In This New Season

There are days in my new season where I feel like I am grieving.

Days where I feel like I miss you. 

But then I’m told that I’m wrong,

That I miss the good parts, 

 

And not you.

 

But what if I did miss you.

 

What if I missed the season where you rubbed my arm when we laid in bed. 

What if I missed the season where the way you laughed at my dumb jokes was even funnier than the joke itself. 

And What if I missed the season where the way your looks just told me how much you loved me so much,

 

That now in this season, I don’t feel right looking at anyone else that way. 

 

But do I call that survivors guilt? 

 

But just because I think some days in this season, I miss you does not mean that I don’t remember why we are no longer.

 

I don’t miss the season where we spent endless days of only lying in bed.

I don’t miss the season where hours were spent with you crying over the limits you felt you had on your life. 

And I don’t miss the season where I begged you for the love back,

 

That I only seemed to be giving to you while still holding both of us together. 

 

In this season, 

That love has now been given to me, and only from myself. 

And how the liberation of self-love has led to an abundance of emotional freedom,

I still miss it.

 

But they may be right. 

 

Maybe I don’t miss you. 

Maybe I do miss the way I was held by another,

But Not just only in the sheets.

 

Also, in the heart. 

 

And I know that probably means I don’t miss you,

Because we got to a point where you only held me when you needed it,

 

To where now I can no longer allow anyone to hold me when I want it.

 

And Fuck.

          That feeling sucks. 

 

Nobody talks about the trauma of breakups.

Its glossed over by the liberation of self-love that leads to an abundance of emotional freedom, 

That leads to intimacy blocks. 

 

In this season I know how badly I yearn to fall in love. 

And yet so often I cry,

Because I think I ask too much of the partners I seek,

When all I search for the bare minimum.

So that’s what I get. 

And yet so often I cry, 

Wishing I had someone to just hold me the way I’ve learned to hold myself through all my relationships and even,

My Independence.

 

In this season,

I have come to the conclusion that I indeed have become

 

Hyper Independent, 

But have fallen in love with the “idea” of falling in love 

And

Considers themselves a hopeless romantic,

But,

Is too scared to actually try 

And,

W a l k Away

Anytime someone shows interest. 

 

My past seasons took away pieces of myself,

That it’s taken me multiple seasons to get to the one where I finally,

Feel like myself. I love myself. I know myself. 

 

And yet I still feel sad that I can’t share those perfect and imperfect parts of this season,

And not just fall in love with the idea of love. 

 

And so,

In this season,

I am simply stuck. 

The Art of Our Thoughts- My example

 The Art of Our Thoughts- My example.

                This is my example of free hand writing, or “word vomiting” if you may.

Every time I watch the sunset,

I feel like I mourn when it goes down.

The end of a day means another day spent,

In a life that often feels too short. 

I've tried getting better about letting my days fly by,

But it's so hard.

When the mundane routine repeats each day,

But yet we still never know when it's going to

END. 

But that makes sense right?

Because we don’t know how any of our lives will end,

If we were stuck in the moment of being alive. 

In our heads we repeat the words of the song and ask,

“If the world was ending, You’d come over right?”

But I am completely torn from this statement. 

I so desperately admire my independence, 

That the idea of having to have someone when the world ends,

Sounds needy, sounds harmful to what we’ve built. 

Because you’re at the point where you shouldn't 

Need Anyone. 

And yet you are T

O

R

N.

Because you know that's a sack of shit. 

We as humans are collectively beings who live for the presence of others. 

Their touch. 

Their voice.

Their smell. 

So forcing yourself into this mindset that you can take the ending world on your own,

Is entirely selfish to your wellbeing. 

XX-T

“Questioning Knowing”

Questioning Knowing                   

I’ve always questioned what it meant,

    to know..

But I think because when I knew,

        that I knew,

                I  Felt  Wrong..

Because she was so beautiful,

And he was so handsome.

    both perfectly crafted into helping 

    me know:

        who I really am..

We live in a world where we have to make choices,

    but I couldn’t,

                and I can’t. 

I hate that I questioned what I knew

    when I was thirteen,

Now being 21 accepting that

 to know is to love me

                and 

                    her

                        and 

                            him.

Because to know,

    is to love.

And there is no greater love than

        knowing yourself.

XX- TR

The First Time Series- “To be Alive”

 The First Time Series- “To be Alive”

Oranges, purples, blues, and pinks kissed the top of the     canyon's edge. 

Drops of tiny pebbles send echos through the space,

Trying to compete with the wind’s whispers.

Over hanging trees sway in response to the whistles’         words: 

    this is what it means to be alive. 

With feet over the edge,

My shoelaces dancing with the internal epiphany of         finally knowing;

    this is what it means to be alive. 

And I know I will never forget that moment 

when..

Oranges, purples, blues, and pinks, kissed the top of the     canyon’s edge,

when..

Drops of tiny pebbles sent echos through the space,

when..

Trying to compete with the winds whispers,

when..

Over hanging trees sway in response to the whistles’         words:

            telling me:

            YOU ARE ALIVE. 

“Seasons”

 Seasons

 

In the midst of summer,

The leaves around me seemed to be dying.

My bones ached; my mind was frozen,

   as if it were winter, the death of a long season.

Dark skies hung above my head,

   wind swirling me into submission,

For the leaves were simply crumpling to the touch,

   meanwhile everything else seemed to be warm and bright.

 

In this decayed hold, I was lost,

For the seasons were jumbled,

And I;

I was tired.

 

Then one day, I finally felt a glimpse of heat,

A small break in the clouds.

He began to show me the color in the leaves,

But the wind kept swirling me into submission.

 

Months went by, and the winter chill felt more like an autumn breeze,

The clouds were less dark but remained overcast.

He warmed the air, but my heart stayed cold.

 

By the time the air was brisk,

And the leaves of the real world had begun to fall,

All I could feel was the heat of summer,

The leaves full of color.

 

In this decayed hole, love began to fill the spaces.

Each day replenishing what was being emptied before,

Now this.

This is where I need to be.

And today, I finally saw all the colors of the leaves.

XX- T

“I Never Told Anybody”

I Never Told Anybody

 

I never told anybody that chords with dissonance resonate with my heart.

The clash of the notes is a tragic pain: They sound wrong yet appear so close.

Their relationship causes tension.

 

 

I never told anybody that my relationship with love is an entanglement of chords;

I can never figure out.

I have yet to master the notes.

 

 

I never told anybody that I caused my own broken heart.

The broken chords in my chest just kept bending with each sound my mind made.

And yet I still wait for the note of resolution,

The break in the dissonance in what I call;

 

 

My life.

XX- T