Stream of thought

Sometimes I write poems without spending a lot of time trying to make them perfect. I just let it out and put down what's in my head at that exact moment. Those are some of my favorite poems that I've written. The human mind is a beautiful gift that I am very grateful for. 

I wrote this poem yesterday. I had a lot going on in my head and decided to write it as it came. I had gone on a hike earlier in the day to let off steam and was amazed by the beauty and peace that I found in the mountains.

Listen to your heart

Stop searching for the answers in the dark

I’m feelin like I’m lost

Didn’t realize hesitation had a cost

Life’s too short to say goodbye

But I guess I’ll have to try

I’m not who I used to be

But still not quite the whole of me.

To trek the mountains, trek the sky

Make me stop and wonder why

The world seems to move so fast

Just want the view, moment to last.

Obviously blogging consistently is not my thing. I just don't feel like I have a lot to say, ever. 

But I'm graduating and that's gotten me thinking about a lot of things lately. The main concern being time and how it passes me by without a care. My life sometimes seems to be one big blur of indecision and fear. It's easy to get caught up in the fast pace of the world and forget the real purpose of life, which does not include anything remotely related to fame or fortune or whether or not I attain a PhD. I'm grateful for the knowledge I have of the Plan of Salvation. I know that I am here to fulfill an eternal role and that my progression is not, nor will it ever be, limited by time. 

(In order to see what day I was graduating I looked at BYU's academic calendar and as I did I felt a rush of emotion; so I wrote a poem and called it Calendar)

 Calendar: 

Number the days and watch them go

A wisp in the wind, footprints in the snow

Days into weeks into months into years

No way of knowing if there will be tears

Ink on a page apathetic and bold

Jealously guarding stories untold

Deceptive and cunning, hiding the truth,

That little black ink has stolen our youth.

How many memories trapped on a page?

The friendships and photographs yellowed with age.

The smell of the grass, crunch of leaves in the fall

Those little black numbers, concealing it all.

(View of Provo from Kiwanis Park)