Where Words End

I yearn to tell you a story,
To use my words to paint pictures
More colorful than the evening sky.
I wish nothing more
Than to convey to you
What this spacious universe looks like
Through two lenses
Alternative to your own.
The scope of this world is wide,
And it is impossible for you alone
To see everything it is capable of.
All I ask of you, is that you listen until the bitter end,
For though my words don’t always know where they are going,
They eventually end up where they belong.

When I was seven,
I tripped during recess and fell onto the pavement,
Sprawled in embarrassment and in pain.
I remember the bite of tears in my eyes
As my new wounds reared blood.
Yet they also brought the hands of a boy
Whose compassion was bigger than himself,
Whose wide eyes were filled with the pain I felt.
We were only seven, and his arm supporting me
As we stumbled to the nurse
Meant I didn’t limp,
I was carried.

I once spent three weeks at college
The summer before I entered seventh grade.
While I learned inductive and deductive reasoning skills,
They aren’t the strongest memory I took away.
I remember the Friday nights spent dancing
And how much fun it was to feel
Like I was a part of something bigger.
The sense of family I had with the girls who bunked in my hallway.
The sisterhood with my roommate.
There were rainstorms,
But we refused to let them drown us.

My stories are stars,
Infinitely many, untouchable.
They refuse to be forgotten and
Demand to be told,
Beg to be listened to.
They are lightning strikes,
Leaving scars in their wake.
They are hurricanes;
They may generate destruction but
They tell of the triumph of the human spirit.
My stories are made of nothing but words,
Yet my sincere hope
Is that when when they finally end up where they should be,
You won’t want to stop listening.

Your World

You enter into this world alone.
You are born in a burst of light,
Onto an earth you could have walked before.
Yet your own legs are unfamiliar
As they stumble over stones
As you toddle along in a trancelike state.
Yet as you grow you learn
The scratches on your palms from where you caught yourself
Are very, very real.

As you pave your new path through an old universe
You will make mistakes.
Those mistakes will be gifts,
Wrapped in misery and sealed with tears,
To your future,
For you to learn from but never repeat.
But you must open the box
And experience the raw lesson,
For history is doomed to repeat itself.
As are you.

You will be successful.
Whether you are rich and famous
Or poor and desolate,
You are one step above those
Who gave up the chance for their lives to get better.
You are still breathing.

Yet one day you won’t be.
Your clock will tick its final seconds and fall still.
Your heart will beat its last,
And you will die.
And I will die.
And so will the universe.
Nothing is inevitable as death.
Until then, it’s passing the time.
Twisting it into something beautiful.
Yet when your time has reached its end,
You will exit out of this world just as you had entered it.

Your world begins and ends with you.
Just you.
It’s the people along for the ride that make it beautiful.


Hey guys! I know that a lot of you are writers, and I’m really curious as to what your writing styles are. So, if you’re interested, I have a prompt for you!

It’s pretty simple. Just write a poem about what you interpret from the theme “my world”. I’ll post my version, and if you’re interested, comment and I’ll check out your blog. :)

Hugs and kisses,



When you didn’t think I was looking,
I watched you
Watch the world from your perch of invisibility.
I watched as the things you saw
Were reborn in your words
That flowed from your lips and your fingertips,
Onto an unsuspecting crowd
That passed you like you were invisible.
Yet here you were,
Screaming for them to notice, screaming for them to see
While half in the shadows, waiting for a reaction,
Waiting for another thing to observe and tuck away.
Immobile and rigid, lodged between noticing and being noticed
I watched you struggle with your perpetual paradox
When you thought I wasn’t looking.

Beautiful Destruction

The way his eyes shone in the moonlight.
There erupted a storm in her bones
That raged in her brain
Until he was the only thing left standing.
Every touch sent arctic chills across her skin,
Doubtlessly leaving marks of frostbite.
His words were violent hurricanes,
Trying to sweep her off her feet
Into the whirlwind of debris composed of her own thoughts.
In his arms, her resistance shattered,
The broken glass cutting her fears back,
Exposing her face to the sunshine in his smile.
She could not count all the stars in the sky or the stars in his eyes
Because if she could, they would lose their luster.
His fingertips traced tectonic plates across her back,
Her body shaking in hundreds of earthquakes,
Soft breaths parting her lips like aftershocks.
And for the first time she could remember,
She wanted to be destroyed.
She wanted him to break apart her shell,
To finally rescue her from inside herself,
She was screaming, screaming,
For he actually seemed to hear her.
His lips placed soft kisses across her cheekbones,
Wildfires igniting in their wake,
Burning brighter than the campfire blazing only a few feet away.
His lips found hers,
Giving her breath.
The world stopped.
She was free.

Pretend Progress

I have met the future.
I have shook its hand as warmly
As if it were an old friend.
It greeted me with such sentimentality
That I could not believe
I ever feared it.
For I have feared it, the cloak of the unknown that it travels in,
I have always feared the future,
Because I have always feared not knowing.

I am a known procrastinator,
Preferring to store things in time to come rather
Than buckling down and accomplishing them.
I like to pretend
That I will get them done one day.

One day, a mythical time so far away
That we start to believe that what is plaguing us
It’s not actually our problem.
As long as we say
It’ll be accomplished one day,
We fake our own progress,
Pull the wool down over our own eyes
As we give ourselves pats on the back
For things we haven’t even done yet.

Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream,
And that dream was that one day
Children of every race would play together.
John F. Kennedy had a dream
That one day we would go to the moon.
Cancer patients and their families still have a dream
That one day there will be a cure for this devastating disease.

And I refuse to be afraid of the future for another minute.

Because “one day” is happening now.
It’s happening today.
Why wait for something
That is occurring as we speak?
Why hold onto a dream
When you can go out and make it a reality?
Why wait for one day when you could
Take the initiative
And make the change?
We are the future.

The Space of Nowhere

Sometimes, I get stuck
Reflecting on everything I once was
And I get trapped
Contemplating everything I could be.
I’m lodged, unmoving
In what I like to call
The space of nowhere,
Where sheer panic grips me so tightly
That I can’t let go of the past
And I can’t stumble towards the future.

First things first,
Let us safely establish that the time
Which we have fondly named “the present”
Simply does not exist.
It is an imaginary fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second
That it impossible to ever touch.
There goes the present and there goes the present and there it goes and there it goes and there it goes
So quickly for as soon as you recognize its happening
It’s cemented in the past.
And that is no way to live.

Yet when I yearn towards a future
Working towards something that does not yet exist
Planning from my bubble in the space of nowhere
Not all my compulsive presumptions
Of every obsessive fear
Will ever cover all the scenarios
That I could never think of.
And that is no way to live either.

So what I will do is plant my feet firmly in the past I know
Reaching towards a sky of possibilities
That dances just outside the span of my fingertips.
Just far enough that I can wonder
What it would be like outside my space of nowhere
But just close enough
To keep my striving for the stars.