My Mother with Angel Red Lipstick

She hears me like a whisper

A breeze twisting through her

Fingertips

I am

The sun in her

Jewelry box, the

Moon in her eyes

Blue and grey.

 

She is Clininque “Angel Red” lipstick,

The smell of cut grass in

July and

Chanel Coco and No. 5

 

She is a polka dot dress and

I love you to the moon

 

Homemade apple pie

With real crust

And no sugar

Blue hands on

Sunday mornings

 

She is my October

And I am her July

 

But she knows

 

To me

She is every season,

 

And I know

 

To her

I am every sunflower opening her golden arms to

The sky,

I am the ray of light

In her pocket like the sun

Bursting behind green mountains—

 

To her

I am

Every

Day.

Really? I Started a Blog?

Yes. It's time for me to initiate something besides the fear of my music not being good enough or my writing being uninteresting. Insecurity was so high school. Welcome to college. Do something with your life. 

So here's my introduction:

I'm Patience.  I'm nineteen. And I am always writing something, usually in my head, like mental descriptions that narrate my day. 

I write poetry. 

I write music.

When I first started to form full sentences was when this mess began. I sang about my neighbor's cat and Martin Luther King when I was between the ages of three and seven. 

While I would like to believe my songwriting has improved and grown, you never know. It's all a matter of opinion. 

I started playing guitar in seventh grade. 

My dad is a drummer and the most incredible overall musician I know. He would leave basses, talking drums, and guitars in my room when I was a child in an attempt to get me to play music on my own. 

And it worked.

My Epiphone sits beside my bed in this small shoe-box of a dorm room. 

I write songs because I have no choice. It's like anything else that naturally occurs in your life. I breathe, get irritated, and write music. 

College is definitely an experience. Trying to continue my creative outlets while also attending beer pong championships, classes, and basement parties can be exhausting. 

This is me trying to survive college, creatively.