I Am (I Wonder Version)

I am poetic and thoughtful.
I wonder why bluebirds sing.
I hear the brush of angels’ wings.
I see the wind dance like candlelight.
I want wars to end and things to be right.
I am poetic and thoughtful.

I pretend that lilies are fallen stars.
I feel like I could reach the sky.
I touch rose petals that are as soft as silk.
I worry that people are weighed down by guilt.
I cry when I hear sad music play.
I am poetic and thoughtful.

I understand why there is hurt in the world.
I say that there’s beauty in everything.
I dream of warm, green forests with sunlight filtering, illuminating a hidden world.
I try to be responsible in everything.
I hope to someday hear wedding bells ring.
I am poetic and thoughtful.

Dear World, I Am a Writer

Dear World,

I am a writer.

No, I’ve never had one of my poems published.

No, you can’t walk into Barnes & Noble

And see my name on the cover of the latest bestseller.

And that might never happen.

Those things aren’t what make me a writer.

I am a writer because

I don’t know any other way to live.

I am a writer because I see a blank page

Or an empty screen and feel an

Irresistible compulsion to fill it with words.

I am a writer because to me there is

No greater feeling than seeing a page

Covered with my own words.

I am a writer because it makes sense

To me to breathe in ideas like oxygen

And exhale them onto paper.

I am a writer because as a young child

I felt this need to take my crayon

And scrawl nonsense words across my scratch paper

Until there was no more room to write.

It didn’t matter that my handwriting was

Made up of chicken scratches that

Even a chicken couldn’t read.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t know how to

Write any real words besides my own name.

I simply wrote.

I wrote twenty-letter words made up of

 Mostly z’s and x’s because I felt

That those letters were sadly neglected by the

English language and I simply loved the shape. 

I am a writer because I have to write,

Because there is something inside of me

That makes it so that writing is to me

What eating and drinking are to you.

It is a basic need for me.

If you took away my pen

And told me to stop writing,

I would look at you in shock.

Then I would reach for the nearest dictionary

To see if “stop” had somehow become

Synonymous with “start” or “keep”.

After confirming that it hadn’t,

I’d come back and reclaim my pen,

Even if I’d have to wrestle you to the ground,

Slit your throat, and pry it from

Your cold, lifeless hands.

Because to tell me to stop writing

Is the same thing as saying,

“Stop breathing.”

You might never read anything I’ve ever written.

You might not even read this.

If you do read something I’ve written,

You might not understand or enjoy it.

If you happen to read some of my writing

And you do enjoy it or understand it, that’s great.

But if you don’t, I don’t care.

If you want to criticize me,

Don’t bother, because I won’t listen

If you read my writing and want to give

Me advice on how to make it better, I’ll listen,

But I won’t necessarily change anything

Just because you think I should.

Because I don’t write for you.

I will fill line after line,

Page after page, book after book,

Until I fill a library with volumes of my words.

If I write a thousand books and have

A thousand editors write “Who cares?”

In red pen over my words, that doesn’t matter.

Because I care.

And I don’t write for them.

I write for no one but myself.

If I wrote for others,

There would be no joy in it.

I don’t write for the critics, the scoffers, the fools.

I don’t write for the ignorant masses that

Look at a carefully crafted poem and

Cannot find a speck of deeper meaning.

Their opinions mean nothing to me.

I write for myself.

I write, even though sometimes simply the

Act of holding a pen makes

My fingers ache down to the bone.

I write even though sometimes my hands hurt

As I type and fumble over the keys.

And I will keep writing, even if it hurts, because

I know that it would hurt much more to stop.

If I wake up one day and find that I can no longer

Move my fingers that will not stop me.

I will pick up my pen with my mouth

And learn to grip it between my teeth

And make it move across the page to form

The letters I once formed with my hands.

I will use my tongue to press each and every

Key on my keyboard, because even if

I type my words at a snail’s pace

At least the words are coming out.

If my teeth and tongue fail me,

I will hold my pen between my toes

And learn to write that way.

If that fails, I will try something else.

I will stop at nothing to get my words on paper.

I will keep writing.

One day, I will die.

I know it will happen,

And I’m not afraid of it.

But what I am afraid of is that

When my body has turned to ash,

My ideas too will turn to dust,

Be carried away, and disappear

As if they’d never existed.

But if I fill a million pages with my ideas,

At least they will be something tangible,

Something I can hold in my hands, look at, and say,

“I wrote this; this came from my mind, my heart, my soul.”

So, Dear World,

If you remember only one

Thing I say, remember this:

If you want me to stop writing,

You’ll have to kill me first.

And if you do,

If you take me and snap me in half

Like a cheap ballpoint pen,

I will bleed out on you.

I will leave my final writing

Stained permanently on your hands,

Not in scarlet red but with the

Jet-black ink that runs through my veins.

Because I am a writer.

Our Love

There’s something about the way you look at me,

As if I’m the only person that exists.

A look that sets me free,

A look I can’t resist.

Even though distance keeps us apart

And I’ve proven to be weak,

You still trust me with your heart

And you’re still the love I seek.

I want nothing more than to have you

Here by my side

To show you my love is true

And to know that you are mine.

So dearest love stay with me,

Show me worlds unknown.

When I’m with you you’re all I see,

And I want our love to show. 

Cat on a Sunbeam (older, but I'm finally posting it)

Sometimes I wish I could

Make myself smaller.

I wish I could trade my skin

For fur, my nails for claws,

And my hands and feet for paws.

I wish I could peer through glowing eyes

At a world of darkness.

I wish I could sharpen my claws

On the sandpaper of the Earth.

I wish I could curl up in a sunbeam

And purr myself to sleep,

Living a life simpler than this.

Abyss (older, but I'm finally posting it)

The rhythm traipses through

The abyss of mortality.

The breath of winter, with

Its starry icicles clawing at

The heartless moon,

Inscribes its soul on

The wings of my wounded faith.

The twisted vines of

Mermaid dreams

Embellish my marred flesh,

Obscuring the evidence of

My bonfire-bright abhorrence

And mirroring the endless

Seclusion of rock-bottomless

Sorrow and neglect.

Visions of cotton candy

Clouds collide with

The senseless recollections

Of constant criticisms and

Promises rendered empty.

Each mistake and malicious intent

Perpetuates the illusion

Of gossamer existence.

Pungent cologne,

Corpses of patio pain,

The rusted link of a

Chain and shackle that

Should be torn asunder.

Forced thoughts,

Well-meaning people

Attempting to repair me

And bind my wounds,

Illuminate the concealed

Remains of the hollow

Skeleton in the closet

Of my mournful spirit.

wake me (older, but finally posting it)

wake me when the sun goes to sleep

when each shadowed moment is mine to keep

wake me when the hand of time moves slow

and what happens in secret no one will know

We pretend (older, but I'm finally posting it)

We pretend life

is perfect.

We pretend the

masks we wear are

our true identities

and the throbbing pain

deep inside our souls

does not exist.

We pretend the

wind has substance,

that it can be

caught and tamed,

and waste our time

chasing it as if

it is the solution

to all life’s troubles.

We pretend that

truth does not exist,

but pretending

will not make it so.

We pretend,

but in the end

pretending gets us

nowhere.