This is not a Poem
This is not a poem.
If it was, I would profess the magic of the sun building, sculpting, a new day just for you.
The glistening, knee buckling side effects of being in love.
The heartbreak of a life being snatched right out from underneath you without a proceed with caution sign in sight, without a goodbye mat for you to wipe your feet on, wipe your tears on.
The universe that builds up to a climactic eruption of stardust inside of you upon being kissed, but not just kissed, seen and loved and known and chased and kissed.
The delicacy of the wind thinking of you, attempting to sweep you up off of your feet, playing with your hair, in pursuit of you, begging for just one more dance.
And how it is a novel in itself for your lungs to fill up with air every other second just to let you continue living, a task you don’t have to compose an ounce of effort towards, or even have to muster up a single thought about. How poetic and rare it is to sincerely exist and live and love, and die even, but this isn’t a poem, so I cannot tell you these things.
I can only speak of the dull and lifeless, the unarousing systematic routines of being a human. If this isn’t a poem, I am left to type within the confines of all things not poetic. However, I am unfamiliar with these topics, for every second I inhale life or flutter out a blink or dance along the tightrope between sleep and consciousness I am an interpretive piece of art, a galaxy, even.
So if this page is not a literary balladic outburst, I have nothing to say. And if I have nothing to say, alas, this is not a poem.