Poetry Dare: Day 5

I had this idea for a poem in mind for awhile, and I finally had a chance to write it out.  I'm very interested in the habits we humans have in life.  One of those habits is nearly undying curiosity.  I think, sometimes, however, that this curiosity gets us into more trouble than it does to help us. This is problematic because we can never know with certainty what could have been if something had been different, and sometimes the word "if" is the worst word that can or could ever be.



If is the heaviest word in
the English language. There
is no way to whisper this
word under your breath without
finding an inundation of
emotions or memories or
colors connected like rainbows
are said to show the way
to a pot of gold.
But this word is not
heavy like change - it is
burdened by moments
that never came to be,
possibilities conditioned on
things out of your control.

Certainty is something that can't
be guaranteed, and if is too
often followed by then as though
the hypothetical could lead into
a consequence...
"If I had been there..."
"If I had done something..."
"If I had said anything, then..."
Then... then...
Then what?

The unknown takes over and
life never goes back, so please
just keep your eyes turned
towards the place to which your
toes point. Feet know that
certain ends can't be questioned - this
is why feet look like exclamation points and toes
can't curl into question marks -
forward is the best way feet embark.

If is the heaviest utterance in
the English language. It has a habit
of transforming those things which touch it
into unanswerable questions like "What if?" It
has this habit of transforming memories
into missed opportunities, and ifs
stick to themselves until we feel
buried by "whats" and "I don't knows"
are the only weapon we have to wield, but they
break like bones under plunging gravity -
falling doesn't crush us; the sudden stop
does.

Poetry Dare: Day 3

I have absolutely no idea where this poem came from.  It began from the first two stanzas and then just kind of took on a life of its own.  I think that poetry is a state of constantly questioning the world.  The answers we get may not necessarily be the ones we want to find, but it's important that we keep questioning nonetheless.  Writing allows me that outlet, and I would encourage anyone feeling at a loss for words to pick up a pen or pencil and tell your story straight onto the lines in front of you.  After all, lines won't judge and your story is beautiful... And this rant reminds me of a poem of mine that a friend really likes, so I'd be quite lax in not including a link to that poem here.

A big thank you to anyone who has been checking out my dare/blog, and a big thank you to the person who made the dare in the first place, even if it was for the selfish reason of hearing a new poem of mine every day =D.  Consider this me saying "You're welcome."

But seriously, thank you to everyone for your support!




You've written another language for your story, drawn
a map but forgot the key.
I'm just trying to understand, so please
help me.

What does the sunset mean to you? Where
has the sunrise fallen? What
do you wake up to? Why
is your life calling?

Before you can answer who, you
have to find a reason to be. Sometimes
somethings get lost, but these answers
are too important to lose, so

don't loosen your grip. Who
are you? Where
do you want to be?
What makes you so
special? Why are you with me?

Questions, rather than answers, are
the way in which we explore the world because
answers are an end but questions are the means, so
forgive me for asking so many, but
I've got a wanderlust which feels
unquenchable.

I want to explore your eyes like they
lead me to the fountain of youth; I could
think of my fingertips as children running
through your hair like fields - there is
no end to the exploring and the adventures
on which we could embark; I'm
not even sure I'm asking for answers
anymore, but if you have some
you're willing to offer, I'd
be happy to sit and listen like
ancient mariners would stare
into the sky for guiding stars while
listening to the power of the ocean
as she gently whispered
against the sides of their craft
like the way your breath
washes across my chest.