written in the stars

[subtleresidue]

I am making lines across the darkening sky.
I am softness and mundanity, I am the question "why?"
I am words and sounds, "maybe", and "I don't know",
I am conflict rising in my stomach, a contention plateau.

I am silently spreading across the alluring oceans,
I am routine and straight lines, continuous motions.
I am the whispers of wind, the color of seasons,
I am distance and anxiety, the combatant of reason.

I am weeping and mourning, for what is and will never be;
my poetry is beautiful, but it will never reflect me.