Before, it didn’t matter what I
Or how long it took
Or how good it sounded
It only mattered that I
It wasn’t about how many poems I could
Or how many syllables I
Or how many blank pages I filled up.
It only mattered that I let the words spill from my brain to my
Ink stained on paper.
It wasn’t about how I could one-up someone else
Or if I was the best
Or if I was even someone
to begin with.
It didn’t matter if people liked what I had to say and it
didn’t matter if anyone read it
The only thing that mattered was that I wrote.
I’m starting to think I liked it better that way.
To write is
to shut myself off from the world
No distractions to ease my mind
to quiet the noise inside my
just my blaring thoughts deafening the
dull sound of
pen on paper.
To write is
to welcome the demons
that live in my soul,
an open invitation to dredge up the
They are free to run rampant,
to bring back the
To write is
to be alone with my thoughts.
And that scares me to death.
We are an infinite number of stars in the sky
We are a thousand sunsets no one ever sees but
The waves lap the shore, the sand
Sticking to the empty spaces, the holes
Tugging the horizon to stretch and grow, to keep going, to never
Our eyes don’t see its end but we know it’s
and that’s alright
It lingers somewhere out of mind and
we’re okay with that
Because when the end comes
Even though we’re not ready to say
To the Sun
The Moon will rise to keep away the
And the sun can finally sink and rest and
Blossom its fiery petals under the water,
the other side of the world
A sunset is temporary;
Though there’s sadness in
We’ll see the sun again someday
So today was the last day of Poetry Club for the semester/remainder of the school year. It was definitely a bittersweet moment; while I don’t mind that the conclusion of clubs signifies the end of the school year, I will miss the fun times the students and I had over the course of the last few months. Though they are all still honing their craft (we’re talking 3rd and 5th graders here, nothing really monumental comes out of those years, unless you’re me), it’s evident that there is some talent in those kids and, if they continue to write, they could end up like some very talented writer whose name rhymes with Goolia. But for real, I really hope I inspired at least one of them (if not all of them, obviously) to continue writing and grow to love language the way it deserves to be loved. The way you love a kitten who never grows up and stays sweet and cuddly forever. Wait what?
When it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter what you do in life, whether it be writing (although that’s the most important and noteworthy of all careers/passions, obviously), teaching, acting, administrative, whatever. The point is to do something that matters to you. Because, after all, it’s your life, so you might as well enjoy it. I know there have been times when I didn’t enjoy the work I was doing, or got sidetracked from an important project, but I’ve always tried to do what matters to me on a somewhat daily basis (even if no one’s paying me to do it just yet). Just find your niche and do what makes you happy. If it never matters to anyone but you, so what? I know it’s nice to be recognized for accomplishments in areas where you feel you excel, or even areas that you may suck in but thoroughly enjoy. But if you aren’t recognized in those areas, does that mean the world stops revolving? No, it doesn’t. So just live your life, enjoy yourself, stand for something that matters to you, do what you love, and above all else…
It’s Alright, Just Write
I just have to put these words on the page.
I just need to get something down in
Staring off into space
It only adds more to my frustration.
A writer who can’t right
What kind of living is that?
The one thing you’re
you can’t even do that
If you keep writing
Maybe you’ll get something
A shitty poem is better than
No poem is
right if you can’t even
All these writes and wrongs when it comes to
But who says you have to be right?