The grass turned green
and the snow melted;
hope came back.
Echoes of strangers saying
“So nice out today,”
followed by another stranger’s
“enjoy it if you can.”
I smile and agree,
I always hated small talk, though.
“Medium iced mocha”
I tell the barista.
“Iced, good choice.”
“So nice out today.”
I pay and take my coffee
to a table in the corner.
If I take my notebook out,
they won’t talk to me.
But is that what I want?
That’s what my anxiety tells me,
but I don’t mind a little small talk
if it leads to a real conversation.
But it always starts with the same
“So nice out today, huh?”
it was summer,
you were warm.
I never wanted perfect,
you knew that.
someday, you’ll know
how all these poems, they’re all for you,
and you’ll apologize.
and I’ll say it’s nothing,
it’s just a poem.
I’m just in love with you,
I don’t have feelings for you.
You couldn’t give me the time of day,
but I wear a watch anyway.
You weren’t there when I needed you,
but truth be told I never needed you.
I needed you in the way I need coffee before bed.
You could be fun for a night,
but I’ll wish I slept instead.
Note: I found this poem I had written a while ago in an old notebook.
I love the feeling of finally being over writer’s block. Writer’s block, as a creative person, leaves me feeling so crummy all the time. It’s repeatedly opening Word documents and closing them only to open another one. It’s wanting to say something but having nothing to say. I can write, but it’ll never be something substantial. It always ends up being something boring, something basic, something I’ve said before. But when I finally am out of it, it’s a clarity like no other. It’s like I was drowning and now I’ve learned to swim.
It’s a blessing and a curse, to be a creative person. It’s a blessing when I’m creating, I feel best when I’m creating, but when I’m doing anything else, it feels like wasted time. I know it’s not, and I’ll just get burnt out if I’m always creating, but I can’t always shake the feeling. It’s good to take a day off or take breaks. I tell myself this. But I’m also the person who will stop everything to write down an idea. I’ve pulled over while driving because I thought of an idea for a story. I feel like my brain is just always thinking about what to write next. As if it’s wired to create.
That’s what’s been on my mind today. I didn’t have any poems to post, so I figured I’d give you guys a look into what’s been going on in my head lately.
Also, I’ve been thinking of maybe writing a poetry book. I have a backlog of poems that admittedly need some work, but those plus some I’ve posted here, I think it’d be cool.
It doesn’t hurt anymore;
I loved you once and I love you still,
but the wind blows different these days.
I worry some days, though,
I’ll never love like I once did,
but I do still love,
it’s just different now.
I love the ocean,
I love big open fields,
I love snowfall when all my plans involve staying in.
But will I ever love another person
as purely as I once loved you?
And do I want to?
It stopped hurting and
I felt something in me change.
I can breathe again.
Fresh frost coats the ground,
people dressed in coats and scarves
shiver and speed-walk to their cars.
Take one step outside,
any grogginess felt before disappears
behind the crisp December air.
Some heat up their car and go back inside,
some didn’t plan that far ahead
and instead shiver on their way to work,
and by the time they get to work
they refuse to leave the furnace they’ve created.
Two workers greet each other with a friendly,
“It’s too cold,”
while the other retorts,
“It’s too early!”
They both take sips of their hot drink,
sigh, and walk into their workplace.
The retail ship is decorated for Christmas,
but no workers have any Christmas cheer left.
The winter snow told me to relax,
things will work out,
just give it time.
And if it’s not okay,
have a cup of tea
and a warm blanket.
Spring will be here
and you’ll be good again.
Winters are for hibernating,
growing and healing.
But then why,
I ask myself,
do I always break down
when winter comes around?
I do miss it sometimes.
I miss the closeness,
I miss the warm feeling-
I’ve been so cold lately.
I fear, as I always do
that I won’t feel it again.
I’m destined for a life
of freezing, bitter winds.
But I’m tired of killing myself
over people who aren’t
worth a scratch or a scrape.
So, I’ll risk the bitter winds,
because I won’t freeze over
and someday I’ll find
someone worth dying for.
It felt like drowning,
yet no one could pull me out of the water.
It felt like a pressure on my chest,
but I was alone in this room.
Once it felt like a burning in my heart,
the kind that made me smile for days on end.
Then it felt like drowning again,
mixed with fire and all I could see was you.
It felt like years,
before I could smile like I once did,
but then I did again,
and it felt like floating.
I miss the feeling,
that feeling of being at home
The only problem is
there is no
There is only
and what good does it do
when it’s late
and I’m freezing over?
My sheets don’t suffice
when all my dreams
are of your cold, bitter winds.