My heart is not a muscle,
it is a flower
blooming fully to catch every drip drop of sunlight it can
to help me stay nourished and grounded.
It attracts a lot of attention
and people often try to measure its petals,
guess what genus it is,
try to deceive it by pushing me into darkness.
They clip it, scrape it, startle it,
seek to tint it with rainbows of dye,
yet it refuses to wilt.
Yes, its petals may fall.
Yes, it may close at times.
But it will always open again
in the right environment.
Each muscle works to form an expression,
a twitch of the mouth on one side forming a half-smile
that exposes your teeth just enough to lightly rest the backs of your fingers against them;
pensive as always
staring off into the distance or close inside your heart.
Sometimes your eyes are mild and calm like a quiet lake on a still afternoon,
but they can change in a beat
to intense as a great maelstrom threatening to swallow every ship headed its way.
Soft brows cannot hide the waves of emotion
threatening to crash forth;
only practice and willpower make them bow down.
And then those cheeks, always lifted in a grin,
but which only ache, wonderfully,
from a true smile.
Her lips are the edge of a dagger; sharp, bold.
She makes no move to be apologetic,
even when you question her to the hilt.
She is whole, not half-formed.
She will be. She is.
She is, and will be.
If we all had our deepest, truest attribute
etched onto our palms, what would yours be?
Kindness? Never judging, listening to the full story
and helping in whatever way you can?
Bravery? Never backing down, no matter what the odds,
swallowing your fear because there are more important things?
Or is it something simpler, yet not so simple at all?
A concept many take for granted, yet twice as many don’t have?
Self-acceptance. To know yourself, to be okay with it,
but also knowing that wanting to change is fine too,
if you don’t like who you are.
Because accepting that
is to recognise what it means
to be you.
Staying alive as a whole person
when we are all made
of glowing particles of expression
to break free
is quite a wonder, really.
All these dreams, all these thoughts
of bounding off into the depths of
The image in my head
is a great plain of grasses, rivers,
everything I love.
But that is not the depths of anything.
It’s only little me.
I’m in an uncertain mood.
Uncertain if the days
or if my mind is simply
How many times does a person nod
when you’re not writing
Does the sun mind
that we can’t look at it,
or does it laugh
because we can,
just not in the way we think?
Have you heard the rumour
that a dripping tap
collects its drips
in a glass,
and then drinks them?
Did you watch the rumour
as it spilled from my lips
when I saw the tap
drink its drips
because the sun laughed
even when it felt sad
that no-one could look upon it
when, in fact, the person only nodded,
when they realised
my mind is short
and the day is long?
My mood is uncertain of me.
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