She is used to feeling this: Happiness is a faster heartbeat, picking up speed To match the rhythm of her anxiety– Acceptance at this irony: That is what it means to be happy. She thinks she has it all figured out, All she has to do is match the rhythm
I will not fear. I will not forget. I will stand with those who stand for justice, Fight with those who fight for love, Clasp hands with those who pray for reason, And remember those who did the same. What little I can do — Fight for the arts, fight
My toes sink into the soil around me. It is not clay, it is not sturdy, but it is ground, and it feels good. And maybe it’s temporary, placed there by our own hands, by our own demands, the sands
I’ve been in a poetry mood lately, guys. She thinks too much. She philosophizes and soliloquizes, and when nobody’s looking, she writes things down. She analyzes both what she does and what is done to her, and she chastises herself for the majority of it — but then she stops.
Why can’t I live future memories as I do when I relive them? I don’t treat time as I should– I want it to be steady. Because change is good, But only when I’m ready. But time has the frustrating ability to be steady and changing at the same time. Constant,
