Days pass by
like carousel horses
red and gold and green.
Sit on the horse with the silver mane
and ride—up and down, round and round
no two cycles quite the same.
It’s not the years that change.
Ravens come and go,
mountains gather snow.
Riders come on,
others get off
as we spin round the sun like a carousel
but it’s never quite the same.
We’re never quite the same.
It’s not the years that change.
Music is emotion
in a lovely glass bottle
spritzed around like perfume,
for all to feel it.
Here is my heartbreak,
the singer says,
Here are my joys.
Here is love
so intense that it aches,
don’t you remember how that feels?
I didn’t, actually,
didn’t want to remember, but—
Thank you.
My soul
Is not the silver-white
Of moonlight on snow
Or the deep, vibrant red
Of blood and power.
It is not the soft orange
Of an early sunrise
Nor the brilliant gold
Of autumn leaves
It isn’t pink, or green,
Or turquoise, or any
Of the bright colors
I adore.
No.
My soul is inky indigo
Like crisp new jeans
Like deep ocean water
Like the spaces between stars
On a cloudless night.
I wonder what that says
About me.
The stories make you
Feel alive.
That’s good, but
Spend more time outside.
Bring a book, if you must.
You’ll need every ounce of sunlight.
Don’t return their vicious words.
Forgiveness comes with time.
Until then,
Stay kind.
Remember:
They’re just as young as you are.
Alone isn’t bad.
You’ll find your people.
When you do,
Hold tight to them.
When your mind goes dark
And your heart goes numb
And you lose your wonder,
Ask for help.
There’s no shame in it.
Scribble out
A piece of paper—
You know you want to.
Turn the whole thing black with ink.
Learn.
It’s not
About the grades.
It’s about the experience,
What you learn from it.
Life will never be easy.
Don’t expect to be perfect.
You don’t have to be a scientist
To love the way the world works.
There’s poetry
In every star and mollusk.
Find what makes you happy.
Write it.
God doesn’t hate you.
(No,
Not even for that.
Promise.)
Your parents don’t have
Some plan for who you’ll be,
They just
Want you happy.
Don’t
Hide the bits of yourself
You think they won’t like.
Make your music.
It’s not about being the best,
It’s about the joy.
Find what makes you lonely.
Draw it.
Lose your words
In the colors and shapes
And make something,
Little dreamer.
People are complicated.
You won’t
Understand anyone,
Not completely.
Not even yourself.
People leave.
Let them go.
Talk to new people,
Even
If you don’t think you know how.
(People love to talk about themselves,
So give someone an audience.)
Hug whenever possible.
And, you know,
Socially acceptable.
Find what makes you laugh.
Dance it.
Humor comes
From subverted expectation.
Cephalopod.
Pick up a Copic book
Or ten.
Who cares
If it’s for “smart kids”
Or not?
Find what makes you angry,
Go for a run.
Cut out what you don’t need.
You won’t miss the length
If you cut your hair short.
Making your thoughts into words
Is hard,
I know.
Something
Will always be lost in translation.
Speak anyway.
You are so, so loved
Exactly
As you are.
You. You’ve always existed,
in some way or other.
Older than time itself,
that’s you.
The bones that carry you,
the skin you wear,
these are new.
Even without them,
the experience they brought,
you were still you.
Like a snowball
rolling
down a hill,
acquiring mass;
like a sapling
putting forth new roots and branches,
you grew, yet
your core was the same.
Child of Eternity,
stardust in your eyes,
do you see that core?
Have you any idea
how beautiful
you are?
You are
the past behind you,
the road before you,
the choices you make,
the tales you tell,
and
you are infinitely more.
They don’t wear
slimy scales
or shining fangs.
They might be as ugly
or pretty
as anyone else.
They wear business suits or t shirts,
sundresses or pajamas.
They’re hard to spot
and they can’t be fought
in shining armor.
Monsters
are just
people
who treat people
like things.
They sidle
between and through and around
constellations, heedless
of the other members of
the celestial
dance. Rebellious soloists.
Or,
a part of the dance we
haven’t yet learned.
“Planet”
once meant
“wanderer.”
Courage wears faded jeans
in a church parking lot,
and only hesitates a moment
before heading inside.
*
Courage gets up
when the pain is bad.
Stretches out the aching,
and goes to work.
*
Courage’s leg jiggles,
hands stutter over strings,
but keep strumming
for a roomful of people.
*
Courage falls down
and gets back up.
Moves forward,
seeing no other option.
*
Courage is afraid.
Courage would not exist
without fear.
I am like water,
smooth and swift,
ever in motion.
I move like earth,
slow but unstoppable,
never overbalanced.
I fall like air,
rising again,
constant in change.
I burn like fire,
steady, flickering, spinning,
home.
The world dances with me.
Feelings
can’t be measured or quantified
like color
or mass
or sound.
They don’t translate to words.
How am I feeling?
Dissassembled,
Alive,
Something.
*
Lindenberg said
that poetry
doesn’t happen
cuz of something we want
to say,
it happens
because we can’t say something.
Language
is inadequate
to contain the deepest pieces
of a human soul.
Poetry tries
to say the things
language never found words for.
*
Lewis said
there’s a speech
at the center of everyone’s soul
that we spend our lives
trying to say.
I wonder
can language hold that speech?
can a drawing or poem say it?
Or will my speech remain
in the deepest parts of myself,
unspoken,
unseen,
alone?
I am trying to say something.
I always have been.
I don’t know what it is.
Dragon Harris 