I started “Word Wednesdays” in March 2018 to keep my creative juices flowing outside of work and to challenge myself to find inspiration in seemingly ordinary days. Here you'll find just a handful of these pieces, and the rest live on social media (specifically my Instagram page). Even more poetry can be found on my poetry-only account, @sb.poet.
Your sorrow is not
It is a winding road
on your journey home.
12/11/19 Halfway between where you are and where you want to be is the beauty of reflection and the fever of ambition. Stop to give your feet a rest and to admire the prints left behind before you burn up trying to out-run time.
8/28/19 I can't see into the future but my hopes are for you to smile in the quiet moments when no one's nearby knowing that bits and pieces of your dreams prop you up on your forward-moving feet like the heels of stilettos and that the love you feel for those tucked in your heart is the love you whisper to yourself on the coldest nights in the gentlest way.
8/14/19 To me, you are a long exhale through parted lips and bursts of laughter crisp to troubled ears.
5/22/19 Know this: Your mind holds kept secrets you have yet to uncover but like hair turned shades of shining silver with age, with wisdom, it will only grow more beautiful. Today, every day, it and you are gorgeous.
They talk about the man in the moon,
how you can see him on nights
when it's most clear
if you tilt your head just so,
but look farther into the universe
past a million gleaming diamonds
and you'll find our fiery source of life.
You'll find the sun.
You'll find a woman.
2/13/19 I'm not really sure what a beautiful mess looks like but if I could take a guess, it's broken glass with a hint of pixie dust or metallic paint splattered on a polyester rug or too much rain. It's lacing up your shoes and letting go of a toxic soul and getting lost more than once until someone, somewhere, has the guts to give you direction or you stumble into your right mind. It's telling time and realizing you've wasted it. It's showing a smile. It's finding your way.
8/8/18 How to treat a woman: Loving her is like clockwork. Tell her if you mean it. Say, also, that though she wears so many shades,
the one you admire most is the flush of pink when she smiles. Give her your time, and she’ll spend it well. Give her your word. Keep it. Make her the champion of your heart, not the trophy you want others to see. Know this: she can never truly be tamed, so run with her instead.
5/16/18 Dear future daughter, It's Tuesday. The pattern the rain makes on this bus window looks not like tears on skin, but more so like tiger stripes, which makes me think of what I wish to teach you one day.
• I hope when thunder strikes you don't tremble. Instead, I hope you match its fury with a voice so loud you never feel mute in its booming wake. I hope you see lightning and know it runs though your veins. I hope the steady rhythm of downpours drives you onward. And if it drives you mad, I hope you find courage to change course. • Never let darkened clouds frighten you into thinking the sun has left your side. Know that mighty winds are no match for a strong backbone and that, if you need to breathe, the eye of a storm is where you'll find peace. But also know that getting caught where it's most dangerous won’t make you weak. • Remember that monsoons won't always bring about ruin, and that rain will not drown you. It's meant to test your strength — and even if it weathers you down, it'll reveal the tiger stripes you may not be able to recognize. Not yet at least.
A man — a boy, really — once told me he couldn't believe how much I'd grown into myself because of him. He said it, smug, as though he were my divine creator. Like he'd fed me and watered me and tended to my roots just to bask in his own stupid pride. "Look, I did this. She is mine. Watch her bloom."
Now, I'm not religious, but in all the stories I've heard, God is never conceited. He's neither spiteful nor cruel, never boasts about his creations. He lets them walk on their discovered paths, and though he may lead, he never imposes. Always present, never forcing his hand.
So, I turned to him, the boy — my "creator" — and smiled knowing that even if he did plant the seeds which bore my strength, I would be the one to uproot myself from his so-called fertile earth. I'd find richer land to call home. I'd find better light on my own.