burning beauty

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

dwindle away

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.



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