poetry

rain of sand

there’s nothing to see

change one thing
and another
change a life
yet it’s all the same
there’s nothing to see
but how things are different
but how they’ve always been

like how i am
a new version of who i was before
different but in the same skin
skin that records all the time
that wastes by
that i let pass through my hands
like hourglass sand

but no one can flip it
upside down again
cause we’re all stuck inside it
sand pours down
but we like to ignore it
cause it’s always there
and so are we
until our time to drown in it

there’s nothing to see
’cause we’re not looking
’cause we can’t see all the chances
we didn’t take
or all the times we didn’t try
but that doesn’t mean they’re not there
staring back at us
don’t mistake it
they want us to be better

so don’t try to hold on to the sand
don’t try to collect it
’cause it must fall
and you’ll fall with it
so look through the glass
this isn’t all there is

things have changed so they can keep on changing
though some stay the same
like the sand does
but each grain tells us to look forwards
not back
because all the fallen sand is gone
yet more continues to fall

it’s not the end
and there’s still so much to see

a thought

tend to your own garden

i feel like a ghost slowly becoming material again, but still flickering transparent. hesitating because it remembers somewhere the things that killed it in the first place, but trying to know it’s different.

it’s like i have to remind myself to stop thinking the time before the sunrise is the dusk instead – it looks the same but means something different. or maybe it’s always been the same and i’m hoping to find the daylight that stays light. or something.

i wish i could stop confusing myself in everything. cause it’s simple. if it’s not then youre thinking about it the wrong way. thinking is the problem. i dont know. i just wish we’d all stop trying to figure every tiny little thing out by ourselves. look outwards. share the good, share the bad.

i want to change things. i want to pull up the weeds and plant flowers in their place. but then i remember you have to change yourself before you can expect to change anything else. why go out to tend someone else’s garden when your own is a mess? it sounds simple. but it also sounds like fix yourself, but then everything else looks like its stopping that and suddenly perhaps nothing is simple.

but it has to make sense one day – just not today. which hurts because, what do you do now? but it’s soothing cause it isn’t just a tangle with no answer. it will be sorted in the end. how you get there looks like tricky unknowns now, but maybe its worth remembering that you can’t think about tomorrow’s work if you haven’t done today’s. you can’t plant the seeds before you’ve prepared the soil, you can’t expect to see anything growing tomorrow if you haven’t planted anything today. maybe this is a different argument.

sometimes there’s no good place for a flower to grow, but it will grow anyway.
sometimes a seed can have everything it could possibly need, but it stays dead regardless.

either way, its not worth worrying about. all you can do is plant the seed.

poetry

feathers on the wind

feathers on the wind
float
like on a string
until the wind says its time
to fall

feathers on the water
feathers in your hair
holding tiny pieces of sky
they cut through
and collected
like wearing a star
or a sliver of moon

like the yellow leaf that spent
its youth making the wind
into music
and waving goodbye
to the birds as they leave again
but leaving without a feather
leaving a bit of them
behind

leaving a piece
of the wind from their wings
sights from all the skies
they’ve seen
maybe the earth is just their scrapbook
they go out for another adventure
and leave only
feathers on the wind

poetry

the one day & the forever

where are we now
in this world that
sings its own song to itself
where are we
nowhere we could find our way out of
and who are we
that we’d ever deserve an escape?

what if we look up
at the sky
and pretend the earth doesn’t exist
it’s just the blue
it’s just sailing on the clouds
it’s the forever that we see
that we know is up there

every day here
wherever we are
the sky is unraveling the time
we have to stay
unpicking the stitches that
hold us in our bodies
so we can one day
be like the clouds
like the stars

one day we’ll be free
one day we’ll get out
and nothing in this world can stop us
one day we’ll be forever

sailing in the blue

 

a thought

learning to be a flower

that’s a photo of a rose i took this morning. yes, i know it’s obviously a photo of a rose. but. um.

yesterday i saw this rose starting to open, then in half bloom. in a few days it’ll probably be wilted. probably this rosebush doesn’t like where it is but i wouldn’t know.

[i get to notice these things because i do not happen to be in possession of what the average human calls a ‘life.’ but a life with flowers is better than a life without flowers, right?

of course it is, says i. shut up, i.]

but it made me think of a question: what’s the point? i ask this question way too much sometimes. but maybe the flowers have a good answer.

like, what’s the point of a flower, if it’s here today and gone tomorrow? what’s the point of anything so fleeting? what’s the point of anything at all, for that matter – if every bit of life ends up dead? why do anything now, if nothing ever lasts? why even bother when it won’t even matter in the end?

flowers are pretty. flowers smell nice.  they’re here to make us happy and help us to be appreciative, to bring a sense of rightness and beauty. yes, they’re fragile – but maybe that makes them all the more valuable, because it tells the truth. anything good is fragile. life is fragile. which is why you have to hold on to it.

the point is that – and i speak for the flowers, so let’s hope i got the message right – the point is now. not any inevitables that take place at an indeterminable time. not even the actual existence of a point. the point does not depend on you knowing there is a point – there is one and it matters. everything matters and plays its part, no matter how tiny it seems.

the point is not how everything ends. flowers grow up and bloom with absolutely zero care as to whether they’ll wither and die tomorrow, no cares about how they look, no worries of being trampled or being ripped out.

flowers don’t care why. they just are. they shine and spread brightness in the time they’re given, as if knowing now is all they have, all they’ll ever have, so they bloom like they’ll never die. sure, they’ll die soon enough, but now is for living as if they’re the prettiest, brightest flower there ever was.

so why do i feel like i need a reason for anything, as long as i’m content and making the most of now? how much more capable are we of bringing happiness than flowers, how much more light can we give? maybe we’ll die tomorrow. but that’s not stopping us from blooming today – because, really, today is all we’re given and all we’ll ever have.

i think i’d like to remember this every time i see a flower. learn to be a flower and stop wasting time searching for the point. a rosebush has lots of points. but they’re sharp and they hurt so maybe don’t look for them either.

hello

welcome to whatever this is

this isn’t an introduction mostly because i have no idea how to do such a thing. i think i’m just going to pretend no one will ever read this, otherwise i’ll never post anything at all probably.

another reason is, well, i don’t know. whats the point of introductions? why not just let the actual things that show be the introduction? its possible i’m not entirely sure what an introduction is supposed to be. maybe i just don’t like the idea of choosing specific words of you to stick in peoples heads. what if i’m not what i say i am??

anyway. the words will be what they are. and everything’s probably gonna end up being very vague and that’s just me, but i’m trying okay. besides, there needs to be more mystery in the world.

however, i will introduce my cat briefly – because she clearly knows more about what’s going on than i do. she’s sitting here on this blanket as a small black puddle and will bite my hand off if i try to cuddle. yes that is probably a rhyme. which describes her 70% of the time. soft little blob of murder.

[okay there might have been another rhyme there that i did not intend at all. um. okay.]

just some extra honesty: i put off actually writing this for way too long – and i have no idea what i’m doing. not that i ever have much of an idea about anything i’m doing, but shh.

also no, i do not feel like using Grammatically Correct capital letters. i am lowercase; leave me be.

i think i’ll go now.