People are not Poetry
You can write for hours on hours,
Of all the things you wish you could be,
But the truth of the matter is simple;
People are not poetry.
And I know that you wish you weren’t awkward,
That sweet words could roll off your tongue,
But your time here is too short to worry,
How each single sentence is strung.
Your hair doesn’t always sit neatly,
The way a poem sits so neatly in lines,
And sometimes you might feel like a word,
That nobody has learnt to define.
To be crammed into one metaphor,
It’s okay not to know what you’re doing,
Since your feelings don’t have to all rhyme.
Though a poem once complete is eternal,
You have the freedom to change overtime.
You’re much more than can ever be written,
There is no title to say, “This is Me.”
You can’t be trapped in the lines of a notebook,
Because people are not poetry.
Experience
I can't write from experience because I have never had sex but I can believe that is a beautiful thing. What I have experienced is the result.
Sex can be looked at in three different ways, something that is sexually attractive, a way to escape this world, and feel the best, or it can be a beautiful thing that gives you the best, or it can be both.
No matter what way you look at it, sex is human, it is not a sin, it is a gift from God, Himself, and it allows us to make the most precious thing. It gives us life. Even if nothing comes from the beauty of sex it is still beautiful. Even if you don't have kids you are still experiencing the nature of it. It gives us the best feeling we have.
Again, I don't know what sex is like, I have heard of it, I know how it works, I believe it's good, and I want it, but I don't know. I am guessing what makes sex so good is that it is an experience, almost like nothing ever before. The only way to know is to do.
But if sex is a beautiful thing it shouldn't be done in the wrong way, otherwise it is misused. Use it when the time is right when you're married, and then you will know more than I do.
There was water. Lots of water. That’s all I remember from the night she went missing.
Although transparent, water can conceal the darkest of nights.
The flood had washed away the day before--
The warmth of summer drowned in the deep lakes concealing the streets.
Traces of yesterday’s festivities were gone--
There were no footprints
The fervid fragrance of the orchard had been replaced with the sweet scent of dew.
When I first arose, I did not detect her absence.
It was not until dawn that the natural light verified her vacancy.
When did the weather warp time? Where did the current take her?
As though caught in a riptide—fate had brought us together.
Me, from the West. And her from the East.
We had noted each other’s hair.
Mine long for a man. Hers short for a woman.
As the wind carried the clouds, and the clouds concealed the sun--
her pale skin molt silver to gold
And the day, whose events flowed into the cracks of time, melted away.
Turning
What-if into what-was
Despite Washington’s reputation for precipitation
She lamented: I did not prepare for this.
My reflex: No one is.
She accepted to share the shelter under my umbrella.
Occasionally she’d think out loud:
I find the spring showers to be symbolic,
In the West, each day feels fresh and renewed.
I inquired whether she preferred that.
“To live today as if it were yesterday grants me the opportunity to make things...right.”
I asked if the regularity bothered her.
She admitted that although bland; she appreciated the routine and being able to plan.
"Please understand that it was not until just recently that I learned to plant my roots—to cease being a rolling stone as one might put it."
I confessed I was never much of a traveler
That I carried the window to the world in my pocket.
Shortly thereafter we sought shelter as the sky drained itself into dusk.
It was a long twilight for me as exhaustion drew me in and out of consciousness.
It was a short dawn for her as the release of her past inner turmoil illuminated her eyes.
Between the rain and her personal disclosures, there was never a moment of silence.
“I am always running. I am afraid that ‘it’ will catch me. Whether ‘it’ is time trying to collect my health or ‘it’ is a deep repressed memory trying to freeze me in that moment forever.”
I assured her she was not in danger:
Time takes the body but enriches the soul in exchange.
Memories captivate, but time stops for nobody.
In the morning she had left my embrace.
I never saw her again.
But--
Like two streams forming a river I knew our lives were intertwined
forever.
I will never forget the rain.