Tidal Waves

I was chasing the moon home, as if I could beat it.
Convinced that I was not as small as I felt
and that two people couldn’t be as separated as they were
when the sky bound them together.
And as I drove,
I felt like a child,
curled under a celestial blanket.
It promised me of my worth;
it sheltered me with whispers of greatness.
This was how I felt that night.
As if I was meant to be something,
and the world knew my future but couldn’t reassure me
because I didn’t speak its language.
The words of the sky are not composed of letters
but of breaths and silences.
And in those silences,
I didn’t feel so disconnected.
The air hung over the darkening hills,
blue with humidity and promise.
When I wondered what I would become,
the indigo air absorbed my fear.
It enveloped the visions of solitude and singularity
and gave me breath to fill the shallow spaces in my lungs
and my heart.
It embraced the repetitive words and
the fragmented
the fragmented
it enveloped.
And in the only language I could understand,
it read to me my best stories,
and those stories finally sounded real.
If the poems run together someday
and no one cares to listen anymore,
I will have that.
My stories,
carried on the faint winds of a humid evening.
I don’t know when night drives became my drug.
(Probably around the same time that
poems started to bridge the gap).
But if it’s a fix I need,
I’d rather get it under the cover of darkness.
A black sky,
connecting me to whatever I am
and whoever you are.
And whoever is in between.
Including myself.
As I drove,
the fireflies created for me an everlasting Space Mountain.
More guarantees of adventure
along some winding path through obscurity.
And as I flew into the supposed oblivion,
I pretended their twinkling was the sleeping souls of birds,
awake at night even as they slept
burrowed in a nest far above the road.
People could be like that.
Alive at the times no one presumed them to be.
Seen most clearly
and most beautifully
when they didn’t intend to be seen at all.

Night wore on,
but I kept hearing more.
The moon was getting farther and farther away
and I was that moon.
An illusion of closeness.
Under the same grand blanket,
anything could seem small and big all at once.
That night,
it began to stop mattering.

A Sonnet

I realize that the last few posts have been poetry, and I sort of apologize for that.  I don’t apologize for the poetry itself, but I do know that sometimes poetry can be sort of confusing and exclusive and I really don’t intend this blog to become a place solely for poems.  But I hope you’ll take it all in stride – my soul has been particularly heavy with words over the last week or so, and I’m glad I have this place to deposit those words.  My poetry is just as important and meaningful to me as my essay-like prose.  It’s another way I figure things out.

I am formulating one of those essay-like things in my head currently, to be up Saturday night at the latest.  My dorm is doing this thing called Confidence Week, where we don’t wear makeup and we cover the mirrors and stuff.  I, however, have taken a slightly different approach to Confidence Week – and the following poem was the start of my discovery as to where my confidence lies.  I wrote this a few days ago, after a couple days of having an artistic cold (as in, it was like my nose was all stuffed up but instead of my nose, my brain and heart were all stuffed up with words and I couldn’t figure out how to get them out).  Then, I had a particularly challenging day on Monday and the result was this poem.  The day wasn’t challenging in that it was a hard day – really, it was just a deep day.  A lot to think about.

Anyway, you’ll see that post soon.  In the meantime, I’m sharing this piece.  I was hesitant to do so – still am – because it sounds sort of dark.  But it’s not.  It’s only honest.  Don’t be afraid of something honest, because the most true stuff is usually also hard to swallow.  It’s meant to be read aloud – preferably by me – but if I’m not around, it might help to read it out loud to yourself.  I wrote it to the song Spiegel Im Spiegel, too.  It’s called A Sonnet, for various reasons.


I am not like everyone else.An enigma but only a shrouded one.
A breath but only a gasped one.
I flirt with this world as though it meant something.
I exist like I’m important but I’m not.
What do you think when you are collapsing?
To whom do you run when no one sees you coming?
They’ve always told me that everyone was special.
So I believed that included me.
With my talents so rare and precious,
my flittering eyes begging to be caught.
You tell me what I do means something.
But I can’t place it anymore.
I thought I was a magnet
but perhaps I’m turned the wrong way.
They called me special but failed to admit that I was only just.
I am enough for my small portion –
Risk a bit, yes.
But a distance is kept that confuses me.
It goes against who I thought I was:
I thought I was a stolen breath,
a wide-eyed blessing.
But what the hell is going on?
Do I trust you all or not?
I want to come into my own.
I want to be magnificent to someone.
Don’t you get it?
There is some blackness living inside me that I don’t understand.
I am convinced both that I am alone
and that I am only one honest with the universe.
How quick broken hearts feign healing.
Are you all as mixed up as I am?
How quickly people are forgotten.
How quick we are to pretend life is normal.
I am not like everyone else,
but only because I’ve admitted it.
Break through my icy veil
so I can glimpse she who hides in the depths of my soul.
If you saw her,
would she be more than special?
Would she be the magnet people call her?
When you find her,
tell her to keep going.
Tell her she is only lost because no one will search hard enough.
She is not like everyone else,
and maybe she doesn’t need to be.