Categories
Life

Insomnia

I lay in bed last night, at 4am, thinking of the tortured artist, thing.

We feel so deeply, us creative folk, and therefore, we capture the world in its fullest expression.

Which is beautiful. Really, ice-shatteringly beautiful.

But we are often not understood, at best. And at worst…we are grossly misunderstood, usually by the logically minded folk of the world, who do not (perhaps cannot) see the world the way we do.

Sometimes we are judged as weak, overly sensitive; irresponsible, messy. A lonely human, this does make, at times.

A lonely human this does make, at times.

I remember sitting at my piano as a nineteen year old, feeling the world in all its depth; the beauty of the autumn leaves outside the window, a huge comfort as I sat and wondered about my place in the world.

These creative eyes.

They make everything a little more beautiful. A little more horrible. A little more alive.

I’m grateful, for them, I am.

I’d imagine all the tortured artists out there were grateful, even the ones who battled to a sometimes tragic end.

Misunderstood, they were, and a little bit lonely, maybe.

A little bit scared of the depths that dragged them beneath the surface, on occasion, maybe.

Especially at 4am, and the very next day.

Photo by Anthony Shkraba on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

We Are The Poets

We are the poets.

The ones who listen to the bones of the earth.

The ones who feel the wind,

who know the wind,

who are the wind.

The bridge to the aching quiet.

We build it

and we travel its winding path,

searching for more than what we see,

the poets.

We are the poets.

We are the song of aching life.

Categories
Poetry

Some Days

Some days,

even the days that are kind,

(and quite lovely)

feel a deeper shade

of aching life.

And you’ll never know why,

(at least, I never do)

but you might hope

(like me)

that one day the ache will settle

and you will no longer wish

(quite desperately)

for something more.

Or less

(I can never quite tell.)

What did the poets do,

you might ask yourself

(like I do)

and you’ll try desperately to forget

the ones who didn’t make it

all the way.

I will make it all the way,

(this I know)

because I choose life

even when the skies are grey.

For alchemy was the golden lake

of dreamers past.

And dreamers present fill the aching

(world)

with streams of sunshine

and honey milk days.

Shall I fill my own cup

and drink the nectar, sweet?

Shall I ask the golden lake

(of life)

to flow this way

and bring me home?

Categories
Poetry

Gypsy

I see the world,

and I know it has been named

by those who came before me.

Who have I become

(or not become)

because of what they have shown me?

Voices claiming to guide are often sour

to my ears.

The world is alive,

delicate,

beautiful,

when my gypsy heart flies

free.

I see the world.

I name it for myself.

Categories
Poetry

Sweet and Quiet

The sweet and quiet of life is where my soul belongs.

The essence of a strawberry.

The taste of the softest kiss beneath a swaying tree.

It is not all that I am, this sweet and quiet that calls me.

But it is my favourite place to be.

My favourite aspect of everything.

Photo by Alina Vilchenko on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

A Million Stars

Fill me with your silver

and I will shatter

into a million stars

of us.

Categories
Life

I Have Loved

I have loved like the ocean windy and wild, where the birds of my heart fly free, and the whispers of my soul meet my lover softly. Gracefully. Passionately.

I have loved like a sweet summers day, like a warm cup of milk, like a thank you for no reason. Tender. Kind. Cherished until broken.

I have loved.

I still have love.

Within.

Categories
Life

Rainbow

Is this a rainbow I see

reaching through the collective heart

of the dreamers?

Wide eyes open, lovely dreamers.

You were made to shine

the most beautiful lights on the world.