But now, O Lord, you are our Father,
we are the clay, and you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.
I am me,
who exactly that is, or will be,
is yet to be seen.
We are constantly sculpted by the world around us.
I know the core of what I believe,
but I’m still working out the details.
I know what’s right and wrong,
but not on what circumstances I’ll cross these lines.
I am me,
the base is there.
The general shape of the pot has been made,
but my purpose is not yet clear.
While the Creator knows,
I do not.
I click a pen whenever I meet someone new.
When they ask why, I tell the story of
how my grandfather met his second wife-
he worked at a pen factory,
she at the front desk across the street.
Every morning upon seeing her,
he would consider
going over and sharing his stale coffee,
but she looked like a tea-loving girl.
She flashed a smile
as he once dropped a pallet of Bics,
the ink spilling in lines
of black and blue, red and green
throughout the road.
Each one clicked as they hit the ground
and she rushed over to play Pick-Up-Sticks
in her patched-up pantsuit.
He thanked her with dinner and a ring.
Perhaps one day
I will hear the click that brings my true love.
There are many people that we meet in our lives
But only a few will make a lasting impression
On our hearts
It is these people that we must
Think of often and who will always remain important
To us as
If this was to be the moment, I was underwhelmed.
Shouldn’t such discoveries be marked with fanfare?
But as sure as I stood there in the parking lot,
she leaned forward to my ear, took my hand
Make a wish.
The last brick wall in my life was absolutely beautiful.
It reduced my life to the words I said to other people.
No blissful idea of comparative literature considers the personal friends you know.
I met her and her smile said
watch and wait.
After feeling scared, reputation and possibility-
for the incurable romantic finding her way through winter-
is all that is left.
I needed her to love me.
I loved her.
It was enough to be with her.
The brick walls are there for a reason.
They give us a chance to show how badly we want something.
A poem sprouting from a discussion about the place of trigger warnings in academia and their unwarranted censorship of meaning.
Funny how they exist,
and strange what we can do with them.
After all, some may call me a poet
because occasionally I’ll rhyme
or my verse will be even:
metric or symmetric.
But if I say random words,
would they be my claim to fame?
Like err, e’re, and air—
heir (or their, anyway).
And would they try to decipher my meaning?
And would they find one?
And would it involve love?
(It certainly does now).