Poetry is dropping a rose petal in the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

To relive my poor brain from straining it’s neurons to understand the biochemistry within it’s own biochemistry (so meta), I enrolled in a poetry workshop course that requires us to write enough poetry to create a chapbook.

Not only that, but we have 16 weeks to create a potentially publishable chapbook.

And, that potentially publishable chapbook must contain around 25 poems(!), each representing it’s own color woven into this literary masterpiece that bleeds from the fingers hastily typing “vivid verbs” for the deadlines.

As if I could manage that (on top of my two jobs, other schoolwork, and wedding planning)…

Here’s something that we kinda like and are willing to subject to your ever-reading, ever-critical eyes.  Bon appetit.

Breakfast

Little feet slapped the kitchen tile,
pitter-pattering to the table.
Chairs scooching
across wooden floors
as tiny fingers grabbed tiny plastic forks.

Butter spattered against blueberry flapjacks
as maple syrup pooled on the plates.
Crispy bacon crumbled
as tiny teeth chomped,
washing it down with chilled milk.

“Another round!” my breakfast bar flies
cried, tiny heads peering around the door.
Tiny messes galore as I made a few more
and as my husband gave me a kiss,
I wondered how much I’d miss

breakfast
when they weren’t so
little anymore.

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When you give a girl some pancakes, she won’t eat them in front of you.

I ordered cheap pancakes, questionably runny scrambled eggs and bitter diner-worthy coffee as I slouched in the booth coated in leather cheaper than a Michael Kors knock-off.

I laughed a little too loudly and far too long at her joke even though it wasn’t funny and I thought for a second that she might want to be my friend just for the sake of having someone to talk to.

I smiled a little too brightly when he looked at me and I could tell that he would go and tell his friends about how impressive he was even though he couldn’t even name the person he would use as evidence.

I texted back immediately after I received the message and I wondered what it would feel like to make him wonder why those three little dots hadn’t appeared on the screen yet.

I asked her a question that I already knew the answer too so that I could stay in her office for a few seconds more and avoid the responsibility that loomed in the next room.

I ate too quickly, walked away too briskly, flirted too obviously, texted too desperately, procrastinated too strongly, regretted all those decisions so completely.

They say to live your live with passion but somehow the words get mixed up and the dictionary confuses vehemence with velocity as everyone decides to pick up the pace. Love passionately and soon the emotions burns away as quickly as you add the fuel. Live passionately and pretty soon all your effort wisps away as you burn out over all of your priorities. Do anything you want with as much passion as you please and pretty soon you start to wonder if you are smoldering in something that doesn’t really interest you.

When you live passionately in so many areas of your life, you overcompensate. You tell yourself that you’re just trying to narrow it down, that you’re on a journey to know yourself more, that you’re exploring all the options — but be honest with yourself, my dear.

It’s hard to live passionately when you don’t even know what you want.

And still, my dear reader, you wonder why I write this way. It’s because I didn’t even know if I wanted to write this in the first place.