nineteen years of age spent flying.

crow’s feet come from falling off crow’s wings.

many flowers bloom at night, and die before the sun rises.

Maybe they were intended to be admired by only the bats and all the other things that stalk the night.


I write poems because when I experience the world I feel overwhelmed,

when I experience the world I notice so many small things that I think are



and worth noticing,

and I don’t know if anyone else feels that that thing is worth noticing as well.

I write poems because things that are beautiful can be understood only by other beautiful things.

I write poems because it is in my nature to notice and observe and to love and to feel,

even though feeling is hard and love is hard and observations are dangerous.

I write poems because I love you and I love life and because I have to, because if I didn’t

how would I know how to feel, how would I know what has meaning, how would I know what was beautiful?

I write because I breathe and I live and not only am I just alive, but I am nineteen years old, and not old enough to live through everything yet, but old enough to live through some life,

and I am a human and I feel and do all these things like love and care, 

which aren’t efficient or “effective,”

but that’s not the point.

At my funeral, they will say,

she lived a good life,

not that

she lived an efficient life.

I am nineteen and I feel confused because by some I am old and to some I am young,

but I am nineteen and this is why I wrote poems:

To write and write well is not easy, but neither is living. 


“I write poetry because I am a member of the human race.”

-Dead Poet’s Society


One thought on “nineteen

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