A Little Bit Of Sunshine

  And pots fit into each other in neat little stacks Each one part of a matching set Doing what they were meant to do Who could conceive of that?  But we struggle to make space  for each other To be a unit, thinking for the other's best If we could be like pots... Empty and selfless  Existing only to serve others

I didn't prepare a speech or anything My life was planned so meticulously Until Brighton Beach ruined everything I signed my name on a form asking for volunteers I needed a change of scenery and found  myself here Helping people through their trauma  and fear And who is this that emerged from the shadows, perfectly at home Among the broken But myself, the shy and un-outspoken?  I always said I wanted to make a difference  in the world  And honestly, the view doesn't hurt

Artists and their funny ways All we do is spend our days In pajama pants thinking up ideas And plans that we never carry out But they're still nice to think about And we take stuffy jobs  just to cover the cost  Of meandering about, lost But at least we can write about it A new entry in our journal or our turn to read in the poetry circle At the café down the street We're grumpy old hats,  barely making eye contact  And we're thankful for that. 

It was the thought that I could do anything Be anyone That frightened me most of all Misery, I could weather Diappointment, I'd come to expect But greatness is a fear I ain't conquered yet

A hag and a half You school your scowl into a laugh Lips set at half-mast,  you lift your foot off of my chest Just enough to let in a breath  To keep my heart beating ever so slightly  And carve out a meager existence A little life...beneath the grime of your shoe

I've always lived in fear That the tiniest misstep or misjudgement would be the thing to ruin my little life. But now I ask, what life? Always on the precipice, waiting to fall Perhaps a little life is no life at all The fear of ruining my life stopped me from living one. 

If the statistics are to be believed, the 'blog' is becoming obsolete. Doomed to join the fate of the magazine, slowly gathering dust on a distant shelf.  It was with triumphant glee that the ' blog'  took its place. "The hottest news and fashion trends at the tips of your fingers. All the features of a magazine, on a single web page." Call it poetic, then, that blogs will soon meet a similar fate. People aren't typing URLs on their internet server anymore. They're googling the information they need and tapping the first option they see, never to return again. Forcing blogs to churn out search-friendly content and lose their original intention: Individuals logging their thoughts and experiences to attract regular readers. Still, blog platforms are still active and preferred amongst readers and writers.  But they're dramatically outpaced by bite-sized and short-form mediums of content: the Instagram explore page, Tiktok and YouTube shorts. It's ...

There's a beast living inside the walls Of my home It feasts on misery, and the tears We muffle in our sleep But what it particularly likes to eat Is ice cold fear It is always hungry, and we are always empty scrambling to keep it satisfied I dare not ponder if it ever had my eyes If its gruesome fangs were once a smile What is an gaping hole that needs needs needs If not a broken soul who bleeds bleeds bleeds?  We shrivel up, cold and defeated Crawling beneath the debris It hugs our feet and says welcome home - The cycle of abuse is complete. 

Do not be afraid to be extraordinary  To bite the hand that beats you Do not concern yourself with who burns In the blaze of your glory Do not be sorry.  Do not be polite about your inner light For the mourners will come all at once  Demanding a song to play all night  Do not live an unfulfilled life just to be buried with the wordsa "At least she was perfectly nice" 

I'm all faith and no leap All bite and no teeth And as I go to speak Something silences me It's a weight, rendering me incapable of flight It's a whisper, curling doubt  in the back of my mind  It's the hand of a child, begging  me not to let go Their eyes are my own, except they  were afraid to fail And I'm afraid to be great. 

My simplest time looked like sixth period shuffling along with no enthusiasm Our pleated skirts had seen better days our braids swayed after us  in a defiant trail Heads tipped in raucous laughter Though I couldn't recall the joke It was everything, I suppose... A dry cheese sandwich split four ways  after a long day is still  the best thing I've ever tasted I do not think the sun shone upon us brighter then Nor the load we carried  were any lighter It was just Tuesday We thought it would never end And tomorrow, we'd start all over again