Hey
I am tired of writing sad poems,
half-empty poems,
I-don't-know-what-i-am-doing-right-now poems,
I-have-never-fallen-in-love-but-i-want-to poems,
I-feel-broken-sometimes poems.
I’m done.
I still feel sad, half-empty, lost, broken,
of course I do.
But I will pick myself up through my words.
And I want you to stay.
Let’s talk about the sun,
I’ll call her a she
because we have a tendency to ignore shes
even though they do so much for us
every day.
Because even in their blinding rage and fluttering anger
shes shine and give life to everyone.
And when their bodies are pulsating with fury, all the world hears is peace. Om.
Shes care.
I wonder if the sun is okay, you know?
I think she hates me.
I’m a poet after all, and we write about the distant stars
but never about her
(I’m sure she loves Sylvia Path and Pablo Neruda in secret).
She and I can hate myself together though, it is okay.
I won’t mind company.
This is becoming sad, I’m sorry, precious reader.
I’ll try harder. For you.
How about a rainbow?
Nothing can go wrong with rainbows, no?
I’ll call them a they
because we have a tendency to appreciate theys from a distance
only to hate them when they’re near
even though they’ve their own wars to fight
every day.
I think theys are angels and the ones who clip their wings
are narcissistic demons
(I hope you aren’t a demon too).
A rainbow is a pot of gold in themself
and I think they will soon shine not for us but for the fact
that they fought and they stood up and they shone
making the narcissistic demons cry,
clap, apologize.
But theys won’t care.
Theys will fly and brighten up the sky.
The demons will all apologize one day, dear reader.
Just you see.
But not today, so this too is sad.
I’m trying though, can you see?
Let’s talk about dust, then?
I’ll call him a he
because we have a tendency to think all hes are wild, meant to hurt,
too unruly, bad company
not realizing hes too have scars but hes don’t care,
their own minds are battlefields.
Hes are always taken to be too important
or too unneeded. Too pampered or too soft.
Too demanding or too easy.
We wipe all of them away.
My dog likes dust, you know?
I think the dust is her friend.
She spends hours looking at the dust, kids do too.
I think when they see the dust,
they want to become him so they roll in him
paint his colours on their faces
their clothes.
Only to despise him when they grow up.
It’s not fair.
We should embrace hes and tell them they look
beautiful in the sunlight.
I think that was lovely, won’t you agree?
I’m finally writing a half-full, picking up, hopeful, after-rain-feely poem!
I like it!!!!!
I want to be friends with the Sun and Rainbows and the Dust.
Do you think they too will read this?
Don’t think too much, they will. They are.
You know, you are the Sun or the Rainbow or the Dust too.
I want to be your friend. I think you are beautiful and
misjudged, so strong and unheard, loving and loved.
I hope
if you are the Sun, you are oscillating in happiness and you don’t hate us poets (me) anymore;
if you are a rainbow, you have unfurled your wings and soon will fly and we’ll clap and cry and apologize;
if you are the dust, you know you are beautiful and I see you and it’s okay.
Thank you for being my muse, dear reader and
most importantly, thank you for being art.
