There’s still a fire quietly burning away
keeping me warm, even while the rest of me grows cold
but it’s not hot enough.
It’s not making me dance
or want more.
It’s just the perfect temperature
to lull me to sleep.
Bizarre, though, isn’t it,
the fact that burning is beautiful
but also means death?
When you burn, you are brilliant, colorful
spilling light everywhere, bringing hope to others
and yet at the same time
your supplies and your soul
with each flash and each spark.
But then again,
from the ashes rise a phoenix, no?
A brilliant bird
born of destruction,
born of failure.
And yet before it gets there
it must die
to later, after the flames
learn to fly.
written while in the library with a headache, ha.
Poetry is therapeutic for me, especially with this one. I feel overwhelmed by everything I can do and should do and want to do. Do do do, over and over again whether or not it’s helpful for me. At least writing this poem helped me relieve the pressure building in my brain. It’s as if it cleared the fog and I can see again, somewhat.