Sick With Poetic Rhythm.

Found HERE

I've been super sick the last few days and I have no idea when this horrendous feeling is going to end. I really hope soon, because I miss sleep ever so much. It alludes me, even though I wish it would embrace me!

Instead of giving you guys a play by play of my simplistic day, I thought I'd give you guys some poetry that I wrote a few nights back. No I'm not some poetic person that goes to coffee shops and exudes confidence in an artistically articulate way, but I dabble every now and then. So without further ado, here's a little piece to get you thinking.


I lay here sipping scorching hot tea with a hint of cream and reminisce about the times that once were.


I remember the smell of subtle scents mixed with perfume and detergent, along with the feelings I would experience at given moments. I look back and see what I smiled about most. While those moments are forever gone, unable to directly replay them on a screen, I can recreate them in the creation of my own new memories. I can forbid myself from letting go of who I am, for I am the only one who can live for me.


I lay here listening for any squeak of my slumbering 6 year old, thinking of what life would've been like with certain people still in our lives. What would alter our route. I think of all the times I had forks in the road, only to choose a path that would either lead me back to where I started - but with a new bump - or to a place I never thought possible. 


I don't necessarily regret the remorseful actions I once portrayed prominently, but I often think what would be while the scent of something sweet whisks by my nose. 


Each and every motion gives me a smirk as I remember the similar cold feeling that the marbled fireplace had in front, just like the cold of fresh sheets. Different textures but the memory remains.


Time is hard as it produces so much doubt and unknown, enemies to an anxious being such as myself, but it is also a helping - as cruel as it may be - with the strengthening of what I once thought was impossible. Time tells me the truth that I couldn't see before and if we were to see the reaction of each action, we'd lay out our own death. So time may be cruel, but it is necessary to keep the mystery alive. That mystery of time gives us the push to do and not just think.


It's only in the moment that we stop, do we realize our time is precious in creating memories, but thinking too much ahead only causes an end. So live in the now and see that soon your past will pave the path to new beginnings.


I lay here sipping my tea, but in my blanket I'm searching for my life.