Poetry and Other Words I Write

Here’s what not to do:

Keep the door shut  as often as you can.  It's your strongest defense  against the inevitable.

Call your room a refuge,  but refuse to admit  that you’re making it a cell.

You’re a prisoner of the future,  a prisoner of your own indecision.  Guard yourself with steel,  and pretend that you can steal  hours from the universe. 

Act like your inactions are less  consequential than any activity.  Sleep like it's a waste of time.  Live like nothing can touch you.

You will reap exactly  what you don’t sow.  Never let it teach you anything  except better ways to keep still  against the current,  even as the sand shifts you  steadily downstream.

It will take you a lot of years to  acknowledge your fear, to admit that maybe  you’re making things worse.

Out of fight or flight, choose freeze. Don’t stop to think about how  you cannot stop time,  or how avoiding it might just be  robbing yourself.

Only ever learn how to  lie, steal, bargain. 

Only ever learn how to build a fortress, how to erect walls and battlements,  how to draw lines in the sand. 

Dig deep and treacherous moats  without pausing to consider  how you’re trapping yourself inside,  how you’re digging a grave, and  burying yourself alive.  Even as you suffocate, refuse to climb out. 

The only things you will ever plant  are your own hands in the dirt  in order to shackle yourself.

I love these little moments when we don't have to fight, and you mean it when you say, "I love you," and, "Good night." I love these little moments when you laugh, and so do I, when for once, you don't yell, and I don't want to cry. I love these little moments that are so terribly rare, when for once, I truly feel like you might actually care. I love these little moments when everything's alright, and we mean it when we say, "I love you," and, "Good night."

I miss those little moments that we used to share, back when I hadn't yet realized that life just isn't fair. I miss those little moments when you'd chase me around, and when I hid from you, it was just because I wanted to be found. I miss those little moments when you came home from a long trip, and I was glad to see you instead of wanting to turn and dip. I miss when the times we were happy that didn't disappear so fast because those moments we were content genuinely seemed to last.

Now we’re older, these little moments are so few and far between. You're hardly ever around. I feel like I'm never seen. I've grown up much too fast. My whole life is all a blur. I don't know if you really love me. I'm just never really sure. Now when you're here, I tend to be quick to hide from you, and it's a pathetic relief when I can bid you adieu.

How did these little moments become something to write about in these silly poems where I let my troubles out? When did these little moments become the times that my resentment fades instead of grows for that single, short minute? Why is our relationship so shattered and torn to pieces? Why is it that this vise-like grip on my heart never fully releases?

I miss who we used to be,  when you made me laugh for real. I miss how you were with me  and the way I used to feel. Where did those people go,  the ones who didn’t fight,  and always meant it when we said, "I love you," and, "Good night"? I miss with my entire being the people we used to be, but I know we can't go back, so I look forward to cutting free.

A boy sat alone in his room on one dark, lonely night. He could not fall asleep, so he turned on the light

with the hope it might chase away the dark from his mind and help him untangle  the thoughts he couldn't unwind.

Just down the hall and to the left, his family slept, and some snored, while his restless brain kept him wide awake and a bit bored.

So he sat down at his desk, gently pushed his homework aside, grabbed a pen and a paper, then let the thoughts pour out like the tide.

It didn't make much sense. The words had no flow. But he found himself glad to have finally let go.

Those thoughts had been heavy, such a burdensome weight. He'd been hoarding them all, but now, he could deflate.

As the words trickled onto the page which was filled to the brim, his mind felt comfortingly empty and a whole lot less dim.

So he capped off his pen before climbing back into bed. The lights were off again,  but it wasn’t dark in his head.

He fell asleep right away without those thoughts as distractions. He slept so well, his eyelids never  once opened, not even a fraction.

And when the morning arrived, he was so well rested that unless he told you this story, you would never have guessed it.