Story Sunday

Attached is another poem that I’ve been working on for class. Please let me know what you think, and please feel free to share stories of your own!

xxoo

Edge Of The Map

I was
s
a
i
l
i
n
g
along the edge of a ruined map
Watching the colors of a life blur together
In shades of blacks and whites and grays.
Waiting and
l
i
s
t
e
n
i
n
g
To the eddying din the ocean makes,
to the crisp waves crash over the rocks
Making them smooth, making them better
Waiting for someone to come along.
It’s awfully lonely here, on this side of the ruined map
looking away, looking inward
And waiting for a way to sail to the other side.
To a new adventure.

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One Of My Favorite Poems

Hi!

I’m finally home for the summer, and thought I’d share one of my favorite poems with you to celebrate!

What is your favorite poem?

Let me know, and have an awesome day!

xxoo

“What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand” By: Megan Falley

 

“At 7:35 A.M, you lay your tired body on mine
before peeling off, like a slow band-aid.

At 8:40 you sprint home and make instant coffee.

At 9:45 we finally drink it, cold.
I finish your leftover half.

By 10:50 you are already breathless.
I live for every time we overlap.

When 11:55 comes I spend the entire minute convincing you to stay. 
You never do.

By noon I put my hands on your shoulders and say, “Baby, 
you’re getting thin. All this running in circles and barely sitting down to eat.”

At 1:05 you tell me that while you were gone,
15,300 babies were born.

At 2:10 you don’t say a word,
just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight.

At 3:15 we sit quiet, listening to rain falling everywhere 
in the world at once: all 15,000 tons.

At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint I keep behind your ear.
You do not inhale.

At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour. 
My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth,
a shot of tequila sitting on the bar.

At 6:30 I hear the ticking.
I count your heartbeat like seconds between thunderclaps.

By 7:35 I can see you in the distance, 
each second a tease until you drape over me. 
We always love quick and you never let me hold you.
I dream of drinking you through a straw.

At 8:40 you watch my beard grow 0.00027 of an inch.

At 9:45 we do not speak.
Too many people have died since we last met.

At 10:50 we pray for a meteor, 
at least a clumsy kid to spill sugar in our gears.

11:55 is my favorite.
We’re only apart for mere minutes.

But at midnight you’ll apologize sixty times
because it will always be like this.

At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping. 
It’s exhausting loving someone
who is constantly running away.”

Chapter 517, 518, 519, 520 & 521: Lazy Sunday

Happy Sunday!

So I’m officially on Spring Break, for the next week! 

To celebrate, I’d thought I would share another poem, since the first one seemed to be enjoyed. 

 

Have an awesome day!

xxoo

Lightning

They say that the odds of being struck are 1 in 3000

 

           But that number isn’t reassuring, despite the rarity

 

                     It strikes without warning, without grace

 

                                Yet we just accept it,

 we just let it happen to us,

 

 Without knowing why, it gives us a glimpse of what we could become

 

We wait for the day we become ash, for that single

         

               Flash of blinding light before darkness

          

                           But the question is

 

                                Where do we go?

                    

Only the lightning knows

Chapter 516: Lost Time & Poems

Happy Tuesday!

I know I’ve been away for a while, life snuck up on me and I’ve been trying to catch up. 

But, I wanted to share a poem with you, and I wanted to get your feedback. 

So please let me know what you think, and I’ll try to start posting again (hopefully tomorrow)

Have an awesome day! xxoo

What Did You Expect?

They say that beauty is skin deep

Spotless, unblemished, clean

Yet, if you dig deep enough

You will soon learn that I am none of those things, and never have been

My skin is like the cracks in the wall of your room

You know it’s there, but you don’t want to acknowledge it

For fear of what could be the behind the lines

Hazy memories of white walls and obnoxious machines, telling you that I’m still alive

Am I what you expected me to be?

Across my back and front, faded now

Jagged, abstract lines

Stitched up with problems and diagnoses

I am what you wouldn’t expect me to be, a stitched up shell of what I once was

Some would say new and improved, but I don’t know if I see it that way

Not yet anyway, but considering it’s my own skin, I’m not surprised

They say that beauty is only skin deep

And for what it’s worth, I can’t honestly say I’d agree

Because what I’ve discovered is that the things that are under the skin

Are much more interesting, but I would agree with one thing about the skin

It can be beautiful, but sometimes at the price of a procedure

They also say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder

But if it was up to me, I might want to change my concept of beauty

To include my own

Chapters 295, 296 & 297: Lovely Poems

Happy Thursday!

I apologize for not posting the past few days! Currently, the weather is humid, hot and icky. And according to reports, it’s only going to get hotter! 

I thought I’d share a poem with you, titled “What The Hour Hand Said To The Minute Hand”. The author is Megan Falley, and it’s one of my favorites 🙂

“What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand” By: Megan Falley

“At 7:35 A.M, you lay your tired body on mine
before peeling off, like a slow band-aid.

At 8:40 you sprint home and make instant coffee.

At 9:45 we finally drink it, cold.
I finish your leftover half.

By 10:50 you are already breathless.
I live for every time we overlap.

When 11:55 comes I spend the entire minute convincing you to stay. 
You never do.

By noon I put my hands on your shoulders and say, “Baby, 
you’re getting thin. All this running in circles and barely sitting down to eat.”

At 1:05 you tell me that while you were gone,
15,300 babies were born.

At 2:10 you don’t say a word,
just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight.

At 3:15 we sit quiet, listening to rain falling everywhere 
in the world at once: all 15,000 tons.

At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint I keep behind your ear.
You do not inhale.

At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour. 
My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth,
a shot of tequila sitting on the bar.

At 6:30 I hear the ticking.
I count your heartbeat like seconds between thunderclaps.

By 7:35 I can see you in the distance, 
each second a tease until you drape over me. 
We always love quick and you never let me hold you.
I dream of drinking you through a straw.

At 8:40 you watch my beard grow 0.00027 of an inch.

At 9:45 we do not speak.
Too many people have died since we last met.

At 10:50 we pray for a meteor, 
at least a clumsy kid to spill sugar in our gears.

11:55 is my favorite.
We’re only apart for mere minutes.

But at midnight you’ll apologize sixty times
because it will always be like this.

At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping. 
It’s exhausting loving someone
who is constantly running away.”

So, what do you think?

Have a great week! xxoo

Chapter 233: Poem

Happy Thursday!

Today, I would like to share with you a poem I wrote. I don’t remember the exact date of when I wrote it, but I found it when I was looking at some of my old writing. The title is “My Heart Doesn’t Belong Here”. Let me know what you think of it! Do you like it, and if so why? If you didn’t like it, please let me know why too! 

Hope you have an amazing week! xxoo

“My Heart Doesn’t Belong Here”

My heart doesn’t belong here.
My heart belongs with the birds
As they fly through the clouds.
My heart belongs with the fish
As they swim through the sea.
My heart belongs with the wind
As it blows through the trees.
My heart belongs with the stars
As they appear in the sky.
My heart belongs with the rain
As if feeds the flowers below.
My heart belongs with the butterflies
As they bring beauty to the world.
My heart belongs with the music
That plays throughout the streets.
My heart belongs far away,
Somewhere I’ll never be able to see.

 

 

Chapter 65: Working Wednesdays

It’s the week before finals, and all through the dorms, not a sound is heard, not even in the halls.

That was my sad attempt at a poem, but I guess I’m not much of a poet…I guess I’ll just keep studying for my finals instead of trying to rhyme.

xxoo