Right now, I feel at peace. I feel good. I feel alive.
As I sit in the room lit up by a small lamp, I can't help but smile.
I feel content. I feel content. I feel... joyous.
I'm grateful for each person I have encountered in my life.
To each and every one of you, I say thank you.
By encountering you, it helped shape to become me.
Through your kindness, I now only present gentle hands.
Through your jokes, I attempt to make others crack smiles.
Through your wisdom, I've attempted to be people's advocate.
However, not all encounters are the most cheerful.
Through pain, I've understood how life is challenging.
Through hardships, I decided to not let them stop me from
Everything has a certain purpose,
It's just you, personally, have to figure that out.
But, if I may ask:
What does make a person happy?
Everyone has different sayings, idioms, and more
on this certain topic.
Happiness is certainly meant for everyone,
But we all find happiness in different ways.
I hope everyone here can say they know what happiness
How does a person dress up happily?
Even dance, sing, create, or destroy?
Can you even live, grow, eat, sleep, play, fall, or cry
And still consider yourself happy?
How about cheat, kill, or defy?
These are all components that make up life.
Both the incredibly addictive good points,
And as well as the unavoidable bad points.
They all combine though,
To make one beautiful,
Yet not so beautiful,
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Dear 19 Year Old,
Do you still take the time to write for fun?
Or you lost the interest to pour your heart,
Hand covered in messy aquatic blue ink,
Kissing passionately onto paper,
To write out your decorative creed?
Has it not turned into decay,
And become a part of the Stone Age,
Since technology entered your life?
You’ve now wasting your precious life source.
Day in and day out,
You do nothing but sit,
And stare at the abomination.
Screen after screen after screen.
Laptop, phone, camera, iPod.
Till your neck will need to crack,
Your fingers start to snap,
And your wrists become encased in braces,
Due to your carpal tunnel,
But still you don’t write anymore.
How can you do this to yourself?
Writing was the center of your soul.
You holy place of worship.
The home to where your Creative Youth thrived,
And died to dust.
The haven the mature self sits in self provocation,
But becomes a waste of space if not acted upon quickly.
And I know,
We all know,
That you need to do it sometime.
Write till your heart bleeds colorful emotions onto the white canvas.
Write till your mind compresses new words salvaged deep in your cranium.
Write till your soul twists and turns in the inner blanket it hides under,
When it then gets forced into the light and gets examined from the inside out.
All of this is revealed,
Upon your command.
With your powerful strides,
That take up the universe.
With a brilliant blue pen in hand.