Haiku #2
Haiku #2
prince turns to pauper in the the dying sun's arms for all else is lost
More Posts from Boxoflives and Others
Anastasia Trusova, “And the sunset came” Acrylic on canvas / 60 x 80 cm / 2022
the little things
Sometimes, when I feel the way I do, I like to think about the little things.
The little things that make life worth living.
(at least for a while)
Like the way blushes grow on human cheeks.
Little things like the sound that can be only heard when rain and laughter marry.
Like lighting a candle while you start a new book.
The perfect little notification you waited all day for.
The way making someone else laugh sits on your chest for a while.
The way blades of grass fit neatly between your toes
The completion of a simple task.
The sound a dog’s collar makes as it walks.
(it's the little things)
It's the tiniest of things too.
The three-feet-distance between the desks of two friends.
That one freckles that girl you barely speak to anymore, but still makes you laugh.
The glitter in someone’s eye that just never leaves.
The smallest possible paper crane that you made in class last Tuesday.
(it's the little things)
It's also the big things.
Like the first kiss you had that really mattered.
Like the letter you never thought you’d get.
Knowing that she’s okay, even if you aren’t. Not anymore.
It’s the realization that you understand. Even though it's a bit too late
But most of all it's the little things.
Sorry
Sorry.
I don’t mean to bother you.
I really don't.
I don’t mean to take up this much space.
I’m trying to be better.
I swear.
Sorry.
You say I apologize too much.
I wish I could apologize for that.
I just have become so close with guilt.
He sits on my shoulder every afternoon when I get home.
He whispers in my ear.
“You should be sorry”
He’s right, you know.
Because Guilt sometimes lets me call him by another name.
A nickname if you will.
(we are that close)
He tells me to call him Truth.
He’s right here if you want me to talk to him.
Sorry.
If I am being truly honest with myself,
When I think realistically about my future,
I know in my heart I will be alone.
It’s not that love isn't something I yearn for.
I do. I really do.
There is this fire in my heart that wants to be put out.
But I know it will always burn.
It’s not that I am incapable of loving.
At least I hope not.
It’s just that I can’t really see why anyone would want to deal with loing me.
From what I know,
Which isn't much,
Is that love is supposed to be through thick and thin.
Love is supposed to be filled with little moments,
Like thinking of them while you fall asleep,
Like getting to know every little thing about them.
Love is supposed to be like coming home in their arms.
And while I feel like I could feel all of those things for someone else,
I know nobody would feel it for me.
Who would want to?
They want to love someone interesting.
Someone happy.
Someone smart.
Someone real.
I’m none of those things.
No matter how hard I try.
I hope one day I will get the hang of it.
Being lovable.
But I suppose for now, all that is, is a silly, childish dream.
If we were villains
Just finished if we were villains and let me just say, oh my goddddd!!!! I literally almost burst into tears at the ending. The way the characters were portrayed was amazing and every single one of the journeys they went on as humans was so touching and approachable. I have no words to describe how this book made me feel.
friends for my tears
Tears, my greatest acquaintance
Left to dry on my balcony
I hope they mix with the guilt spilled on the railing
And that my tears find solace in the stress that stains the windows
And mingle with the blood crusted on the stairs
So that maybe, in some way,
Some part of me is joined with something.
Even if it is another part of my own self.
Art is not my friend right now
I am filled with so much jealousy for other’s art, I am unable to enjoy my own.
Art is not my friend right now.
I can’t come up with anything new. I miss the days where this wasn’t a chore. We aren’t friends right now because I want my art to be something it is not.
Art is not my friend right now. I can’t make my hands create what is in my head.
Art is not my friend right now.
But all I want is for our friendship to return. It may be selfish, I want her to bring me joy. She might be the only one that can. I want to bring her to life, so we can walk hand in hand amongst creation.
Art will be my friend again soon.
