Posts in Poetry
Shine Upon My Face

Let the sun not shine upon my face

For I have proven to be a disgrace

Field mice and snakes may do their duty then rest

But for me I must forever be put to test

I deserve not the comforts and eases of sleep for the more

For I have been taught to always shut that door

I must carry the burden and weight of one forever out of place

A stumbling child of the universe in need of grace

When my weary feet can take it no more

I trip and hesitate on bruises that battered me to the floor

I search the heavens and beseech my soul

I light the corridors of my own aching hole

For where shall I look when I have searched the great outdoors

Yet found no place of refuge and solace that can lead me back to shore

Then comes the work of rebuilding each day

Of trying and learning to love this here face

For it is my only face, that knowledge I grasp

Why can't it not feel the sunshine, not know that it can be glad

The embers that crackle, the firsts of light now piercing through

Guide me by sun, by twilight, by moon

Each step is a hidden metanoia of the soul

My tears embrace my heart, which shivers from the rhythm sprung anew

At dawn, the first bleeding lights of rays

Scare me no more, may that sun please touch upon mine face


I feel mightily overwhelmed, very shaky

Standing on a boat with the waters crashing into my stern

The wave of emotions ever stronger, higher, tumultuous

Have they been held back too long?

Or am I drawing phantasms?

The excitement for solitude

Do I recognise myself?

Who is in the mirror?

A half, a whole, a piece?

What am I experiencing?

An up, a down, an in between?

Is this the bridge to cross to the shore -

Unveiled tides that carry me to steady ground

A mystery, then.

Now I Am Six

...I can think whatever I like to think,
I can play whatever I like to play,
I can laugh whatever I like to laugh,
There's nobody here but me.
I'm talking to a rabbit...
I'm talking to the sun...

--  "In the Dark" by A.A. Milne

There's a book of poetry that I have.
It sits at the lowest part of my make-shift bookshelf.
It's blue and small.
There is a pattern of bees on the border,
Or it could be flies. I can't tell which it is.
I stole it one afternoon from my teacher, when I was in grade four
Because I had to go home and I hadn't finished reading it.
I was alone at the time, when I first picked it up.
I sat in the left corner of the classroom, near the back, at my desk.
I remember how I paid little attention to everyone clearing out.
I never noticed my surroundings; I paid attention to the book.
Yet now I can remember the empty desks around me, the light shifting as people walked by,
The walls of the classroom and the whir of the fans.
I was entranced then
By the children in the book, the bad Jane and the two friends,
By the drawings of the buttercup field and raindrops on flies.
I never really understood, but the man who was a boy interested me too.
I rarely read the book now, because I save it for special occasions.
Whenever I read it, it's the same as when I read it then. And sometimes I want that feeling.
It's hard to get that simplicity in other places.
But I find it there.

Poetry, WritingDesi-RaeComment


drawing in words

Why is it that many a time, we never realize the true beauty of things the first time around?

I could never forget the things that make me smile..

Does keeping your mind occupied really distract you from the things that matter?

Hate is a disease that can spread and breed..

We don’t change that much.

I give a little bit of myself to everyone I meet, but how can I share it all if I haven’t discovered every part of me?

When can you tell that the insignificant changes make the biggest differences?

Time is a cruel illusion.

Friendship is a dare.

You are blind when your eyes are closed.

When you break someone down, is it your duty to bring them back up?

Curiosity drives us, spurs us on

I laugh because we are complex, but other times so simple.