Senseless Poems

You thought you knew yourself until love started taking over.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d call love a tyrant.

A heartless, selfish, thought-stealing tyrant.

But, that’s only if I didn’t know any better.

I know far better.

Love is more like a disease.

A tapeworm curing itself inside your dreams.

An annoying itch that spreads like wildfire across your skin.

Yeah, good luck sleeping tonight with that hanging over your head.

 

Love is the bags under my eyes because I haven’t slept in ages.

I’m just about ready to overthrow the government and claim my thoughts for myself.

Too bad their permanently, desperately, stuck on you.

Every.

Little.

Inspiration.

Comes from you.

 

Please stop making me love you, and let me sleep.

Stop keeping me up late, writing these senseless poems.

OFTEN

So often do I take out my hammer, nails, and wood, and start to build up walls. Walls around anything, really. My thoughts, my feelings, my mind, my heart. All these things are boxed in, behind layers, and layers of fine pine. I would like to think that one day, someone would fight their way in. Slicing the boards into wood chips, or burning them down to ashes.

Too often do I take out my hammer, nails, and wood, only to build walls too thick, too steep, too hard to chop down.

A bottled up mess.

 What happens when you mix sarcasm with walls that reach the sky?

You get me. A bottled up mess.

But hey. Who cares? Who cares about me, and my bottled up mess?

 Someone up above. Someone who created that very bottle.

Too bad I filled it with trash, muddy water, and snap decisions.

Here I am, that bottled up mess.

Want to know the crazy part? Someone fell in love with my bottle. My mess.

He'll help her dump out all the regrets, and scrub the insecure, glass walls. He will help her clean it up, and together, they'll realize that perfection isn't too far to reach.

This Essay took me Precisely 30 Minutes to Write

The need to set every task that occurs within the course of the day to an equal amount of minutes is a habit that has haunted me all my life. I need exactly five minutes more of sleep, ten minutes to get ready, and twelve minutes to get from point A to point B. Anything more is unnecessary, and anything less is insufficient. There’s just something about time being divided perfectly, and equally into small sections of my life. Every memory, every event is written down in the record of my life, with a beautiful round number of minutes sitting right next to it. No extra seconds spill, so carelessly, over the edge. 

The problem with cutting with such straight lines is, you hardly leave yourself any room to breathe. Sometimes, organization can be suffocating. Maybe I need to loosen the bands around my wrist and stretch those uptight muscles. Maybe I ought to tell myself things like, “Today, I will be happy.” Today I won’t complain. I will change, not for 24 hours, or 1,440 minutes, but maybe for the rest of my life. But just for today, I will forget the time, and let everything flow as it wishes, until its own natural limitation slowly melts away the adventure. I will eat when I am hungry. I will sleep when I am tired. And in between the gaps I will find myself doing things as they come to me. But just for today, can I be this way. Then, I can go back to boxing my life into minutes, perfectly round, perfectly even, boxes of minutes. 

An Excerpt From {Seasons}: Love is Scary

The moral of the story is, love is scary. Love is that spider crawling across your bathroom mirror at 10 o’ clock at night. You know you have to squish it, but you can’t because you are so darn scared to death. So, you are forced to wake up your little brother in the middle of the night to come kill it for you. Love can also be described as a door with the words, “never turning back”, carved agressively into the wood. Needless to say, my unconditional love for Nate was not only out of the ordinary, it was beyond reason.

Oh by the way, my name’s Brooke.

I Love People

People are such beautiful creatures. They can glide, they can fly. They float through the earth with positive innovations, and free love. They spend life searching for someone they want to care for their entire life. I love people because they need each other. A person without another person is someone who is living beneath their capacity. We live together, we laugh together, and we make memories together. Every living, breathing soul, is a different ingredient tossed into the pot of life’s perfection. Every piece, every ingredient is necessary and different. We might all be made up the same basic foundations, like, legs, arms, eyes, and a head up on top… but we all are filled with something spectacular, and we use that spectacular something to create something totally different than just legs, arms, and eyes. We make a society.  Forget the denialists who want to believe they can do anything by themselves. They are wrong.

And yes, the word denialist is not a real thing, but it should be.

An original story. It's a work in progress.

SEASONS

A novel I dare you to read. By, Rachel Santos.

Two

Very

Incompatible

People

Get

Together

And

Defy

Destiny

In

The

Most

Unreasonable

And

Illogically

Beautiful

                                      Way

    Possible.