Made of Rain – A poem

I can’t touch the heart of the rain, it can only touch me
As it slips right through my fingers
Where a liquid hand can’t be held.
And the rain may have a beat but it’s too soft and quick
To be human and too rhythmic to be alive.
The rain never stutters or skips a beat
And I can dance in it but it can’t dance with me.
I can speak a soliloquy and pretend the rain is listening
But it can never confess a single secret back to me.
The rain may smell like a breath or a familiar comfort
But the rain is everything that has ever felt lonely.

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Illusions of Significance – A poem

You are a chapter of significance enclosed in the story of me,
That was the chapter, and
Sometimes I write words and reread them
And struggle to find who wrote them.
Maybe my poems will never be read by you
Because I didn’t write them for you to read.
You are a mystery I will never solve because I am no detective
And I will never perfectly write you
Because you are not the one I am supposed to perfectly write.
You will always be significant,
Because you are teetering on the edge,
You are a question until I stop asking
But I am deciding to let it remain unanswered.

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The Happy Brain

I recently read a book called ‘The Happy Brain’ by Dean Burnett, which discusses the science behind what happiness is and where it comes from in the brain. It was slightly overwhelming with all the science talk but also very interesting, and I got a lot out of it. So here are my top 20 things I learned from the book, that only skims the surface of what makes the brain happy.

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The depths of tomorrow – A poem

You give me memorable moments
In unmemorable days.
My yesterdays described by conversations,
The sound of you saying my name,
And times I thought of you
When listening to the rain.

With you, I can be everything I am
And you show me everything you are.
The depths of you and the depths of me
Are almost parallel to the depths
Of tomorrow…
Utterly and entirely
Infinite.

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Used to – A Poem

I got used to the way
The wind in the chimneys
Sounded like ghosts.
You get used to all the things
That scare you
Disappoint you
Hurt you
When they’ve happened
So many times
Yet got no further than
The fright
The disappointment
The pain.

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