poetry

Spring

She hides beneath a somber blanket of lives daily nemesis.

A blanket composed of dark particles hovering about;

Bringing forth a thick, musky cloud of black ink.

However somehow her emerald, gleaming eyes

Shone even through the darkest of dusk.

Her eyes could push their way through piles of gritty snow;

A fresh reminder that the snow was to melt soon,

Spring would emerge,

And better times were to come.

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poetry

Who she used to be

Too many times have I rushed things,

Feeling like I have my life to explain,

Hastily telling them all Ive got within me,

When they don’t even know me for who I am yet.

Pressuring myself to tell them about my past,

Hoping Ill keep them interested with exciting stories,

But its all nonsense.

How could someone understand what makes someone who they are,

When they haven’t spend a full day from dawn to dusk together;

Haven’t seen them grumpy in the morning,

Not talkative

Grabbing onto their little coffee cup.

How could you understand what makes her happy,

If you’ve never surprised her with sunflowers before,

Or

Seen her tears of joy?

Its so easy to tell stories of whats supposed to make you who you are,

But you are not who you used to be;

People change, and to fully know someone takes patience and time.

I want to see you get mad, and lose your temper.

I want to see what makes you uncomfortable,

What makes you smile.

I want to see you on a cloudy day, trapped inside, boredom striking.

How you talk when you’re tired,

And how you act around your friends.

I want to experience how you treat others,

And when you’re stressing out.

I guess what I’m trying to say,

Is that in todays time, people feel like they have to explain themselves and their life,

As soon as they meet someone that entices them.

As if it would change anything of what they know about you,

When it really doesn’t.

Instead, live a little, make your own stories worth telling.

And in those stories, find your own definition, of what that person is.

Someones past and what stories they tell, is not who they are;

Its who they used to be.

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poetry

Fidgety Case

She has always been a fidgety case,

Mind always caught somewhere in outer space.

Her presence could make you feel

As if there were nothing more real

Than the given moment with her .

Still at the same time she would be distant,

Making me wonder

What secrets lay hidden beneath her green shining eyes and

Yet, she could make you feel so loved, like she knew all of you,

All of your horrible secrets, but she didn’t mind.

Sometimes I would wonder if she was really as okay ,

As okay as she always told me she was…

One moment she would be relaxed, happy, bubbly

And a split second later seemed uncomfortable, as if she wasn’t supposed to be there;

Biting her nails, twirling her hair, twitching her legs.

It was a mystery to me

How someone who made me feel so at peace in her presence,

Could be so anxious all the time.

Sometimes, I would look into her eyes, getting a hint of vulnerability.

This would confuse me, as the tough front she put on shone bright like a thousand diamonds.

But then late at night,

When she thought I was asleep,

 

She would just sit at the side of the bed, next to the window,

A tear silently trickling down her cheek,

Quite sobbing.

I knew there was more to her than reached the physical eye,

Dark stories hidden deep in her chest,

That she couldn’t get herself to confess,

Even to me.

 

 

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