#officiallypoetry

[officiallydoubtful]

I wouldn't say I write poetry.

I more so force words into a mold of the emotion I want to portray. I push and prod and tear and twist, shoving words together like two pieces of a puzzle not meant for one another. I stitch and sear ideas together, conjoin fabric with metal. I saw muscle and rend flesh from bone to connect joints of my own creation. I care not for what it was before, only what it will be.

So no, I do not write poetry.

I mold it. I, ruthless and unrelenting, carve it out of the earth by force, without apology.

I destroy what it once was for my own gain.

Do not mistake my poetry for something soft, delicately drawn with flowing ink.

I carved this into the world. I created it.

I made this. With my own two hands.

Look at the ink staining my teeth like blood as I repeat, I made this.

I did not write it.

I made it.

[officiallydoubtful]

Here's the thing about joy. Joy likes to play hide and seek. You'll find it in unexpected places. You'll find it in places it's hidden before. You'll find it in plain sight too. It's not always the best at hiding.

I have found joy buried beneath the towels in my hallway closet. I have found joy underneath the kitchen sink of my best friends house. I have found joy hiding behind the sugar in my cabinet. I have found joy peeking out behind the leaves of trees. I have found joy sitting in the bottom of my backpack after a stressful night at home. I have found joy in many, many places.

You see, Joy is like a toddler. They never want to go to bed. They LOVE sweets. They love being with their friends. They like movies and stuffed animals and being outside. They like to yell and dance and sing.

They like to play hide and seek.

It may be hard to find them sometimes, but listen for the giggling. It always gives them away.

[officiallydoubtful]

Sometimes, when I drive past an unfamiliar place with trees, I think to myself, "These trees do not know me. They do not know my hobbies. Nor my interests. Nor my background. These trees do not know me like my trees know me. They do not know I apologize to every sproutling I step upon. They do not know I say hello to every squirrel. These trees do not know what music I listen to. Nor what books I read. Nor what poetry I create. These trees do not know I will never help them grow. These trees do not know I will never be their executioner. These trees do not know me. These trees will likely never know me."

So yes, when I stand next to a tree, I do feel small. But not for the reason you might first believe.

[officiallydoubtful]

You never know who someone could be. They could be an angel. They could be the devil. No matter, I will treat them just the same.

[officiallydoubtful]

In honor of Halloween, I wrote a little poem about a skeleton, a ghost, and an unexpected friendship. :DD

A skeleton sits on his gravestone.

It is cold, he thinks,

Cold, but not lonely.

For across the graveyard,

A ghost floats above her headstone.

She is shy, the skeleton thinks,

For she hasn't come over to say hello yet.

It is only these two in the graveyard tonight.

It is Halloween, and so all the others are out,

Visiting families or their old neighborhoods,

Keeping an eye on their children and grandchildren

As the living wander, dressed as the dead.

The skeleton does not know why she has stayed tonight,

He would like to know why, he thinks.

Maybe she stays because it is quiet tonight.

She waves at him.

Maybe she isn't as shy as he thought.

He waves back at her.

Maybe he isn't as scary as she thought.

They talk throughout the night,

They learn more about each other,

They learn why neither leaves the yard come Halloween,

They learn they'd rather stay by each other.

They learn what it is like to live, even when you are no longer alive.

[officiallydoubtful]

The old king sits on his throne

His son is long gone,

But will be long known.

The old king sits on his throne

It used to seat another

That another is gone.

The old king sits on his throne

Sweet memories often turn bitter

But sweet is how he keeps his.

The old king sits on his throne

His people are not yet used to him again

They miss their old ruler still.

The old king sits on his throne

His title returned to him

By the death of his prince.

The old king sits on his throne

He grieves

He rules.

The old king sits on his throne.

He has no heir.

He is alone.

The old king sits on his throne.

[officiallydoubtful]

I am standing outside,

In the snow,

In a tank top and shorts,

Staring at the sky.

I need not explain myself further.

That is poetry enough.

There is no other

Way to explain it.

I am standing

Outside

In the snow

In a tank top and shorts

Staring

At the sky.

[officiallydoubtful]

A Mug Telling of Memories

Every so often I dig out an old tea mug.

Its an old ceramic thing,

Chipped on the rim and made of memories.

With a look of being long-loved,

This mug tells many stories

To those it trusts,

To those it loves.

Of late nights spent staring at papers,

Deciphering instructions like long dead languages.

Of early mornings spent staring

Out at a barely risen sun,

Of knowing I should still be asleep,

But not quite wanting to be.

Of breakdowns and healing,

Of tough times and spontaneous projects,

Of barely spoken conversations,

Of words shared and filled by love,

Of words born of grief and stained by tears.

By simply holding this old tea mug

In between my two shaking hands,

Leeching warmth from the drink within,

This simple ceramic mug,

With its chip on the rim,

And all of its simple glory,

I know myself in every way I could have ever needed to know myself,

And I find that deep down,

I know I am ready to move on,

To become more of myself.

I find this mug has helped me,

And I am ready to continue on,

And so I put it back into its place,

Leave it to lie in wait for the next time

I yearn for memories unspoken.

For the next time I need to dig out an old tea mug.

[officiallydoubtful]

I stare at the mirror.

There's movement within.

I raised my hand.

I am not smiling.

My eyes are blank

The blue is pretty

My head tilts.

I have not blinked.

My hair shifts.

The background is blank

The blue is pretty

I waved my hand.

It waves back.

I feel blank

The blue is pretty

I have not blinked.

My hair shifts.

An eye gets covered.

I am not smiling.

My face is blank

The blue is pretty

A clock ticks.

There is movement.

The mirror is blank

The blue was pretty.

[officiallydoubtful]

Something about the color red.

Prideful and joyous,

A loud thing that

Makes me feel alive in every sense.

Something about the color red.

Bright and hungry,

An aching thing that

Makes me yearn to feel feeling.

Something about the color red.

Burning and building,

A haunting thing that

Makes me wish I couldn't see.

Something about the color red.

Shrieking and shining,

A macabre thing that

Makes me understand the horrid truth.

Something about the color red.

Something about life.

Something about love.

Something about hate.

Something about blood.

Something about fear.

Something about the color red.

[officiallydoubtful]

Of What I Am.

I sit still and silent as I ponder the complexities of reality,

Trying desperately to ease the uncomfort of having skin,

Of having form.

I tend to reach for philosophy as a means of self expression,

Weaving my sorrows and ideologies into a quilt of poetic ramblings,

Of disconnected thoughts.

I am a patchwork of a person in all the ways I could be,

Loose stitching and frayed fabric are not so unbecoming of me,

Of my personality.

I choose to live a life of complete and utter contradiction, 

Playing an act that is an unpredictable loose cannon of a role,

Of an actor.

I am in no need of a savior to change my life's tides,

To challenge the innate and meticulous waves of my every decision,

Of my freedom.

I do what I can to show I am a person of understanding nature,

That the way I am is not necessarily evidence of some monumental flaw,

Of a colossal mistake.

I have no desire to change others' perceptions surrounding my character,

So that they may imagine for themselves the wildfire of who I am,

Of What I Am.

[officiallydoubtful]

An Ode to Icarus

Reach for the sun, Icarus,

And do not stop reaching.

Do not listen to those who wish you to fall.

Allow your wax-tipped wings to brush the sky,

And greet the Sun with a smile!

Fly, dear Icarus!

You should not have to fall

To be free.

[officiallydoubtful]

There are three dandelions standing alone in my back yard. My parents mowed just two days ago. And yet, there three dandelions stand.

[officiallydoubtful]

I am built of quiet eyes, soft and hopeful smiles, and a heart that screams to please notice me, acknowledge me, I am a person, please just love me.