Writing

If a flower blooms in the wrong season, is it a miracle or a failure? Be kind to your own timing. 

“I’m good at poetry, I just don’t like it very much.

It’s one of those things where if you do it enough for school, you get just as good as someone who likes it.”

I walked home the long way because I knew the sky would not be angry at me.

The moon knew what it felt like to be so tired you couldn’t even think

Of going to bed.

On Sunday night, you can find me empty in my full room.

Head cocked, half leaning on the arm of my chair,

Listening to the mechanical birdsong of my alarm clock.

Top Gun soundtrack and

peanut butter m&m's and

writing poetry for my friends on

torn-out sheets of notebook paper, scrawling

the verses in pink ink that

reminds me of fairy wings and

If love were a place, where would it be?

Would it be in the arms of their gentle embrace?

Would it be where echoes of their laughter kiss the wall?

Is it the place where only love can dwell?

Would it be ever changing?