confusion & thoughts:

when you close your eyes at night

and you rise above your life

do you notice there, an empty space

where i wasn't by your side

because i always dream about you

every time i close my eyes

if i live to be one hundred

will i ever cross your mind?

i always make my wishes

for the same thing every time

if i live to be one hundred

will i ever cross your mind?

"and like i said, i do think you are uniquely poised to fuck up my world. and i don't necessarily think that's a bad thing. but it is definitely a thing."

NaPoWriMo Day 1

From NaPoWrimo: And now, our prompt (optional, as always). Today, I challenge you to write a lune. This is a sort of English-language haiku. While the haiku is a three-line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable count, the lune is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable count. There's also a variant based based on word-count, instead of syllable count, where the poem still has three lines, but the first line has five words, the second line has three words, and the third line has five words again. Either kind will do, and you can write a one-lune poem, or write a poem consisting of multiple stanzas of lunes. Happy writing!

Night Skies: 

your face in my mind:

a constant reminder

that almost everything is impossible.

Existential Graduate School Problems:

my capstone project

is a

waste of fucking time.

30 days of poems, day 1:

Prompt 1: Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use 7 of words in a poem. For extra credit, have 4 of them appear at the end of a line. (Words: Collapsible, horizon, flurry, voice, emptiness, bereaved, wildest, purest, dancing, rolling - taken from Mary Oliver's What Do We Know)

To see the stars --

A flurry,
January morning,
emptiness surrounds --

memories dancing across my pillow,
sliding down the wrinkled off-white fabric,
collapsing into a pile of nothingness in the folds.

Only snow could be this quiet.
A landscape of death,
mortality revisited --

And only in our wildest dreams
could we find this beautiful:
watching the bereaved,
in their purest voices,
continue across this
collapsible horizon.