment, it hasn’t left your head

“These are easy problems to have”

“It’s nice to have another heartbeat in the house”

“I think life does get better”

A poem is a blurry picture I took on my iPhone last night of you because we were so happy we never wanted the moment to end

A poem is looking into your family dogs eyes and seeing years and years of so much love

A poem is looking into your newly adopted cats eyes and for the first time, watching him slow blink back at you

Poetry is in motion. It’s in the moment. It’s an experience more than written words. And I think I hated that I could read all about it, but I’ll never really be in the shoes of the author. There’s no way to go back and capture the last rays of sun before it sets and there is no way to preserve an emotion from reinterpretation and misconception. You had to be there. You had to feel it.

Maybe it’s hypocritical to end this without a conclusive statement of why. Why poetry matters. Why do I even care. But if I did, would this even be a poem?

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Packing up to leave my childhood bedroom

How can a place feel so much like home and make me so homesick all at once

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if I took the world off of atlas's shoulders would he thank me or is he just so used to the oppressive weight that without it holding him down he might just drift away. to him, there is no other choice except to replace it himself.

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and for every hard thing I cannot bring myself to do

I take an easy one away

because if I cannot force myself to be happy one way

how dare I try to in any other

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I don’t think I’ve ever done anything in moderation. There’s either too much or never enough before I’m too hurt to continue on.

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How can a heart love if it does not bleed for it

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Hozier b like "hey girl what if the ceaseless battle between unconquerable suffering (as a consequence of existence), and the indomitable human spirit, was just. in ur earphones. What if the constant tug of war between the limitlessness of love and inevitability of heartache was literally injected into u via sound. Like. just playing in ur ears for an hour. Take my hand. Let's take a stroll through hell, baby :) wouldn't that be gre- why are you crying"

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Reality fits me like a loose glove, trying so desperately to warm my numb fingers.

Fog hugs me throughout the day, a robe I forgot to shed in the morning light

Time is a well dressed tomb i forage within

I take my pills and take my mind off of it

Floating away - I almost remember what it was like on that playground when we were kids

I am mad I am not high but highly afraid of what that might mean

I shake my head again to tear apart the cloudiness again

Bedtime is a lie perpetuated by the soft glow coming from my windowsill. I have already missed my deadline.

It’s searching for a needle in our full size bed, trying hard to ignore a story of a friend of a friend, walking around for two weeks with a sewing needle in their heel

I have all the pieces but I refuse to put together the bigger picture

The self destruction I seek doesn’t come easily; it is only fulfilling for a brief second before it is far too late to dull the pain

A fissure too deep to close in one late night

I look for you beside me in the bed. I know I will not see you and I will sleep without rest.

The consequences of actions I am too scared to make bear the most weight upon my shoulders. I choose not to make them instead

One day if I am lucky I will recreate an “I do this I do that” poem.

But I am only brave enough to try right now.

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They think that just because our love couldn’t fit into heaven that we must be destined for hell.

The only thing that could contain our love is our sweet embrace; if there is no room for us elsewhere, you have always been all I need.

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The concept of visiting home

How can you visit somewhere that is a feeling? A place or person you carry with you in your heart? What is a home but a collection of lovely memories you associate with the four walls that keep them in?

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Our nightly routine; I brush and braid your hair before sleep. A simple gesture, but a favorite of ours nonetheless. Your skin is soft, and I smell the citrus of your shampoo settling around me. It is a full kind of quiet, one that is filled with the hum of “I love you”’s that are heard before anything is said out loud.

How many women have sat before me in this same position? Brushing their lovers hair so gently. Thinking of what might come next. Of how they are so full of love. There must be thousands of others just like us. For some, maybe it was a hidden whisper, a secret kept between, something left in the depths to not be discussed tomorrow, a love tinged with fear of discovery and filled to the brim with bravery, choosing to love deeply in spite of fear. Or perhaps for others it was a bold gesture in the streets, a defiant badge of honor, something that is shared proudly and loudly between the two, a cry from the rooftops of “I love her, I love her, please see me”.

So many women have come before us and so many will come after. There are so many shared experiences in life; in this moment, even our love feels bigger than the two of us alone.

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The inherent guilt following a good day

I wish one day there will be no harm behind realizing I deserve nice things

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For the first time in a long time, my tears taste like love instead of guilt

I savor the taste; soft summer dew drops, sun shower rain, a smile you can’t get off your face no matter how hard you try

My only hope is that the next ones I cry will be as just as sweet

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Things are simple and life is good for today. There is nothing more I can ask for than this.

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“I dreamed about you last night”

“We were just cuddling”

“It was exactly what we were doing in real life but also in my dream.”

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Shaking, wet and cold

We are split and disbanded

What a fitting end to our time together