fillawesophie

picture this moment:
it’s past midnight
and everyone’s asleep
I’m in the dining room
on the corner chair

the wall behind me
is an olive green
and I’m dressed
in starry-night blue
sweatpants the color
of Van Gogh swirls
and a navy sweatshirt
with a bleached ribcage
I painted when I was 16

my hair’s up in a bun
and my fingers twist
at the loose strands
and comb them behind my ear
–this is my thinking pose
as of late

tonight,
I’m not inspired to write
so I took a picture
instead

I write myself
the longest letters
but they go unsent
and I watch them wilt
like flowers
in an unwatered pot

my stamps have dried out
and I’ve missed the mailman,
but tomorrow
I’ll write again

these unsent letters
are my firewood,
disturbing the peace
but keeping the flame
alive

in half-asleep states,
I speak in half sentences
I ask nonsensical questions
I draw random words
like a younger me
finding fragments of meaning
in an alphabet chicken soup

in half-dream states,
my world is a recess song
and the notes lift me higher
so I slide on the language
and find myself spinning
wide-eyes and half-asleep

every day,
there’s a meteor shower
your eyes never see
and there are shards
of broken promises
that barely miss
your ears

and every night,
there’s a prayer lifted
from the palms
of a little kid,
there are celestial beings
grazing the heavens
and singing lullabies
behind your dreams

between day and night,
there’s a reverie
and a poet dancing
beneath a cherry tree

when the leaves
fall in autumn
they curse
the branches

and then
come winter
the branches
curse the leaves

bring spring
is the season
for forgiveness
when branch
and leaf
reconcile

and I’m reminded
of the beauty
of being
rebirthed
by roots

the sound of faith
is an eternal humming,
a low but effortful sound
unbroken and long

it’s the sound of the earth
after the rain stops pouring
and after the thunder
has calmed

put a stethoscope
to your mind,
half your thoughts
sound like faith

the world sleeps
and I steep my tea
then sip carefully
while stirring moods
in my mind
and I soak in
the afterthoughts

these quiet moments
are to me the spices
of my days,
defining,
adding flavor,
masking all
the monotony
poured over
by the predictability
of routine

poetry turns
the mundane
into sacred
ritual

if you ask me
what color
I think fear is
I wouldn’t say
crimson red
like the color
of blood
or pitch black
like the ocean
at night

I would tell you
it’s bright yellow
the kind
you can’t
look away from

I want to smoke
generosity,
have it fill my lungs
and exude from my lips
and color the air
surrounding me
with the same carelessness
of one who knew
of a cigarette’s harm
but loved it anyway,
only it’s not recklessness
if you’re already drunk
on devotion to the Divine

reckless abandon
is not always poetic
but love
to the point of worship
to the point of devotion
is

my eyes
are on Syria
and the smoke
over Damascus

my mind
is on the trembling
men, women,
and children
in pajamas
surrounded
by an ashen city

I had flashbacks
to Iraq tonight
and the libraries
they burned
in Baghdad
and Libya
and the songs
of hope
from otherwise
hopeless people

war breaks hearts
buries dreams
and burns cultures
and it often starts
in the most
insidious
of ways