Here you can find a variety of poems that I wrote myself. I hope my poetry inspires you to write your own!
How can your past
become a stranger?
A cruel and unforgiving
And unfamiliar world?
How can your past
change so violently,
in such little time,
without you even noticing?
How can your past
fade so quickly
and so horribly
into nothingness?
Because your past
is made of people
who loved you
who hurt you
who helped you
and who made you.
And people change.
A week of beautiful water
A calming breeze
A lullaby of waves
A smiling sun
A shady utopia
A week of beauty
Relaxation
Adventure
Shopping
Discovery
And fun
A week of death
Four dead in Gilroy, California
Twenty dead in El Paso, Texas
Nine dead in Dayton, Ohio
Millions of broken hearts across the country
Hundreds of NRA-backed politicians
Who have hundreds of thoughts and prayers
And nothing else
My vacation ended
And I was brought back
To the cruel and painful reality
Of life
In a broken country
Where children
Are killed at festivals
As they try new foods
Where Hispanic people
Are targeted
As they do their shopping
Where young people
Are shot down
As they enjoy a night out with friends
Where no one is safe
From death
At the hands of an amendment
Written to protect us
No one is safe
No one can vacation
Because mass shootings are constant
They are normal
They are perpetual
Unless we wake up
And fight back
And end the madness
Of life
In this broken country
You want to be my lifeguard
But I can only breathe underwater
So I keep myself alive
By drowning in my sorrows
You say I look tired
But I’m just lost in thought
You say I look depressed
But like I said before I’m not
You act like I’m strange
Because I do things my own way
But I’m just not as cool as you
And I think that’s okay
You tell me I’m so quiet
And yes sometimes it’s true
But I’m really only quiet
When I have to talk to you
I swear to you,
There’s a monster
Under my bed.
But if you
Refuse to check,
I’ll pull up the covers instead.
I’ll cover up my head
But soon I will be dead
‘Cause there is a monster
Under my bed.
Pull up the covers,
Ignore the wh- wh- wh- whispers,
Ignore the drip drip drip of blood.
I pull up the covers,
I cover my head,
And hope in the morning
You don’t find me dead.
A sky touched by a painter’s hand.
Glowing rays flood warm faces.
The breeze sings and whispers.
A group of girls sit
Listening
But not listening
To their coach.
He speaks a language
That is foreign
And strange
To the girls picking grass
And watching the sunset
Kiss the horizon.
There is one girl
Who sits still,
Silent,
And listens
To the foreign language
And tries to understand.
But all she understands
Is that the day is beautiful
But her face is stone.
The day is beautiful
But her eyes are cold.
The day is beautiful
But her soul feels empty.
Decisions plague me.
They creep after me,
Laughing from the shadows,
Smiling in the dark.
They haunt my dreams
And they fill my waking hours.
I can’t choose.
I don’t want to choose.
I’m tired of choosing.
No good options,
No bad options.
Nothing I do
Will ever be right…
Or wrong.
So I’ve done it;
I’ve finally chosen.
I’ve chosen to stop choosing
And instead
To buy a magic 8 ball.
It is a silent killer
It creeps through the night,
Hunting for prey,
Searching for weakness.
It settles in,
It finds a home.
First in hearts,
Then households,
Then cities,
Then countries.
It is the opponent
We never know we have.
It is the murderer
We never suspect.
It is the plague
That is forgotten
From the history books.
It is slow-moving,
Deadly,
Silent,
Suffocating,
Horrifying,
Catastrophic.
It is our worst fear
And our biggest flaw.
Apathy.
Tear-stained face
Limbs torn apart
Cold, dead eyes
And a shattered heart
Blinded by rage
Knuckles bright red
A scream escapes her throat
And her heart is dead
Wind hits her cheeks
Her lungs fill with air
Her eyes are now dry
She’s getting there
A smile plays at her lips
Her heart begins to swell
It has been glued back together
All is well
He is driven and ambitious
There’s a fire in his eyes
He never stops his learning
He’s intelligent and wise
His kindness is radiant
It follows where he goes
He’s always willing to teach
And share the things he knows
His serious brain is matched
Only by his sparkling wit
Be wary of what he says
Don’t always believe it 🙂
I don’t think I could ask for
A better teacher or friend
So happy birthday, Grandpa,
And with that I say
THE END.
I’m so full of it.
That feeling
That’s a little hard to describe
And a lot harder to name.
That feeling of love
And light
And happiness
And contentment with the world.
That feeling that makes me glow,
That makes me smile constantly,
As I look around
At the luck I’ve had
These past sixteen years.
I appreciate the past
I anticipate the future
And I adore the present.
Because my life is pretty damn good.
So yeah, I’m full of it.
I’m full of joy
At the fact that
This is my life.
I’m full of love
For my friends
And my family
And my world.
It may be small,
But it’s mine,
And I wouldn’t want it to be
Any different.
I’m so full of that feeling
That I’m ready to burst.
But who knows,
That might just be
All the food I ate.