They say your heart can become a home


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Someday you’re going to be standing on your front porch and there will be a boy standing in front of you and you are going to have to decided whether or not to let him in. Your house is too big for only you to live in. You can fill it up with friends for a while but eventually they will have to go home to their own homes with people who are counting down the minutes until they return.

You’ll be face to face with a man who stares at you with kind eyes and a hopeful smile and you are going to want to ask him to come in for late night coffee. You’re going to have to look him in the eye and wait for his answer and even if he answers yes before you finish asking the question, it’s still going to feel like you are waiting for three years.

When you let him through the door, he’s going to see your mess. He’ll see the old magazines stacked on the coffee table with dog ears on the pages and he will see the trashcan overflowing with crumpled pieces of papers with words you don’t want him to see. He wander over to your bookshelf and trace the bindings leisurely as he tries to find your backstory along the titles of the worn out books.

You have to continue inviting him in. And each time you will be more comfortable with hearing the sound of his bare feet padding along the halls and into different rooms. You will look forward to the nights you hear a knock on the door and the taste of late night coffee.

But you have to know, as you get more comfortable with him coming into your home, he is going to become more comfortable coming in. He is going to start doing things around the house and cleaning things up that you thought were never going to get picked up or put back together. You must let him do these things. He doesn’t think that you are incapable of cleaning up the messes, but he’s here and he wants to do it.

Someone is going to care a lot about you someday and he is going to want to make your life easier in any way that he can. Even the mundane. This boy cares about you. So let him care for you. You will not lose an ounce of your fierce independence—he wouldn’t take that away from you when it was what drew him to you in the first place—but you are learning that you can still depend on someone to walk into your messy house and not run away. Someone who will sit on the couch and drink coffee with you and listen to your rambling, unguarded thoughts.

And that, is worth opening the front door to let him in.


what happened when someone asked if I knew you


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He is the most humble man you will ever meet,
but never tell him that.
It will only frustrate him. He will tell you of the time he was short with someone a few weeks ago
Or the time he was angry something didn’t go his way.

He will look you in the eyes when you talk
And when the left side of his mouth curves up.
You will feel like what you say matters.

Don’t leave the conversation until he laughs. It is a burst that leaves as quickly as it arrives.

He wants to be a good man.
But he does not always see the potential in himself to be one.
He will not ask you to stitch his wounds up,
He will not ask you to carry the burden of being a savior.
But he will walk with you through what keeps you up at night.

He will try to learn more about you. Don’t you dare push away,
Don’t you dare keep him at a distance.
Because he is the type of person that everyone is waiting to show up.
Don’t miss your chance.

this is not a poem


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You are not my poem
You are not the words on the page
For years I have made people into two dimensional bodies
And compared them to inanimate objects so that they are less intimidating,
And so that my feelings can be measured precisely.
But you are simply human, a man,
and the simplicity terrifies me

One week


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On a sleepy Sunday morning
With daybreak’s light seeping in through the half closed blinds
I think of you.
I wonder if you are squinting at the same light
Pouring into your window and pulling you out of your slumber.

On a crazed Monday afternoon,
With new tasks to check off a new list
Your smile interrupts the craze
And slows me down for a one sweet moment.

On Tuesday I wake with the expectation of seeing you,
And early morning minutes seem to drag on like hours
I try to ignore the nervous ache in my heart.

On Wednesday it is in the last few moments of sunlight,
The golden haze wrapping around the leaves
that are making their stubborn refusal to fall
On Wednesday I realize I have more in common with the leaves than I thought.

On Thursday I lose my confidence
And cannot look you in the eye.
Can you see it? Can you see me fighting a war within myself?

On Friday I try to convince myself that I don’t have feelings for you,
And all of this is something that can be ignored.
But then you make an appearance in all of my conversations
And I realize I’m losing the ability to fool myself.

It’s Saturday night and I am thinking
That I shouldn’t be so scared
To fall in love with you.

your first poem


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They say you know a writer loves you
When they write about you,
It doesn’t matter if it’s good
Or bad
Just as long as they write about you,
You can be sure they love you.
Can you forgive me
For not writing a single thought down
About you?
I have avoided this feeling for a while now.
So forgive me for being
Out of practice
And stumbling through my writing
And tripping over line breaks
Forgive me for not looking you in the eye
So I wont have to try to think of a metaphor that will forever remind me of you.
I don’t want to write about you.
It’s been ninety nine days since I’ve last written about someone,
And I’m still trying to figure out your rhythm.

You were my poem


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You were my poem.
You were in the words that slipped through my fingers
And onto a blank page.
You were my free verse
because only the best things are free and without structure.
You were my prose
Delicately painting a picture of forever in my head
That would last long after I set the piece down.
Even though you have left
You are still my poem.
You are the unfinished ideas
And forgotten words
You are the theme that was a little too forced.
You are in the poem somewhere in the middle of my notebook
That I can’t figure out how to end

Finding the sound of anticipation again


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He had left three months ago.
And it had taken up until today
For her to catch her breath again.
She walked to the edge of the cliff again.
The salty breeze hit her and filled her lungs.
And the wind danced around her head and pulled more hair out of her braid.
She could see their favorite spot from where she stood
And the dark blue and purple clouds were coming over the waves,
Calling them to ride taller and faster.
She closed her eyes and listened.
It had been so long since she had heard it,
She needed to hear it again.
And there it was,
The stillness between the waves,
The sound of anticipation.
The sound of a new beginning
She wasn’t sure if it would bring pain and loneliness.
Or something completely different
But she wanted it
The sound of something new
The sound of something beginning

My dreams have outgrown me


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Silly little girl,
Always searching.
Never knowing what you’re looking for,
But always searching for it.
Silly little girl.
Chasing that silly little dream,
As if it were still possible.
Silly little girl,
Talent fades,
And in this world it’s who you know that matters,
Not how much you
Love what you do.
Silly little girl,
It’s time to grow up.
Put down that silly little dream,
And pick up something more suitable for you.
I hear they’re always looking
for more high school English teachers.