Poem of the Month Archive
March
The second day of spring came with phenomenal weather. So I took it upon myself to go outside with the plan to do NOTHING. Which sounds so underwhelming but if you have seen my schedule the opportunity to do absolutely nothing does not come around as often as I would like it to.
There has been a stretch of time where my life felt full—but not in a way that meant anything. Just full of things to do, places to see, expectations to meet etc. I was moving constantly, checking things off, staying on top of everything… but I was not really present in any of it.
And the worst part is, I did not even realize it was happening.
But then we made it to the second day of spring, and somewhere in the midst of embracing the idea of nothingness, I looked up. And it felt unfamiliar.
Not because the sky had changed, but because I had. It felt like I was looking at something I had forgotten existed, even though it has been there the entire time. Still wide. Still constant. Still present in a way I hadn’t been.
Nothing in the world had shifted, but something in me had. I had gotten so caught up in everything that needed to be done that I stopped noticing what didn’t demand my attention—but still deserved it.
That is where this poem came from. Writing this was my way of admitting that—to myself more than anyone else. Of slowing down just enough to notice again.
Look Up
February
I wrote this poem because I realized how often I have to look backward to understand myself. Not in a nostalgic way, but in a searching one. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling fluent in my own identity. Simple questions began to feel like exams. Familiar answers no longer came instinctively. This poem came from that quiet panic of realizing you’ve changed so slowly that you don’t remember consenting to it.
I wanted to write about the version of myself that once felt immediate—someone who didn’t hesitate, didn’t second-guess her preferences, didn’t need context to explain herself. Losing that ease felt subtle, almost polite, which made it harder to name. Writing became a way to pause long enough to notice the shift.
This poem exists because growth doesn’t always announce itself as progress. Sometimes it shows up as disorientation. As apologizing out of habit. As recognizing your own smile in a photograph but not the person behind it. I wrote it to acknowledge that strange space where you are both the person living the story and the one struggling to narrate it accurately.
Mostly, I wrote this as a record. Proof that even if I don’t fully recognize who I am right now, I am paying attention. And that, for me, is a way of remembering.
Empty Introductions
January
First and foremost HAPPY NEW YEAR! I wrote this poem because I truly believe I have internal conflict with fresh starts/new beginnings.
There have been moments where something ended, and everyone expected me to feel hopeful, but all I felt was the loss. Like something was taken before I was ready. And for a long time, I thought that hesitation meant I was doing something wrong.
But beginnings don’t wait for you to be ready.
They happen while you are still looking back, still unsure, still grieving what familiar. And I wrote this because I needed to understand that maybe this is the beginning… that uncertainty, that discomfort.
This poem is me redefining what starting over means.
Not something clean or confident, but something messy. Something that doesn’t require me to feel ready, but just to keep going.
Because even if we doubt it,
even if we resist it,
We are still allowed to begin again… whatever that may mean. Cheers to 2026.
Beginnings