My poem found me yesterday.

It chased me down a hill, and rolled past me like a tumbleweed in an old western ghost town.

It clothed me in words and betrothed me to my own metaphorical aspirations.

It ran me down a path to a dead end but then showed me a way out, the way into my thoughts.

It painted a dozen pictures and sculpted a million lies that would soon account for all my forgotten memories.

In the end the poem held up a white flag and told me it had surrendered, yet it wasn’t until this moment I realized I had been the one chasing the poem all along.

I found my poem yesterday.

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

On January 13th I leave.  
I will get on a plane.
It will be my death march.

I will leave my town,
My school,
My friends,
My home,
But what I’m leaving the most of...
Is people I barely know.

The ones I stop and say hi to in the grocery store.

The ones who’s social media I comment on despite never making an effort to call.

The ones I check up on maybe once a year,
or at least once every few.

And it’s almost saddening. That these are the people society expects me to spend my last days with.

Two weeks left and I just cram my calendar with goodbye lunches for people who were never truly in my life.

They are dying to see me they say, but it’s funny because I’m not even sure we really know each other.

We’re not going to cry when we give our final hugs, because we have no tears for one another. No real connection.

But for some reason these are the people I am making plans with right now.

Oops, gotta go get my calendar.
The phone is ringing.

If you want to know the truth
Go back to yourself.

First, of course,
you must preheat the oven
probably somewhere around 330-350 because I can't remember the last time I was told otherwise.

After that, you must make sure you have all the ingredients.
Check your pantry, your cabinets, even the smaller white fridge many of us horde away in our family garage.

You'll need a pencil or a keyboard.
Maybe an old typewriter if you're trying to make a true romantic.
If you're lucky, all you will need is some imagination, not even paper.

If you do need paper, try and find some with lines.
A small piece of paper ripped out of some adorable Barnes and Noble notebook we all bought at one point or another.

On the paper, you'll tell a story.
It doesn't have to be good, but it must be true.
True not in a way that it actually happened, but true in a way that it flowed from you with honesty.

Once your story is finished you can crumple it up.
Put it in a bowl, probably a metal one made for mixing.

Then you can pour in some water, to justify your creative thirst.
Add some spices, these are your flavor, your thesaurus.

After this grab something. Anything. Something you like or something you hate. Chocolate chips, ketchup, pickles, sprinkles. These are your characters. Or if you write nonfiction, maybe they are you.

Then depending on your abundance or lack of ambition, you will mix it. Mix it a lot, or mix it a little. Add in some imagery, similes, or metaphors and let your readers try to decipher your writing. Or keep it simple, orderly and clear.

Then, grab some oven mitts. Pour your masterpiece into a pan -whichever you deem appropriate. And voila, wait for your writer to cook.

The cooking time is unique to each of you. Some of us take much longer than others. But that's okay, no matter how long it takes you to bake we will all need to cool off in the end.

And then of course,
once you're cool.

You start all over again.

Eyes drowsy
Mouth open
Dreams active

Mind stirring
Lips moving
Heart beating

Faster faster faster
A scream

It halts
Complete silence

What is scarier
Neither

It’s the words
Loose but meaningful
They escape an unconscious mind
The most conscious of souls

They get muffled and trapped between lips and a pillow
They get pushed and smashed until all of a sudden they escape
They travel the world in and out of dreams

Nobody will ever know
Only truth is the witness
Important wisdoms beheld by none
Aspirations and confessions you keep away from even yourself

Nighttime has no prisoners here
The golden sun a hot fiery ball of terror scaring away life’s true thoughts
In the dark and the quiet the much more peaceful stars set these thoughts free

Your bed is the key to their safety
Their haven is where nobody can see them
They have been let loose for now

You are more trapped now than ever
You’re words never spoken
You’re dreams never dreamt
You’re a sleeptalker