The colors of spring and winter

October 18th

Label
A word or short description used to encapsulate a border topic.

When writing about labels there are so many pages to fill,
What they are, what they aren't, and the ones I use for myself.
Labels are another way people can put you in a box,
You tell them you're an artist and they have a compartment to place you in, even if the sweater doesn't fit quite right.
Labels are helpful in that way, summarizing life's complexities in a word or two.
There are some things labels aren't, for the most part they aren't the dictator of much at all.
You could think that you yourself are the biggest loser when far from that is true.
There are many words I use to describe myself, even if I don't say them aloud all are true in my mind.
Dead poet, obsessive in the best way, mentally unwell at times, loving of most, multifaceted yet simple, artistic, passionate on occasions, unpublished journalist, academic of sorts, queer in more ways then one, and lastly a writer.
Movies have a real impact on me, films are the reason I am a poet not just yesterday but today and the days to come.
Neil perry's untimely death will always be a little break in my heart.
I am obsessive in the way that I don't just like things, put love to the point of tears, I never have known a normal interest a day in my life, nor do I wish to.
Some can say I am taking things past the realm of what is considered normal but when it comes to passion there is no such thing as caring too much.
My mental illness does not define me, but it has defined my life in moments past, how terrifying that must have been.
I see myself as a lover of most, accepting just about anyone who walks past my door step, not only for the sake of them but for my own reasons too.
Because unless you intend to harm, why should I bother telling someone what box they should put themselves in.
I want the things all people do, passion, happiness, love, the ways I go about that may be different then most but at the core we are all the same.
I have a need for creation, my means changes but I always find a way.
While it may take time for me to find my next poetry, if there is a passion besides poetry, but when that day comes I know I will give that thing every cent of my will.
I go through journal pages faster than the wind. I'll never share much of what I write, but they will always be there for me.
I love to learn about anything that lives under the sun, although astronomy has peaked my interest.
I may not be good at getting a sticker on my report card, but that's not what matters to me.
Queer in the strange way and,
Queer in the other ways.
And lastly, a writer, my favorite label at the moment, because what I am too afraid to say
I write, write in what one day will be a soft cover green book on my shelves.

Labyrinth
A complex maze.

As a poet I write a lot about life and the things I can compare it to, But Labyrinth is by far the best metaphor for life so far.
Because in the time between your first birthday and your last so much goes on in the walls of the maze.
One minute you think you're trapped in an endless descent into the darkest of nights, the next you take a turn and suddenly the sun is out again.
On your first turn down a new path you may feel scared beyond what you've ever felt, only for that to be the road you take until your last breath.
Or the opposite could be true, at some point we all abandon what we've always known, but what is left behind is up to you.
The street you've always walked down, and swore you always would, has now been inhibited since you left.

Lady
A way to refer to a woman.

I understand looking at me, I am rather ambiguous,
In the way that people can't quite tell if I shop in the mens or women's section.
Although that truth stings I know it is temporary,
It stings to not recognize the person I see in the mirror but I know I will one of the days down the road.
But nothing aches quite like the passing "she" a stranger calls referring to me.
Why I base the thoughts on myself on what a stranger, a person I've spoken to for less then a second thinks of me i don't know.
But when those instances occur, I feel as if who I am at my core is something to be ashamed of, that respect at its lowest level is something I shouldn't expect.
Why would I make them call me a he when the way I look and sound replicates that of the opposite.
It's at those times I remind myself that I would do the same for anybody else, so why shouldn't I expect it for myself.
I must remind myself that I'm so very lucky to have people that see me for how I see myself and not through the eyes of a stranger.