enumerate that 30/30 was a journey, guys. Like the hippietastic pilgrimage holy fuck what are these feelings inside me kind of journey. And I rather enjoyed it, except for those nights where I was like ohmygod it’s 10 PM what is my poem for the day what is life (read: most nights).

But in the end, I have 30 poems, and I’m proud of the majority of them. Which is super awesome. And I’m going to print them out and keep them in my room. Because I’m that…that.

And because I’m OCD enough to have spent the last forty minutes hunting through my tumblr for them and putting them all in a word doc.

I would suggest to you all to try this sometime, if you want. At the end, you feel rather…triumphant.

Today has just been a triumphant day. 

knotted leis around a bottle of wine rest on the top shelf of my father’s office, an ironic green and red for a Jew.

I remember drawing on his whiteboard when I was 5 years old, shoes off, smile on, he’d take me to Wendys for lunch, the walk seemed so long.

And I wonder if I’m better for knowing now that it’s right across the street.

Because the world used to seem so large and now it feels crampingly small, if I was that bottle of wine, the leis would be my obligations, ironic in that the best ordered minds are often the most disorder

ed.

And if I was my father, cleaning a spot on his desk, I wonder what he would think of the child who used to tug his hand so eagerly all the way to Wendy’s, and now tugs his wallet there instead, I still don’t understand the science on his whiteboard but I can no longer draw flowers over it.

sometimes I feel wine ages a lot better than people, because you can always untwist the leis and uncork the bottle, but me,

I’m already gone.

(and yet, maybe the bottle

was empty all along.)

livinglikelife:

The thing is, I’d feel better educated if I just stayed home, listened to NPR, and read books.

ridged:

don’t use the internet you’ll get attracted to someone on it and then die

we define things so we can find them again,

when sun warmed concrete arches up into my bare feet, I feel

a way I’m afraid to  name, because things with names come and go,

I’m not good at finding things when I need them.

and there are things you say that make my heart beat fast in a way I don’t want to understand, naming things is trusting that they will come back to you.

trust is knowing that the world will remain beneath your feet and you will wake up in the same bed you went to sleep in, I have managed to define it but I am not always able to find it.

And that is wonder, that I can convince myself I am somewhere else, and terror, that I cannot depend on being in the same place,

sun warmed concrete relaxes me until I can’t find it again.