Who I Am.

Sat, 11/07/2015 - 02:43 -- mtocci
This poem is about: 



I am the darkening of my freckles in the summer and the dried flowers on my nightstand.

I am an A major chord on a wooden piano.

I am jumping off a dock into a Kansas lake, and falling asleep on the rooftop of a gently rocking houseboat.

I am drinking black coffee with a friend on the first day of Spring.

I am the way I’ll put a song on repeat until I know every line and the way that purple brings out the green in my eyes.

I am the highlighted quotes in my favorite books and I am the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. 

I am the cool air that surrounds the pink sunrise at 7:00 on a Sunday morning. 

I am the way my eyes well up with tears when I see someone crying and when I yawn and when I laugh. 

I am every single step of an Irish slip jig and the drawings taped up on my bedroom wall.

I am every word I’ve ever read, but mostly every word I’ve ever written, and I’m the pictures I can remember long after the image is gone away. 

I am the sound of an acoustic guitar around a campfire on a summer night in July. 

I am the way my fingertips tingle when I think of music inside my head.

I am the coarse asphalt of my street, and the damp grass of my lawn on a Tuesday evening. 

I am the crashing waves of Newport Beach and the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies as I drive to school on a misty January dawn.

I am the seven stars that make up the Big Dipper and the way I only use cursive when writing poetry and French.


I am the 18th sentence of Hemingway’s, True at First Light, and the way it hurts me deeply that most people will never know what those words truly mean. 



(Be as good as you can.)

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