I believe my biggest
Fear to be this:
Never getting to
Live out my dreams-
See the hummingbird
On the feeder? He does not
Care about his fate as
The next bird does-
He won’t drink from the feeder-
Frightened that I might harm him,
Say, what if he passed away,
And never drinks?
That bird’s baby birds will hear
How he never tasted the liquid
From the bright flower
On this cool morning.
No kind of pine could ever
perform the somersaults
this leaf can as it sticks it’s landing
in the half brown grass.
swirled His paintbrush
in the warm tones on His palette
and held it to the Earth,
dropping the paint on the summer leaf.
This little piece of a delicate scene
became adored by people who build skyscrapers,
operate cars, and throw waste to the Earth’s core.
Yet every year, that same Somebody
keeps on dipping His brush to the palette
and creating the leaf that stands out among the others.
Who decided that the image of drinking coffee and reading a book was so poetic? It’s certainly not my idea of being poetic or even artistic in the slightest. It is overrated at this point. Do you know what happens when you drink coffee every day and one day you do not? You suffer from what is known as a caffeine crash. Your brain feels like it may tear through your skull at any given moment. It feels impossible to even move your first foot out of bed. What’s so poetic about that? And what of the book? You might take a picture of your coffee and the book beside it is probably a classic like Hamlet or something. As soon as you finish editing the photo and posting it to Instagram, you put your phone down, and then what? You’re switching Hamlet for the Cosmopolitan newsletter on Snapchat. Maybe you leave the book out and pretend to read it, either way you’re not getting anything done.
Tell me, don’t you think there’s something poetic about the photographs of a calendar? Every photo is so different yet in the end the come together to represent the same thing. What about routine? People across the world wake up every day. eat breakfast, drink coffee in a non-poetic way, go to work, and do the same exact things they did the last time they were there. They wash their face and brush their teeth the same way they did last night. They kiss their spouse goodnight or clutch their favorite stuffed animal until they fall into deep sleep.
Have you ever looked into a still room? Be it old or new. The whole scene is so quiet. It absorbs absolutely nothing and gives off absolutely nothing. A crooked piece of furniture here, a dusty book there. How about a moving room? Nobody has to be inside. The lightbulbs scream with electricity on their own. The air conditioning blows the curtains back and forth. Music pours softly from a small radio. Bed unmade, clothes strewn across the floor. Tell me, what could possibly exist in these situations that is not poetic? From the overflowing hamper to the stain on the carpet, every single detain screams a word or a sentence or an entire collection of poetry. Why is it that the world is full of things so poetic it could bring tears to an author’s eyes, yet everyone just wants to write about how damn poetic a book and coffee is?
At the red lighthouse
Water reflects the sunset
Staring up at me
Your black hair and your dark scales
I am hypnotized by you
The weather was nice
His skin golden and ready for more
Never seen him before
Says he’s in my class
Must be sitting behind me
Disappointment in the sky
But in the cracks of the sidewalk
Pollen piles up
And a tear in the sky reveals warmth
I am as sad as the sky
Because I didn’t meet his eyes sooner
They were blue enough
To fill the atmosphere
And banish the gloom
So I smile at the pollen
In the cracks of the sidewalk
It doesn’t occur to me
That I didn’t ask his name
Because it’s overcast.