My mom gives me a look
Whenever I take a pen
Or a highlighter
To one of my books.
Like it's a crime
To pour your soul into
Your possessions,
To adorn them
With the color
That makes them breathe.
They say stories are alive
But I decided long ago
That they are walking zombies
Until you put something of yourself
Into them.
My possessions will not be
Black and white.
For the world is alive
And full of color,
And my little world
Will be too.
You will be able to tell
What belonged to me
By the spark you feel
When you pick it up.
I'm not tearing
Or dog-earing the books,
Or changing anything
That is not my property
To change.
It is never wrong
To put yourself
Into things that are yours.
YOU ARE READING
Survive: Collected Poems
Poetry~WATTY'S 2019~ ~NOTICE~ AS OF 2/3/19, THIS COLLECTION HAS TOO MANY PARTS! READ VOLUME 2, THRIVE, OUT TODAY! On the pain, love, and passion that makes me human. Potential swearing, mentions of suicide, self harm, depression, rape, etc.
