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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To beginnings middles and ends – A poem

You say we ended
While still in the middle,
But if it’s over
Wasn’t that the end?
We’re in the middle of our lives
The middle of our growth
The middle of our timeline
In the middle of learning both
Who we are with each other and on our own.
I don’t know who I am yet
How can I ever expect to know who you are?

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The curious way time runs away – A poem

I think I worry about time too much.
Living alongside the rhythmic and repetitious strides
Of the backdrop of humanity
Seems to fill my head with it.
With time.
The nonstop tick-tock is locked into my footsteps
Into the beats per minute of my heart
Blinking numbers or the hypnotic swirl
Of hands that spin too fast in the corner of my eye
But not at all when staring them in the face.
Maybe I worry about time too much because
I’m aware of being trapped in it
But I can’t see it to get out.

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Silence

Silence is more than quiet. Quiet is the sweeping hush of the stars pressing fingers to their lips so the world stops thinking. But silence steals even the most subtle of sounds and fills the air with everything else.

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The perils of a mind’s imitations of life – A poem

I have not yet learned to notice
How time jumps
Or how the clocks don’t tick

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The ways a place can hold you

There are different ways a place can hold memories. Sometimes you see them and other times you feel them. It might be just a breath, other times the feeling can consume you. But either way it moves you and either way it’s there.

Sometimes it can be like a waft of familiar perfume that makes your heart skip a beat. Or it’s like you travelled back in time and you’re no longer standing there but surrounded by your past unfolding in front of you. As if your soul escapes your body for a moment and the only thing possible for you to do is stand there and feel it.

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Sometimes I wish I could be like a tree – a documentation of growing pains.

Sometimes I wish I could be like a tree.

If I were a tree at least I’d know my purpose (or I wouldn’t know I had one).

But instead I’m here, not still but not moving, questioning…

Who am I supposed to be?

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My front porch – A poem

Whenever my breath feels stale but I need to breathe,
I sit on my front porch (preferably in the early morning
But sometimes afternoon)
Only when it’s sunny
(Usually I have to squint my eyes but I don’t mind)
It cleanses me in a funny sort of way
(Even when it’s loud with endless planes
And cars and caravans
Travelling from the park up the road)
Everything seems quiet
Everything seems calm
The breeze settles a stillness within me
As I sit behind my white picket fence
The world seems at ease
And everyone and everything is just
Living their lonely lives

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