Marginal Melody

When I fall asleep at night
My dreams are filled with sketches
From the margins of my notes

And those notes depict a sight
Painted in the stars
An early melody I wrote

Each star warps the softened tune
Dancing in the moon light
A light with such intensity

Drifting higher a balloon
A seam will open soon right
Right into this dim city

Come to life unwritten tales
Drawn inside my head
Worlds that only I could see

In the sky a giant whale
Gently guides my bed
Dreaming what my world could be

All the possibilities
Raining down on me
Words and notes fall endlessly

In this brainstorm I feel free
In these paper stories
Recreated in my dream

I open my eyes when it’s bright
Start painting on a page
Notes are floating in my face

Fly away a ropeless kite
A perfect written day
I map out my dreamt up place

Flecks of paper drift through the air

The sound of the ocean rolling eternally fills the night

An image of fire sits in eyes staring blankly into the water

Notebook in one hand

Filled to the brim with stories

The other hand tears them from there home

Condemning them to the growling flame

“Never again,” he told himself

“No more creation,” he said

The papers begged to be spared

From the hand once used to fill their pages with life

They cried in pain

With every notch torn from their spine

People never write poems about the good times until they miss them–
never sing songs about the smiles until they’re gone–
and god, what kind of race are we
where we cannot love what we have while it is here?
and where the blush on my cheeks and the giggle in my voice
is better as a gravestone than a present memory? 
What is the point of life if happiness is fleeting and only here to be mourned?
I feel like the color pink,
and I would rather be pink than your black-and-blue, black-and-blue.
I am going to be happy, even if I am poemless.
I would rather be an unsung shade of raspberry than a beautiful disaster who tastes rotten.
—  the fallacies of the poet//via @karkaroff

you have no imagery
but the vastness of
the ocean
for me.
you don’t get to call me
a hurricane, you don’t
get to say I swallowed
you whole-
not when you
were the one
you came unannounced, pulled
my life apart at
ill-stitched seams,
and forced your way in.
i was fine before the
a still, sleeping ocean
you claimed
i never was-
never had the
to be.
did you ever consider,
in your self-deprication,
that maybe
were the source of my waves?

What do you see when you look at me?
At first glance, you may only see a ream of empty pages
Stitched together and
Encased in a sheath of black leather.
You may be exactly right.
But, I encourage you to look deeper.
For those who have, they have seen further.

My pages may be empty now
But from my experience
Those who have opened themselves up to me
Have built entire worlds and
Solved problems and
Recorded discoveries and
Created masterpieces.
Throughout history
Artists, writers, musicians, designers
Have scratched my face with
Quill and ink and brush and paint and pencil and pen
Assembling a series of lines and dots
Until discoveries that have shaken humanity to its core
Take shape.

For I give an idea a home,
A safe place to live
Suspended in a nutrient-rich medium where it can be
Nourished and cultivated
Until it cannot be contained within my paper walls.
And I am a safe haven for you, the creator.
A paradise where you can cast your inhibitions aside and
Be free.
So share your deepest thoughts with me.
I’ll like every post.
I’ll follow everything you say.

You see, my pages are not truly empty.
They are actually quite full
Of potential
Of possibility
Of limitless adventure
As you bring your imagination to life.
The world’s greatest luminaries
Who have set the world aflame with their ideas
Have stood exactly where you are today.
They have all seen further with me.

So let’s go.
We’ll do this together.
I’ll show you where to look
To find yourself.
Let’s go.
The world awaits us.


A love note from your notebook, written by me, Sara Cody.

My first-ever piece of original writing set loose into the world. 

Thank you for reading.

You had the kind of eyes that an artist could never sketch, as no shade of green could capture your laughter. You had the kind of voice a musician could never recreate in a melody, as there isn’t an instrument in the world that sounds like home. You had the kind of love that a poet would waste entire notebooks trying to emulate, only to realize that nothing rhymes with you.
—  you’re the most frustrating piece of art I’ve ever met
The archetypes are wrong. The sun is not man. The moon is not woman. You think that way because your world revolves around man. You think that way because woman is left in the shadows. There is nothing feminine about darkness. Woman is light. She is not the hiding of the moon, it is only man that wants to keep her light hidden. The sun has nothing to hide. It is not a fault of hers that she is so bright it burns your eyes. She brings light to your world and you won’t even look at her. She is too much for you, but she is convinced that she is not enough. The sun hurts because no one will look at her, and that is why she leaves every night. But she is so brave, she always comes back. The sun is chaos and explosion and solar storm and hurt and love. The sun is so much bigger than the moon, but the moon is an illusionist. The moon is only blue for attention. The sun makes things grow, the moon makes the ocean storm. The moon takes the light from the sun, and, reflecting, claims it as his own. The moon will never notice you, the moon will never take care of you. You rely on the sun, on her warmth and her light and her gravity. You are nothing without her, but you are so preoccupied with the phases of the moon. Open your blinds, let her in. The moon has already been reached, he is not complex, but you can never reach the great heights of the sun. Absorb as much of her as you can. Look at all she has done for you from so far away. She is power. How could you ever believe that the sun was anything but woman?
—  This is why the sun shines