A paintball hit my window last night. I decided to write about it.

My posting-every-week streak is broken, noooooo. . .
I blame school trips, test weeks, and my tendency to take absurdly long showers.
So, I wrote this in literally five minutes. This isn’t even thought-spew. It’s like . . . incoherent-spew? Procrastination-spew? I-am-vaguely-stressed-and-writing-nonsense-spew? I don’t even know, man. You’re the reader, your call. I’m just gonna go back to homework.

You stick to my transparency
Or maybe it is I who is stuck on you
Like cling wrap on a bowl of leftover pasta
(Not that you are leftover pasta)

I remember when I first met you
You launched into me
At a really inopportune time
And you’ve been here ever since:
This small but significant dot
On my metaphorical windshield
And sometimes I mistake you for the moon
(But you glow brighter, somehow.)

But now you have grown,
Splattered yourself against my surface
And I am translucent
(Which is a good thing?)

You are colour
You are vibrant and life and passion
I am adapter, changer, see-through
I show what is behind me
And what is in front
(Does that mean I have no middle?)

Or does it just mean you are my middle?
That you are my substance
The defining characteristic
(Which isn’t a good thing?)

I’ve grown used to you
Just being
But I don’t think
I’ll miss you if you’re gone
After all, I am structure
I may be clear and boring
And you may be excitement
But you are not permanent
And I guess I’m not either
But I sure as heck will be here
When you are gone
And you will be gone.

Spilled Ink

It seems like every day that I am begging classmates to know that breathing isn’t as hard as it seems. The muted screams of thousands of people echo in the distance and too many of my friends murmur in the recesses of my mind, “I want out of this life.”

Every day there are approximately 11 youth suicides. I am terrified that one day it will be someone I know, and I don’t have enough fingers on my hands to count how many times I’ve heard of attempts made by people I can’t bear to lose. Hanging, poison, choking, overdosage, when does it end?

Some say that I hold the words that can save them, but remember that you are the one who picked yourself off the floor, who crawled towards the sunlight, who found the strength to keep moving through this idiosyncratic life. I am just a friend with nothing left to give except battered compassion and my pleading voice, “You stay here with me.

I hope you listen so you can here for every snowfall, every sunset, every happy moment for the rest of your enduring, significant life. They say some poems are long and some are short but by god, I hope you are a long one. Do not stop writing.

Instilling Fondness

Have you ever just looked at someone and thought, “I really love you”. They’re just talking or humming or watching a movie or reading a book or laughing or something, and there’s something about them in that moment—their body is alive, there’s a light in their eyes, something—that makes you think, “I just really love you.” It’s a weird sensation to think this, but it’s pretty awesome that we can feel this way about another being. -Tumblr user text-pistol

There’s injustice all over the world and humans have done unspeakable things over the course of history, but I’d like to think that the real essence of humanity is captured in those fleeting moments where you look at someone and cannot help but love them.

False Constitution

This isn’t so much poetry as it is thought-spew with uncoordinated line breaks. But it’s here, which I guess is what matters.

I used to tell myself I wasn’t good at talking.
Now, it very rarely my mouth is closed
But when I talk,
It’s often always either two things:

Compliments, as if
Carrying self-esteem is
Comparable to Atlas’ burden
And if we do not nudge it upwards every once in a while
It will collapse like disturbed soufflé

Or apologies, ‘Sorry’ said to strangers
And friends:
Uttered after
A bump in the hallway that wasn’t
Supposed to happen or whispered
After unkind words or
Written at the bottom of tests.

Lately I’ve been thinking
That I have become
A living, breathing Apology
Or a catalyst for praise;
That I am not a woman
Made of skin and hair
Or bones and nerves
Or substance.

I do not know if I am me
Or just many little parts of everyone else
Stitched together with
Inconsequential fluff of a person.
And I don’t know if that’s wrong -
I don’t know if it’s wrong not to know
Who you are unless someone
Tells you, “You are [blank].”

“You are AP student, intelligent, motivated.”
“You are daughter, treasured, expected of.”
“You are friend, receptor, accepter.”

Perhaps I am just
One giant fill-in-the-blank
And life is a game of Mad Libs
But there are two things
I know for certain:

1. This poem needs to end
Because it’s not going anywhere anymore

2. If I really am made of
Little parts of everyone else
Then I can’t say I was ever
Not alive.

Full of Others

It’s really important who you hang out with.

At least, that’s what my mom told me a lot when I was younger. Her and many parents take friend influences seriously, and with good reason: none of us would be the person we are today without the influences of the people we surround ourselves with.

There’s the nature vs. nurture argument as well: the idea that our roots take precedence over our upbringing and environment, and vice versa. But individuals become who they are due to a mix of both nature and nurture, and also what they aspire to be. Perhaps that’s why so many of us admire our friends* – because you hang out with people who possess qualities you like (either subconsciously or consciously).

*Of course, you can also admire your friends simply because they’re your friends. The moment you become chummy with them is the moment you don rose-coloured glasses.

I have kind friends and hilarious friends and thoughtful friends and artsy friends and musical friends and intellectual friends and strong-willed friends and protective friends and ohmygoodnessCUTE friends, and most of them have all of these qualities packed into one body. Since friends rub off on you after awhile (several times I’ve noticed myself using my friends’ little mannerisms), we’ve all probably picked up a bunch of things from each other accidentally or through emulation.

It’s this kind of thinking that spurs questions: which qualities have we picked up, and from whom? (As Tumblr suggests, we should all get a book that says which qualities we’ve adopted from people we know. That’d be cool.) Are we all inspirations and catalysts for change in the eyes of each other? Is it in this way that people carry pieces of us with them, wherever they go? Will we always be present in the way they run their hands through their hair or in the little catchphrases they say?

It’s pretentious to want to leave a mark on the people you hang out with, but there’s something nice about thinking that a fragment of yourself is alive in another.

Romanticism of Hollowness

You are made of the earth.
You breathe the same air
As the migrating butterflies and
Your bones are the dust of the planets.
You do not curse the mountains for being too vast.
You should not curse yourself for being
More than empty space.

You are so much more than that.
So much more than just a number
Or a glossy magazine page
Or the daylight streaming
Between your thighs.

You are moonlit window
And the horizon at dusk;
Your heartbeat is someone’s gospel and
You have unborn worlds hidden behind your eyes.

I am not a good judge of poets
But you are living, breathing,

A Thought on Character

It is infinitely more appealing to believe the best of someone rather than to see their worst. After all, everyone is inherently flawed yet stitched together with good intentions; a patchwork of virtues and vices and the desire to be appreciated.

We are all trying our best.


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