This afternoon, I read through a book of my handwritten poems from 2005 to today. I read them backwards, and when I got to October of 2005, I found this: You’ll never know what the discovery of that day means to a sleepy traveler hoping to wake up with sand on her skin… Sleepy indeed. I spent last semester reacquainting myself with teaching introductory psychology … Continue reading Waking with Sand on My Skin
Sometimes I wonder if you can see me If you’re watching If you’re worrying If you’re proud. Often I hope that you can hear me Talking to you about my hopes My dreams And your role in making them clear In giving me courage. Always I miss you. I want to call you To visit you To get the hug I know Will never come … Continue reading Forever
I will honor you. I will spend every moment Intent on living the life You were not allowed to have. I will cherish each passing second As a breath to be lived fully And with intent. I will think of you in all that I do And everywhere I go Because you are the one Who taught me how to truly live. I will honor … Continue reading I Will Honor You
I used to write profuse amounts of poems, but since my brother, Jonathan, died in 2007, I’ve written barely a handful. I want to write again, for him. I still keep a pen and notepad by my bedside, as I have since I was 11 years old. Here’s the first poem I wrote since the one I wrote on the airplane on my way to … Continue reading I want to write again, for Jonathan.
This is one of my most favorite poems I’ve ever written. After you read it, guess how old I was when I wrote it. I’ll give you the answer in an update. And it hasn’t been edited at all from it’s original form. Nothingness I’ve been searching for something, Endless years of wasted hope Quickly turning into A gigantic mass of nothingness. But what better … Continue reading Nothingness
I’d rather be punched in the face than endure the fake smiles, the winks, nudges, and whispers. I’d rather you take a hard, heavy hand and knock out what sanity I have left. Take a swing, and with it spill my blood, externally, break my bones. For I’d rather you knock me to the ground with a direct blow than prop me up with lies … Continue reading Sometimes You Just Have to Write About Getting Punched in the Face