poetry | thinking

I look at the cats and wonder just how much goes on inside their tiny heads. To believe these creatures, who know so much, who can simplify everything into “i like that” and “i will murder you if you do that again”, actually live inside my house. That they take what i call mine and break it, and are still the most beautiful and adorable things on

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The wind blows and the tiny hearts swoon from the shelf the plastic pot stands on. It is tangled and messy and a perfect metaphor for hearts in general, swooning at the simplest gesture of goodness, of attention. My heart is a swooner. It sees to that any moment can be a performance, even the simplest, normal days, can be found to have beauty if

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I feel like I’ve always been a poet at heart. A person who’s eyes just never quite got the hang of looking at the world through the analytical lens, but rather continued on with child-like glasses, watching the clouds, the dogs, imagening what kind of life does that street cat has, does it have friends? Is it lonely? Would it like my house better?

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