Another Another Another

my trauma response is to tense 
up automatically. I feel the muscles in 
my back and shoulders freeze and ache 
as my eyes begin to water uncontrollably.
I wrestle with trying to breathe 
intentionally while getting swept up
in the busyness of the day. Another shift
in my eyes, another shift in the 
season, another shift in the weather, 
and I become stressed in a second.
I was this way for years of my life,
unable to shake the stress from my muscles,
unaware of how normal this was for me
until I could relax without worry once again.

Being Intentional

Poetry calms my chaotic mind.
My thoughts swirling a mile
a minutes filled with worry,
stories, anxiety, wishes,
fears, dreams, random little things, 
all make sense when I write.
The overwhelm settles, I
pick through my thoughts
to find my truth. Being
intentional instead of auto-
pilot rewires the words in
my brain to be present, if
only for a moment.

Lost An Hour

I heard a man exclaim
how he lost an hour
of his day, the pain
in his voice, as the sun
set later and the night
stood quiet, echoed through
the air. Babies and pets
don't care the clocks have
jumped forward, the ones
looking after them walk
around feeling dread.
The morning starts an
hour later for my body
hasn't realized the time
has changed overnight.

Not Alone

The books I read mirror my experience
back to me, reflected in a way I wish
I could say but the words never came.
Every page I turn, I highlight what
resonates, almost every page has a
sentence that will stick with me
long after I finish. The beauty of
storytelling is seeing the human
experience as universal. We are not
alone in our journey's even when we
feel like we are.

Half-Birthday

I remember walking 
around the playground
in elementary school 
talking with my friend,
who is still my friend 
today, about half-birthdays.
She imagined celebrating
a birthday in May
while I dreamed of
celebrating in February.
I pictured blowing out candles 
in winter and having a party 
for the fun of it.
A half year of living is
always worthy of a 
slice of cake.
Every year on 
the 25th of February, 
I think of this memory
and smile. Oh to be young, 
imagining the unsung
celebrations that do 
not happen but having them
stick in my brain 
as a memory anyway.

Love Is…

Love is a loud room,
people cheering
over some
stupid game
and you look over
at your person
and everything else
fades away. 
Love is a safe place,
a space where
you don't hide like
you do the
rest of the time. 
Love is
a feeling like no other, 
it's why love
songs are so popular 
and every writer
tries to describe 
their perspective on
the matter. 
Love is 
searching, losing,
finding, keeping.
Love isn't just romance,
love is family, 
love is friends,
love is pets,
love are the ones who we
put up with because
we know at
the end of the day 
we're better be-
cause of them 
than without them.
Love is many 
reasonable reasonings
and crazy thinkings
we cannot explain
with a twist of fate 
that led us
to buy into a holiday 
we used to hate.
True love seems rare, 
but it's there
if you know 
your own worth and
who you choose, 
who you would
rather not lose. 
Needless to say,
love isn't a day, 
filled with candy and 
hearts and flowers, 
it's a feeling you 
feel, the person, 
the people you come back to,
the ones you love, 
each person has their own
definition for how
it changes their space, 
their time, and place. 
Love is a poem too long.
Love is listening to your heart, 
feeling your hand in theirs,
the ones you hug before
your sleep. Love is a quiet night,
feeling how small you are on
earth when looking out at
the stars, at the
overwhelming universe
feeling your love is
a cliche of overused
lines no one has
been able to
fully describe
how you feel.
But it is
real.

Self-Doubt

Writing is as natural
to me as breathing.
It's how I make sense
of my thoughts and reality.
I place my thoughts on lines
in my journal, it's where
they're safe. I write
with messy handwriting,
though I'd say it's become
more legible over the years.
I am a writer, I am a poet
but somewhere along the way
I lost the creativity that
once drove me. I catch sparks
of it now and then, jotting down
a creative line in my notes,
but the flame has remained
dim for a few years now.
Am I a writer if I don't write?
Am I a writer if I have nothing
to say? These are the questions
that live in my brain, destroy
my thoughts to keep my creativity
at bay. The doubt keeps me stagnant
and quiet. The flame that burnt out
years ago, where did it go? I miss it,
I try to relight it but without a
match, I leave it alone.

First Month Almost Finished

Two days left of 
the first month
of this new year.
Third year of the 20s, 
ninth year of my 20s.
Seems like too many years 
since the pandemic started
and at least ten extra years 
on to the last decade of my life.
It’s been a very cold and gloomy
start to the year. I’ve heard more 
remarks about cold days than warm ones.
Unusual where I live, we normally see
more fluctuation in temperature this month
Cold and snow, we still have snow from last year
Sheets of ice on the dead grass unable to melt
The sun is out for too little time before 
more snow falls on top of it once more.
Maybe we’ll see blue sky for more 
than a day, Maybe next month 
the iced over snow from 
last year will get 
to melt away.

Self-Talk

The way we talk to ourselves
reflects how we view ourselves.
We often do it without thinking,
the little comments that 
fall out of our mouths 
whispered under our breath
are quickly forgotten 
as we move from one 
moment to the next
swept up by the
busyness of the day.
Only when we become
aware of the words
we speak and the tone
we use can we begin
to change.

I am strong.
I am powerful.
I am unique.
I am brave.