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My Miracle
My Miracle
Written by: Charlotte Suiza
Note: A month ago, my mom told me my sister won the poetry contest and that it was written at her promotional graduation. I refuse to read this poem because I dont like to cry nor do I like to feel all lovey dovey with my sister, but I already know that this is one of those things that tell me that no matter how horrid I am in other people's eyes by the way I present myself on the internet, my sister sees me otherwise.
Side note: I keep trying to tell her to get into writing like how I got her into art, but she says she sucks, which she doesn't so i dont really know.
Ps: she doesnt know i logged onto her school email for this reason.
Written by: Charlotte Suiza
My Miracle
this woman is my miracle.
without her
I am the canvas without paint,
the tree without sturdy roots,
or the moon without its brilliance,
the drums of her heart
pulse through my veins
when the beat of my own
is nothing.
when my lungs are dry
her presence is the air
that I breathe in
as her words heal
even the deepest scars
of my sympathetic spirit.
she is the radiant sun
who kisses the clouds away
and whose rays
reach the farthest corners
of the inevitable universe,
a mere word cannot describe
how her sole existence
builds my own essence
but through which the measure
of my eternal love can only convey.
this woman is my miracle.
she is the firefly
that burns during dusk
and sits softly on my shoulders.
her firm arms wrap around
my torn back,
showing love no one has ever
had the courage to express,
she is the tissue
that absorbs my tears
when my sleeves are too soaked
and my lips have swallowed
enough sorrow,
she is the umbrella
that shields me from the rain
which trickles down
my bruised skin
and drenched, stricken face,
she is my voice
when my throat
is too sore
and my tongue
forgets language,
she is the shoes
that protect my bare feet
and carry my weight
over her shoulders,
everyday she has the audacity
to be beautiful
in a world so complex,
and yet her beauty alone
cannot be confined in
just nine letters,
her faith echoes
through lost hallways
and crowded streets,
whistling through
even the cruelest winds,
she manifests inspiration
in a form of a present,
and without words,
she sparks
my ambitions.
this woman is my miracle
a love concealed,
though not rare, nor typical,
this woman is my miracle
sincere, and sensible,
this woman is my miracle
it is clear, all visible
because you see,
my sister is this woman -
therefore
my sister, is my miracle.
this woman is my miracle.
without her
I am the canvas without paint,
the tree without sturdy roots,
or the moon without its brilliance,
the drums of her heart
pulse through my veins
when the beat of my own
is nothing.
when my lungs are dry
her presence is the air
that I breathe in
as her words heal
even the deepest scars
of my sympathetic spirit.
she is the radiant sun
who kisses the clouds away
and whose rays
reach the farthest corners
of the inevitable universe,
a mere word cannot describe
how her sole existence
builds my own essence
but through which the measure
of my eternal love can only convey.
this woman is my miracle.
she is the firefly
that burns during dusk
and sits softly on my shoulders.
her firm arms wrap around
my torn back,
showing love no one has ever
had the courage to express,
she is the tissue
that absorbs my tears
when my sleeves are too soaked
and my lips have swallowed
enough sorrow,
she is the umbrella
that shields me from the rain
which trickles down
my bruised skin
and drenched, stricken face,
she is my voice
when my throat
is too sore
and my tongue
forgets language,
she is the shoes
that protect my bare feet
and carry my weight
over her shoulders,
everyday she has the audacity
to be beautiful
in a world so complex,
and yet her beauty alone
cannot be confined in
just nine letters,
her faith echoes
through lost hallways
and crowded streets,
whistling through
even the cruelest winds,
she manifests inspiration
in a form of a present,
and without words,
she sparks
my ambitions.
this woman is my miracle
a love concealed,
though not rare, nor typical,
this woman is my miracle
sincere, and sensible,
this woman is my miracle
it is clear, all visible
because you see,
my sister is this woman -
therefore
my sister, is my miracle.
Note: A month ago, my mom told me my sister won the poetry contest and that it was written at her promotional graduation. I refuse to read this poem because I dont like to cry nor do I like to feel all lovey dovey with my sister, but I already know that this is one of those things that tell me that no matter how horrid I am in other people's eyes by the way I present myself on the internet, my sister sees me otherwise.
Side note: I keep trying to tell her to get into writing like how I got her into art, but she says she sucks, which she doesn't so i dont really know.
Ps: she doesnt know i logged onto her school email for this reason.