I’d never thought I liked poetry. To be honest, I thought of it as something cheesy and head-in-the-clouds-ish (silly me).
One day, poetry just came to me. Unexpectedly. Unplanned.
Bam, for once in my life, I resonated with the poems I read and listened to. I was hooked. No idea why.
Soooo, for whatever reasons, I started writing poems. I become cheesy and head-in-the-cloud-ish. And it’s fun to be.
My poems are fragmented and don’t follow any rules. They’re purely my feelings, thoughts, dreams, imagination, life events, nonsensical whispers, anything really. They’re raw, unprocessed, unedited, and unrefined. They’re simply for anyone who can resonate.
On some days, rhythms just come out naturally to me. On some other days, I come across great ideas when reading a book, sifting through my journal, glancing out of the windows, bopping my head to my favorite Spotify playlist, and I grab my phone to capture the words.
Sometimes, my mind goes blank and I stop writing. But somehow, magically, I still keep this new interest going for months. I hope I can keep this beauty for as long as I can in my life. It makes my life more…poetic.
Anyway, the poems I wrote—I decided to share some of my favorites here.
I’m gonna be honest, I’m not much of a love poet but if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I was gonna write about love my first poem it would be about you about how I love you the same way I learned how to ride a bike scared but reckless with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you … I know this is going to sound weird, but sometimes, I pray that God somehow turns you back into one of my ribs Just so I would never have to spend an entire day without you…
– Rudy Francisco
When I want something with my whole being, and the universe withholds it from me, I hope the universe thinks to herself: “Silly girl.She thinks this is what she wants, but she does not understand how it will hurt.
– Blythe Baird
Updated: Oct 29, 2021
calico and marmalade
calico looked at marmalade while sitting inside, a safe space, next to the fireplace marmalade glanced at calico and quickly rolled its eyes while sitting outside, in the dark, on the fence calico was looking at that dot next to marmalade there were only two colors either soothing or destructive either present or wandering either there or not but that was the only thing calico could hold onto the only thing it could stare at to heal its sickness the sickness of missing that orange warmth the only thing left it could grieve on unknown, without the fear of disturbance calico was choked by the words it wished it could blurt out but it couldn’t so it kept sitting inside, looking, and staring at the dot in silence
on its last leg
when the pink bubbles popped there came the shadowy darkness she was thrilled and weary she was intoxicated and jaded the beautiful prose was on its last leg or was there any at all?
that warmth is the comfort they seek short-lived, momentary, fleeting a glass of lukewarm milk before bed a hot bathtub after a worn-out day that warmth cannot redefine the kismet nor change the problems they face just two intertwining hands dilly-dallying aimlessly and indecisively