little things
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Leaves fall off into the world below
Like how raindrops kiss the pavement and asphalt
Leaving a trail of existence that will soon disperse
Growing up is tough.
Requires a lot of self-
Trust
Often times
You can misjudged
Situations
Where there is
i awake, ready to enter again into
this poem called life.
to filter the moments,
the quivering of water’s meniscus in a plastic bottle,
how each person holds his pen differently,
When people ask me about youI tell them that you hate asparagusBut delight in broccoliI tell them about how you tell stories Like t
It’s the little things….
Like the way you play with my hair to ease me to sleep,
Or how you brush it out of my face, look into my eyes, with yours so full of joy, before you kiss me.
Every morning
It all begins again
Wake up with the memories
Of yesterday
Was it great or did you want it to end?
It's all a cycle
Everyday is the same
Everyday is the same
Sweet, a piece of summer
in the midst of winter
Salty, a silly song
sung over a meal well made
Sour, the pang of unkind words
unexpectedly turning into laughter
Savory, the rich sunlight
Little Things
They say that’s what it’s all about.
Perhaps even the things you can’t live without.
That little thing holds back all the little ticks in my head that are coming out, oh god
I am a kiss
I am the rain
the knot in my stomach when I step on stage
the words I pen with my own hand
and the rings on the table left behind
by my half-fnished mug of peppermint tea.
My sunlight,
you bring the daytime smiles
and keep them from slipping.
One table for two.
We wake from slumber
in a café of our own,
settled in the heat of blankets
I am from long winding roads,
from polaroid photos and old story books,
I am from the brick house at the dead end street,
laughter and comfort.
I am from the tall trees,
the snowflakes,
Poor little thing,Your weakness lies within your strength. Presenting as a monument,So strong and assuring,No one bothered checking For those cracks in the porcelain. They saw the sculpture
The bus clanks and shudders along the broken roads;
My pencil jerks from my hand,
And the broken roads are mirrored in line breaking
My page with its marred stroke.
My eraser jumps across the page as I erase
