thoughts on endings

 “i'll come back when you call me / no need to say goodbye."

    this year i'm a senior. it's difficult, saying goodbye to the things i've known for four years, but i'm also excited for what comes next. i don't want to say goodbye, though. i don't want to leave these people, these places behind. 

    i've still got time. i'm just not ready.

some poetry

 

eighteen

ages are funny things. to think that

you’ve existed for longer than someone

and shorter than someone else—

isn’t that strange?

and some of them have meanings.

you, for instance. you’re eighteen. what does that mean?

nothing. everything.

a child in someone’s mind and a grown-up in someone else’s.

you “turn eighteen” (what does that even mean? it’s like it’s the turn of a century)

and you become the same but different.

you’re a man now, child,

in the eyes of the world. you’re not a “minor” anymore. you’re a “major”.

a full-fledged human. congratulations, you actually exist now.

but what you did before, isn’t that important too?

ages are funny things. some people say they matter, but do they?

you don’t seem so different to me.

headache

thud.

thud.

thud.

there’s a small creature inside my head

it’s knocking at my skull with its teeth.

thud.

go away, small creature, you’re hurting me

i can’t possibly do anything

with you inside my head.

thud.

thud.

shut up, small creature, nobody cares about you.

thud.

“leave me my name.” - john proctor, the crucible

fool.

you want my name?

i have given you my soul.

sure, you can have my name,

once you’ve pried it from my cold, dead hands.

i have given you my soul. leave me my name.

colours

 her favourite colours change with the seasons.

in spring it’s green, brilliant grass green, like the leaves on roses and the moss growing gently on bushy-topped trees. it’s white, like daffodils and fuzzy dandelions, scattering their petals on the wind. it’s purple, soft lilac purple, like the early sunrise and gentle lavender always smiling. it’s pink, like the cherry blossoms waving in the quiet wind.

in summer it’s blue. stunning, piercing blue like the ocean casting itself on the shore, like the sky in the middle of a warm summer day. it’s yellow, like hibiscus flowers and tan like the soft sand lining the beach.

in autumn it’s orange like pumpkin spice, like soft candlelight in the dark and a fire warming the corner of a home. it’s brilliant red, like a forest lined with the leaves falling from bare trees. it’s brown, like the pages of a well-loved book, like nutmeg, like oatmeal that warms your mouth or the tang of coffee or the soft hug of cinnamon tea. 

in winter it’s red. bright, passionate red like the stripes on a candy cane or a red rose lying against the snow. it’s white, like snowflakes falling, like the lights on a christmas tree, like marshmallows sitting in a piping hot mug of cocoa. it’s cream, like a well-worn sweater or a fuzzy scarf that keeps away the cold. it’s army green, like a christmas tree that’s just been cut, like the smell of pine wafting through the air.

child

Everybody’s got to grow up sometime.

It comes on you gradually, 

a creeping shadow, a leaf in the wind.

And there comes a point when you say, like you always say,

“I’m not a child anymore,”

But you don’t really mean it. 

Not anymore. 

You begin to miss it - those flights of fancy, fighting dragons,

meeting the love of your life in a gold-tinged dream. 

Not everything’s so easy now.

There is good. Of course there is. But you feel her,

that little girl you used to be, slowly fading.

Becoming glass.

There are responsibilities now. 

It hurts sometimes, being too old for Narnia.

But there are bits of Narnia here, too.

a thoughtpost

 

    there’s something irreplaceable about being out in nature. 

    alone, just you and God, wandering and listening to the rustle of leaves and chirping of birds and twinkling of the stars. 

    we don’t get that kind of aloneness much anymore. it’s just school, work, more work, and then you go to sleep dreaming about the kind of things you wish you could experience but don’t know if you ever will. 

    i miss that kind of freedom. 

a contrapuntal poem

                             

                                                                            gertrude          claudius

i love          you

you          are mine

forever and          always.

when i look at you          in the silence of dreams

i see who you used to be.          it’s you, you,

the man          i love

not the monster,        only ever

      you.

the child i used to be

sometimes i miss 

the child i used to be. 

yes, i was alone

and yes, i was naïve, 

but i didn’t care.

i didn’t care

what others thought, 

what they thought of me 

or who i was. 

i just was.

i was innocent.

trusting.

pure in heart.

i miss her, that little girl

who saw the world

so clearly

but herself

saw not at all.