making space

This pale blue dot

Seems too small,

To hold all of me and you.

Too often, I get lost

Without path or purpose

And know not how to get through.

I listen to my hearts persistent drumming

For the beat of wanton longings

To make space for ways anew. 



This is what I do in my Research Methods class on the Sundays in college. I write poetry, often bad, pitiful, self-pitying, teenage angsty poetry. Sometimes it just flows from the heart and I know I’m on to something good & it comes to me with less effort, but so much heart, hurt and hope.

Lately the words have not come to me so easily. It doesn’t matter, though, because I love the process. It doesn’t matter how good it is or what its for. Just words on a page, no reason, no rhyme.