The start of this collection is inspired by months/seasons of the year. The rest of this chapter is poems intended to capture where I am at right now, in a a general sense, similar to a personal time capsule.
Winter
December is like a warm cup of hot chocolate during a late night conversation after a day spent in the harsh cold.
They will illuminate the truth unlike anyone else will,
They will not hesitate to show you the parts you can't see in the mirror,
But in those moments of raw honesty, they give you comfort you didn't know you needed.
January proudly tells stories of who helped him become the person he is today.
He is a collage of everyone he's ever loved.
He takes bits from every friend, family member, and character he's ever come to know, and puts together the pieces of who he is through them.
February is a canvas filled with hundreds of different brushstrokes from dozens of different colors,
He sees himself through the eye of the beholder,
He is whoever you need him to be,
He is a light in the dark,
He is whatever you see in the painting.
December
I have always thought of myself as an honest late night conversation.
Sure the movies and popcorn were fun, but as the night comes to an end I want to hear what went unsaid.
True connection is revealing the hidden together,
Connection is found in the moments when your heart races before you speak what you thought was unspeakable.
Because secrets are never kept well, we may hide the content but we wear our secrets, something so hidden is something so visible, it bleeds into our every move, we may not know what is going unsaid but we will know that something is.
When the sun sets I'd rather be judged for my truth than accepted for what is not my reality.
January
I find myself in other people.
I am a collage of everyone I've ever loved.
I had a passionate dislike for black coffee until my dad told me how much he loved it,
I've come to enjoy the bitter taste since then.
I write in my journal just about every day,
I share my thoughts, hopes, dreams, and experiences with the paper,
But I didn't think of myself as a writer until an English teacher showed me what writing really could be.
I am a box full of essays, letters, and entries all packaged in different homemade envelopes.
I wouldn't keep these writings if it weren't for my friend who lived a letter box life.
I find value in what comforts me regardless of its effectiveness.
I wouldn't be saying this if it weren't for my caretakers who gave me band aids even when there was no bleeding.
I am a painting, with brushstrokes from everyone I've ever loved.
February
If I were anything but a person I would be a great big painting.
Of what you may ask,
But that is for you to answer.
Because maybe today you need a rose bush that is just about to bloom,
Maybe you need someone to show you that holding on just a minute longer is what makes the day.
For some when you look at me you see a great big sun,
And when you see that great big sun I hope you are reminded of the better days ahead, and the ones in the past that weren't so bad.
I've been told I am a small cafe on the corner of your street,
And if that is what you see in me I hope you find peace in my chairs and lattes.
For many I've come to know I am a sweater,
A sweater that hugs you when nobody is there to,
A sweater that gets you through the harsh winter, no matter how cold.
In different points of my life I have been a moon,
A light in the night sky for you to talk to when nobody else is awake,
A waxing crescent to help you to look at your reflection in the mirror when it's past midnight.
Spring
March is a notebook,
She holds her thoughts, experiences and hopes all bounded together,
She rarely shares her pages but when she does you are left feeling explained in a way you never have before
April is a wise tree,
She may not say much but witnesses things in a way most don't pay enough attention to,
She sees life in a way nobody else does,
And always is willing to provide shade on sunny days.
May has always reminded me of the bedroom of a teenager,
His wall reflect every passing interest,
Each item a part of himself,
He is self expression through the places you cherish most.
March
I find peace in my humanity but I am a notebook of my own writings at heart,
I do everything to capture a moment to save for later, a thought I wish I could better understand, and ideas you hope to bring along with you.
When I write I do everything I can to make sure the best moments are reliveable and the worst learned from,
I retell my experiences in a way that ensures they never really end.
I detail my best days in hopes that someday down the road I will look back on what I thought I forgot with a smile spread across my face.
And for the moments I would never wish to relive, I pour my heart into expressing my pain in a way that will inspire change.
April
I am the tree on the corner of your street.
I have spent most of my life happy to witness the world around me, while being almost unrelated to the experience as anything but an outsider, I never seemed to mind.
I watched as you first learned how to ride a bike,
I saw your first kiss,
I was there when you packed your bags to leave,
I spent my entire life lovingly watching you grow.
I almost didn't notice the change of the seasons and the growth of my leaves.
I was also there for your first heartbreak,
The first time you fell off your bike and when you had to come back home.
I was there when you needed shade or a trunk to hide behind.
I am here in whatever ways I can serve you, I am the giving tree.
Life as of today
Life as of today is a lily pad floating in the river,
Untouched by the outside world, and disconnected, floating slowly through the river.
Life as of today is a late night, I'm either having the most fun I've had in as long as I can remember, or struggling to sleep due to the noise.
Life as of today is like a journal filled with endless entries,
Some of the most blissful days, others of rather stormy nights.
Life as of today is like a backpack that is almost too full,
It feels like my seams may rip at any moment, but they won't.
Life as of today is ugly in the most beautiful way.
YOU ARE READING
Letters from sixteen
PoetryA poetry book I wrote during periods of my life with many different facets. I wrote about happy moments, addiction, and trauma, the book becomes more depressing as it goes on. I choose the title "letters from sixteen" to capture how I wanted to capt...
