Poetry

you talk too loud

too much

i try to tell

you

to stop

you dont listen

overpowering

drowning me

with curiosity

too loud

overbearing

asking too much

i dont want to to

A forest so alive, 

birds exclaiming their tune worldwide. 

By color.

By love. 

By melodies short and pleasant

they connect, 

their music effervescent.

The wind grows stronger,

Near and near.

I can hear it whistling,

Past my ear.

It fills the sails,

And steadies my steer.

What a joyous moment,

The wind is here!

The world goes on.

Continuing its orbit around the sun.

While we live in our miniature universe. 

With our miniature problems. 

When I turned five, I wished for new Barbies.

So I could play pretend on the playground.

When I turned eight, I wished for new slime.

So I could make big slime bubbles with my friends.

Poetry is my way of expression.

I have recently discovered this.

A way to say my thoughts with intention.

It makes my mind empty but full of bliss.

Poetry is my new obsession.

my day started sad.

nothing could make it better,

but then I saw you

Last year, I tried to tune my guitar,

but when I played, it came out wrong.

The notes were wobbly, not straight.

                 I guess I'll try again later

I wish I were the sun.

Bright and happy.

Beams of light.

The thing people look forward to seeing.

I wish I were the moon.

Dark and mysterious.

Shapeshifting silver disc.

Things are different.

I don't know when they changed

or when I noticed them changing.

But in any case,

my eyes are open now

and I see that things are upside down.

At first it was just a drop

Poetry is hard in the winter.

It is inexplicable but,

for me,

definitely true.

In the spring, summer, and fall, 

there are limitless possibilities, 

endless inspirations.

I could be writing right now

about fairytales;

princesses, and dragons,

magic, and the prince that comes to save her.

But life isn't a fairytale for anybody, 

so why write about them?