A Lil Poem I Wrote While Procrastinating My Schoolwork

#603 Time is Nature's Music

The past is a galaxy away,

But it circles through your brain.

Memories on shuffle, replaying every day.

A bop for the stars, a tune for the heart,

But a place that you can never be a part

Of ever again. It's in the past.

It's a tune, but rewritten harmonies won't last.

You cannot rewrite it.

So push skip.

The future is a massive river just a walk away.

Notes at your fingertips that will not stay

Cupped in your hands. You see, the river bends

And spins songs that could be

With a decent percussionist and melody.

The water travels everywhere and nowhere: Possibilities.

"What if's" and worrying can cause instability.

So push pause.

The present. That is something within reach.

You're climbing a mountain, with a goal to reach the peak.

Every rock, trail, and handhold is an instrument in waiting.

Except they are meant to be used, are up for the taking

For a poet and a player, a worker and a lover.

Because as much as you want, you cannot make another

Riff of the past. It's too far gone. And on record.

And the future is cold and not set in stone. So your method

To make the best music in life is stay strong.

Ground yourself in the moment, take a breath, and move on.

🇵🇸🍉 Free Palestine 🍉🇵🇸

i have a soft secret wish that conspires against me in the sleepy hours of late afternoon when my big dog sighs into my shoulder and nuzzles under my arm while we both procrastinate his walk a little longer just until we are done being on the couch together, curled up

i need to believe that if he could choose, he would stay looped indelicately, his legs a cascade in the air rolling his back on the only floor i can afford him instead of the romantic impossible wild

there are moments where his ears perk up at a rabbit and he watches their white tail tuck into a bush, like a wink. i don't know what dogs dream about but i hope to god

if he is dreaming about being a wolf he is not disappointed when he wakes up to blunted teeth

did you guys see the poem from a couple of days ago in poetry dot org’s daily poem it was so good and a treat to read 

— natalie díaz, from “american arithmetic”, postcolonial love poem (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

I am good. I am loved.

I don't think it should be weird, for me to put a fruit fly outside

To make a prairie (1755) - Emily Dickinson

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,

One clover, and a bee.

And revery.

The revery alone will do,

If bees are few.

Vultures are holy creatures.

Tending the dead.

Bowing low.

Bared head.

Whispers to cold flesh,

“Your old name is not your king.

I rename you ‘Everything.’”