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I refuse to write poetry with any pen other than this cheap one I stole from my brother (after losing my previous one which looked exactly the same).

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Form is me as a kid and also a cheap pen

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Form is me as a kid and also a cheap pen

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Form is a little clickety bit. With luck, it could be shiny, but likely, it means nothing unless you’ve loved a person.

Form is a trinket, or a memory (the heavy and comforting, weighed-blanket kind), passed down or stolen.

Sometimes, form is a frustration, an echo of poets passed.

Form goes bump in the dark.

Form is the dark.

Form is in the dark.

Form is me, curled in a corner, afraid of the dark.

Other times, form is also me, but this time, she is unafraid.

Form is the swing around my hips, old and battered and suddenly much too tight. My mother warns me not to leap from form.

I do it anyway. It hurts, but only like an adventure hurts, not a lesson.

Form is not a lesson. Form is more of a teacher.

I’m pretty sure I could love form, but only if it loved me first.

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Convection with Conviction

Soft blemishes in metal, a reflective surface; form is polarized light, seen through a compound lens. Can they feel what we sense, I wonder.

Form is a whittled boot; once wood–once preserved—an inherited trinket someone laughs about in a classroom. What connection could possibly be more important than that of a tree in the earth, for it to be treasured in the form of useless, dead wood?

Form is the second moulting of a mayfly, in which its wings shed unlike any other; an ephemeral being whose optics are altered for love.

Form is a subtle reminder; it subtly retells the mind, I think, like the constant eclipse of a spoon. Swirl the soup, form convection with conviction, watch as the lentils and peas dip and fall below the sheen of oil on your dinner’s surface. Throw an orange around the room; form is its demolished innards and stiff peel.

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A 20+ year old film camera, inherited from my mother.  

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Form is a hidden compartment.

To look into it, open

it up, you must be willing

to capture

a moment;

the comfort of loved

ones and places.

Form is the lens

from which you view the world from.

To take a photo, means

to preserve it through time,

to capture; the secret

compartment within your own mind,

to create;

a physical manifestation,

an ordinary thing that allows

for self-expression.

Form is scratched edges and

frayed rope, the rust that builds

its character over time.

It becomes unique, relating

to others only tangentially as

each iteration is molded to

flourish as something entirely your own.

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Form runs linear paths, yet form is flexible and imperfect around the edges with repeated use. Form has an order that can be shuffled and reordered depending on your preferences. Form is a set of instructions, a guide, a manual. Form is a painter’s reference image. Form is 2D, colourful and flat until the artist grasps its shape. Form tastes like raw cookie dough. Form is a string of symbols. Form is bureaucratic and cold. Form emerges in literature reviews, meta-analyses, journal articles and APA papers. Form travels through gas, liquid and solid states. Form tells you toner comes before serums, which come before moisturizers. Form is a button down dress shirt. Form may be wrinkled. Form may be smooth. Form is parts of a whole. Or a whole with parts. Form dictates that you mustn’t be on the ground with the wood chips when they yell “lava!” or “grounders!”.

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Form is restraint yet freedom

Form can bring structure to make words and meanings more coherent

Form is abstract art

Form is expression

Form is the suspension of words

Form is uniform

Unique

Random

Materialistic

Basic

Form is the lack of knowledge from another persons perspective

Form is quality over quantity

Form is the freedom of being confused

Form is the lack of knowledge from another persons perspective

Form is personal

Form can varry

Form is justifiable

Form in my life is repetitive schedules

Form is waking up at the same time everyday

Form is waiting for the bus

Form is dreading going to class

Form is the boring dinner table conversations

Form is the daily frustrating routines to live

Form can be unfair

Form can get boring

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Form is hidden beneath the surface, and exudes deeper meanings from the past. Form is a reminder of memories that slowly fade away, but never fully vanish. Form is a clean safety net of protection. Form offers us deepness, meaningfulness, and security. Form is experienced by everyone just in different ways. Form develops emotions that aren't explored often. Form broadens our horizons in unthinkable ways that are sometimes frustrating and difficult to come to terms with. Form reminds us of negativities we try and run away from. Form is a representation of our past self and who we have become. Form can be our friend, but also our enemy. Form is a sterilizer for bad memories and energy. Form is crystal clean.

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Form is the surface of a pearl, smoothed by the sun. Form is calmly tucked under my pillow at nightfall. Form is finding constellations on clear, cold nights where my breath hangs in the air after I have let it go. Form is gifted to me, from your hands to mine. Form is blues, golds and bright oranges. Form is easy yet form is impossible. Form is tiny chairs for small figurines to perch upon. Form is the sharp touch and smell of freshly mowed grass. Form is creative and natural yet somehow unyielding. Form is skinned knuckles caressing soft check. Form is in the interconnectedness of golden circles of metal, the start is nowhere to be found. Form is the different between time and space. Form is unexplainable in that it is unique and different to each. Form is the mystery which breathes to life poetry from my words.

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Form is the urge to escape everything and that voice that tells me not to. Form is game over; do you want to start over? Form is how I like my morning coffee. Form is a tangled ball of yarn. Form is a traffic light. Form is checking everything before I leave; lights off - check, door locked- check. Form is the keychain that hangs off my bag. Form is waiting in line for food; I forget what I wanted then order something in a panic, but I still got food in the end. Form is staring at a message and wondering the best way to reply. Form is a paper name card in grade school. Form is the outfit I draped on my chair the day before. Form is a childhood vacation I can’t quite remember yet can never forget. Form is the voice that tells me what to do.

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Form is a soft-furred fox figurine. Fire-eyed, aglow with the energy of movement.

Form is a gift from an old friend, to hold how you wish. A small body saying something bigger, making something invisible shiver.

Form is a fig leaf floating in a holding sea. Form is the sea that rocks the fig leaf, fills the fig leaf, ‘til it’s lost in the currents of love.

Form is my morning crossword; the cup that holds the coffee; the dog’s dark head in my lap.

Form is a tent in the trees. Form is the trees around the tent, and sometimes-rain-sound. Form is warm bodies circling the fire, and old songs that rise with its smoke.

Form is a fox body, small and hunger-hollowed, and you standing over it, weeping. Form is the fire in the fox’s eyes, in the tree-dense wild, stealing your hat. Running in the open light.

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Form weaves through the spaces between dashes lines. Form is stored in my pocket, picked up at airport bar. Time folds memory into form. Form is the central nervous system, channeling electricity, muscles built around it. Form is the stella ella ola, clap clap clap. It rests your hand on top of mine. Form is comforting. Form unfurls, one frayed string in a threadbare blanket, tied to everyone it has touched. Form is a gentle hand. Form warps time, narrowing 24 hours to three 20 minute periods. Form trickles down through an hourglass. I scoop its sand and count the grains. Form is first arabesque, a word for the people on stage only. The watchers don’t need to know form. Form is a figure, at first judged then discarded. Form composes, and at times, it conducts.

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with me / it bears the wind / and sees the sun

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Form is the hands of the watch; they hit all the time markers; they go on a loop and in a perfect circle. Form is the crown that can put forward, put backward, or even stop the time on my hands. Form is a dial of glossy golden pink, reflecting shafts of sun with a rainbow tint. Form is a strap that wraps around my wrist, a little frayed around the edges. It clings to me like a boat hugging the shore. Form is a cold metal weight I can feel on my skin.

Form tells the time, suspends the time, hastens the time, traps the time. Form grounds me, exhausts me, guts me, uplifts me, thrills me, silences me. Form forms us, consolidates us, crystallizes us, surprises us, shatters us. Form holds the resonance of memories, holds our hands, holds the level where we met each other, holds the path we still have yet to start down.

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Form is a blue rusted memory, a pinkie-promise of wishes.

Form is the light’s reflection onto soft skin and twinkling eyes.  Laughter shines where tears are shed.

Form is left in a bouquet of forget-me-knots and always wandering but never lost.

Form is personal and eye-catching. Form is distance juxtaposed with what is in my hand.

Form is growing older but never changing.

Form is remembered time and melancholic nostalgia.

Form is a blue shiny memory, wilted through footsteps in the snow.  A crunch and a capture and a face frozen by the cold.

Form is a replacement that always feels slightly distant from home.

Form is living in the imaginary of your future - so far away, but so close.

Form is fate controlled by every uncertainty.

Form is this ring. Form is tradition in the newborn spring and the crunching autumn wind.  Form is the sickening recollection of life never being how it was.

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Form is scratched through the “for”, the “you.” Form is forgotten somewhere, repeated. Form is slipping over yourself, catching on the engraved. Running. Ears up. Form is next year. They don’t like me. Form persevering. Run. Form fucking ugly. Form is direction leading nowhere. Form scratched through the “you”, the “now.” Lasting, somewhere. Repeated. Form is yank the chain ‘til it breaks. Steady shaking, rambling. Form breaks, lets the light in. Form next year. I’m not moving. Form— I remember; form is the life and the you, scratched through.

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Form weaves through the spaces between dashes lines. Form is stored in my pocket, picked up on airport bar. Time folds memory into form. Form is the central nervous system, channeling electricity, muscles built around it. Form is the stella ella ola, clap clap clap. It rests your hand on top of mine. Form is comforting. Form unfurls, one frayed string in a threadbare blanket, tied to everyone it has touched. Form is a gentle hand. Form warps time, narrowing 24 hours to three 20 minute periods. Form trickles down through an hourglass. I scoop its sand and count the grains. Form is first arabesque, a word for the people on stage only. The watchers don’t need to know form. Form is a figure, at first judged then discarded. Form composes, and at times, it conducts.

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Form is leaves from an overgrown plant. Form is uprooted, transferred, preserved, inherited. Form is left at home, forgotten until it is needed. Form is rooted in perseverance, existing only by chance. Form is a relief, reminding you it is still there. Form is left with another, where it will propagate again.

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Form is a night at the musem.

Form is an eternal game of uno.

Form is patterned, and dipped in gold.

Form is adjustable, and can fit any finger of your desire.

Form and I play tag, but instead of running I'd rather just hide.

Form is the most blinding shade of ebony.

Form is frustrated love, unsettled in itself.

Form is a boar bristle brush; it results in the most defined curls.

Form is 10 years older than me, everything I want to be when I grow up.

Form loves me more than it loves itself.

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Try to see how many patterns you can find (they're 3)! :)

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Numerous, Repetitive, and Pattern-filled Forms

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Numerous, Repetitive, and Pattern-filled Forms

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Form is children with hope, taking up space with words.

Form smells like sunflower seeds, that have been sucked dry of salt. Form is bright, like light and explosive yellows..

Form strives for excellence, bearing the weight of morality, clinging onto goodness and growth and learning to let go. Form is smooth on the face but has dangerous and pointy edges. Form stretches into crevices and cracks!

Form is folding, having two sides, flip, then four, changing what someone sees. Form breathes and exhales before something big. Form is playing Pokémon, yelling let's go AGAIN! Form forms.

Form is a pattern. Form figures out a way of life, similar and connected with identity. Form is struggling with assignments, feeling inspired and trying new things in class. Form goes the distance, has a good day, and decides to try even harder tomorrow. Form is smiling on rainy days, content and happy..

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A book I recently bought from a cramped local bookstore and am too afraid to open. 

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Form is the oily pages of an unopened book.

The worn-out attributes of the world.

It’s the words that leap

across the globe

and into your lips. It is the influence

of generations of insanity rolled up

into a cigarette

that spits out smoke whose stench still lingers.

Form is physical.

The architecture that civilizations rose and

fell on because their form was not impenetrable.

It is found in dirty places.

It buries itself in the mud as the foundation of all things,

crawling with worms and conversing with moles

because it does not see them as lesser, but integral.

Maybe form is devotion.

Is it a religion we have created that goes unspoken

from Peru to Iran,

from Palestine to Japan?

Maybe form is a riddle

because even as I sit here asking these questions,

I am no closer to an answer.

Maybe that’s what form is: a mystery.

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Form is applying the prettiest rouge.

A structure, a haiku.

A shadow, a mystery.

A shape, a sonnet.

The complete absence and lack of form.

Form is a story with the last page ripped out.

Form is a thought floating on a raft of soft swaying sibilance.

A silence stopped by a shout.

A skeleton, a galaxy, a star about to implode.

A man wandering endlessly through a void,

form is the light he discovers.

Form is the light having been there since the void begun and continuously begins.

Form is a crutch birthed from tree birthed from earth.

Form is the man held by crutch held by tree held by earth.

A part of a whole.

The part becomes the whole.

Form smears rouge across a blank page.

Form is colouring outside the lines.

Hopscotch, tightly laced sneakers, crayon blanketing my cheeks — makeup wipes.

Form is reapplying.

Reapplying.

Reapply.

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Form is a box that carries important things and trivial things and not-so-trivial things. It’s a box that can be reused and upcycled into art projects and science projects. Form makes the unlimited limited and the limited unlimited. It’s an ongoing process that many people believe is stagnant and fixed. It’s a shifting structure created by someone or something and is fluid and solid all at once. It is something to be looked at, a reminder of the randomness within structure and patterns within chaos. Form is a step that takes you from one place to another if you so choose to be curious and courageous enough to keep going. Form is something to be subverted, to be filled, to be transformed. Form is a socially constructed structure that exists because of histories and possibilities of Creating. Form is something that contains and constrains and consists of inclusion and exclusion.

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Form is nostalgia, stories tucked inside your hand. Form is a stick of memory. If a picture can speak a thousand words, perhaps this is a dictionary. Form is extraordinarily ordinary, the perfect balance between simplicity and complexity. Form is a gift in the shape of a box with invisible strings that wraps around the marble we stand on. Form is a game of hide and seek and you want to yell “I can see you!”, but you can’t. Form is gentle and comforting. Form is a key to heartache locked away deep that makes you wanna run away. Form is a video on loop with familiar voices. Form is a letter without any words. Form is saying “I love you” without the three words. Form is a sense of belonging even when you are alone. Form is family.

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a prosecco muselet (or cork stopper) that my Mom turned into a mini chair "from the toothfairy" when I was a kid :) 

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Form twists delicate wires into malleable entities that antagonize durability.

Form is seeing beyond, feeling more.

Form is a caterpillar, a butterfly, a shapeshifter, a story.

Form is child-like whimsy and unconstrained shapes.

Form is an endless circle, a stable oak that grows with wisdom.

Form is how I write words on my palm while I’m waiting.

Form is hopscotch, a game we win by staying in the lines.

Yet, form a mode of resistance when we don't.

Form is my morning tea with a splash of milk and a bit of brown sugar.

Form is a chair and a muselet with dreamlike fragility.

Form is how I place each ring on a certain finger.

Form is meaningful, given, taken, adopted, understood.

Form is my carefully calculated and calibrated running route

Form is the illumination of a certain pine needle at twilight.

Form is a force.

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Form is a collection of trinkets housing hidden memories. Form is stolen, inherited, borrowed, and bent. Form is welded to create heirloom treasures that outlast generations. Form passes from hand to hand, decorating calloused fingers with blooming galaxies that sparkle in the morning sun. Form glistens with fragments of rainbow suspended in milky glass. Form shapeshifts the mundane – reflecting and refracting the ordinary into something extraordinary. Form is multifaceted juxtaposition – simultaneously opaque and translucent, weighted and weightless, slender and bold, durable and delicate. Form hides and seeks. Form is playing pretend until it’s time for dinner. Form sits cool on the skin until it warms to the touch. Form snags on memories, holding the past in place. Form is an ode to those who came before and that which is no longer. Form is an invitation to all that is yet to come. Form lives outside the constraints of time – gilding yesterday, today, and tomorrow in gold.

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Form is a tied string of forest marbles. Form is an empty shell without the warmth of blood pumping through her veins. Form is a reflective distraction from her frail wrists. Form mends cracked grounds and heals with earthy shrubs. Form is free hair removal, plucking from olive skin. Form is the birth of the summer. Form is a blood bond disguised as emerald planets along a string. Form is a tightly wound string that ceases  blood circulating through her wrists. Form serves as a reminder that what is said cannot be forgotten. Form is a tied string of fate, diminishing far distances and accentuating small differences. Form is a reflective mirror that reveals palms of deceit. Form is the crack of dawn as her bare foot touches a cool bathroom tile. Form is repeatedly forgotten as I run back to my bedroom drawer. Form is a call to home.

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Form holds weight, in the morning, at the end of a day. Spanning decades if it must. Form makes itself known; a recorder of secrets in tiny locked diaries. Form is known to itself, and reminds me, a tap on the shoulder, whispering in my ear (hey, I'm here!). 

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Botched picture of my ring, thought it looked cool. Engraved on the outside is a poem title, "Sea-Fever" by John Masefield. 

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Form is a stainless steel ring; rigid circle, closed loop:

continuity, endurance, infinity,

whose geometry represents something of a greater whole.

Form is a fortress to which you may retreat or storm,

it’s a log laden hearth in a home you’ve inherited from architects older and wiser than you.

It licks and bites and spills out of control—if you’ll let it.

But in being contained: it’s safety, solidarity, comfort, familiarity.

Form is a warm bed on a particularly tiring evening.

Nails. Roses. Linens. Silk.

You choose where you lay or if you

even slip under those covers at all.

Maybe there are no covers!

Because what is form if not to be formless

There is peace in that sort of self-sustained chaos...

serenity in the unknowing (and the fantastical novelty).

Form is the pillars upon which our poems stand

though in number, design, complexity, and longevity:

form differs altogether.

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Form molds itself to you, carries your weight, and feeds your cravings. Form is the chewing gum in your pockets or your purse; it starts out sweet, and soft, and full of life.

Form can be mended, masticated and molded. Form can be the ache in your thoughts, the grind in your hunger, the silence after the chewing stops. Form can also be the repetitive rhythm in your teeth grinding into quiet angst.

Form is pliable, willing to take the hit, to break apart so you don’t have to.

Form is what you chew,

and chew,

and chew,

until it’s not good anymore.

Form is what you spit out and leave to dissolve and fade. Form is what lingers, and sticks to your shoes as well as the pavement, clinging onto your pasts woes.

Form waits...

and becomes flattened,

forgotten,

and floored.

Form holds on, unnoticed, until time wears it thin.

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*this just so happens to be the book I am currently reading*

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Form is the book I carry in my bag everyday. Form is the leap from language to language, transcending the barriers. Form is the author's catalog of conundrums. Form is keeping secrets underneath the bed of my nails. Form is the ragged sun rising outside my slanted window. Form is wielding a flashlight under the covers when Mom says "lights out." Form is the cherrywood shelf I call home. Form is summer on the island, crabs kissing our feet and dragonflies in our hair.

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A cork stopper from a prosecco bottle that my mom made into a mini chair- as a gift "from the toothfairy" when I was little

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Form twists delicate wires into malleable entities that antagonize durability.

Form is seeing beyond, feeling more.

Form is a caterpillar a butterfly a shapeshifter a fairy.

Form is child-like whimsy and unconstrained shapes.

Form is an endless circle, a stable oak that grows with wisdom.

Form is how I write words on my palm while I’m waiting.

Form is hopscotch, a game we win by staying in the lines.

Yet, form a mode of resistance when we don't.

Form is my tea with a splash of milk and dash of brown sugar.

Form is a chair and a muselet and a dreamlike fragility.

Form is how I place each ring on a certain finger, their counterpart.

Form is meaningful, given, taken, adopted, understood.

Form is my carefully calculated and calibrated running route

Form is the illumination of pine needles in twilight.

Form is a force.

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Form is a white coral that you found on the beach.

Mellow and rough, ugly and possessing,

Form can be substantial to me, you, and us

Form can be destructive to me, you, or us

Form creates chaos to some, yet its beauty provides unrealistic comfort to most

Form is detailed. Form is physical.

Forms can have a tiny red speck,

dirty, but can be cleaned.

Forms are materials that can be admired, but full of hatred.

Form is the sound you hear as it shatters on the table,

or is it the waves crashing onto shore.

Form is bloody. Form is weary.

Form are short random thoughts crowding your brain in a split second, confusing you to oblivion with doubt, loath, yearn, love.

Form is a series or is it just a single slight graze.

Form is a white coral trying to survive with two and a half arms.

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Broken keychain, too inanimate to realize it'll never be used again.

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Form is the back of a keychain, spokes radiating from the centre like a miniature sun, cool to the touch. Form is a burst of sugar sprites melting onto a tongue. Metallic tang of rubbed off nickel. Perhaps form costs more than some people are willing to pay. Form is the transmutation of meaning from person to person. In physics, this is the process of the changing of one element into another by radioactive decay, nuclear bombardment, or… Form is perpetual decomposition. Rigid, repetition, free-flowing, constraints. Form is a formal constraint that allows words to flow like warm breath hitting winter air. Two hands brushing past, blushing red, trying to agitate feeling back into frost-tipped fingers. Form mutates, self-cannibalises until it spits out something fresh or half-rotting. Form is a game of ninja. Two opponents locked into a stalemate. Perhaps no one watches so intensely as an adversary cataloguing breath.

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Everything has form. It's in the poetry you read, the games you play, the rituals you follow. Without form, where would we be? There are patterns everywhere -- in nature and in sciences. Art is more free with its expression, but even it cannot exist without form. Form is like a building -- a creative design within the structure -- the frame of expression.

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Form is a wave of familiarity in a sea of chaos. You can get sucked into all of its different nuances, splashes of saltiness, and bursts of nostalgia. Form is the oak boat at the bottom of those seas, riddled with rotted blodges and cannon holes from a battle story left untold. Form is the seagrass surrounding the shipwreck, it’s body now an ecosystem allowing sea cucumbers and other sea insects to take over. All while the sunken boat tries to maintain its once-proper pristine body. Form is a wooden statue without the wood finishing on it yet, waiting to be shined and polished. Form is the dog waiting for its owner outside of the coffee shop as strangers pass it by. Form is wide-eyed and unafraid to look you in the eyes, challenging you, daring you to do something. Its eyes an abyssal waiting for you to fall in.

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Form is a tied string of forest marbles. Form is an empty shell without the warmth of blood pumping through her veins. Form is a reflective distraction from her frail wrists. Form mends cracked grounds and heals with earthy shrubs. Form is free hair removal, plucking from olive skin. Form is the birth of the summer. Form is a blood bond disguised as emerald planets along a string. Form is a tightly wound string that ceases  blood circulating through her wrists. Form serves as a reminder that what is said cannot be forgotten. Form is a tied string of fate, diminishing far distances and accentuating small differences. Form is a reflective mirror that reveals palms of deceit. Form is the crack of dawn as her bare foot touches a cool bathroom tile. Form is repeatedly forgotten as I run back to my bedroom drawer. Form is a call to home.

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Form is a compact device.  Form is shiny, stolen, self-expression.  Form is surrendering control.  Form is small, sentimental, aged, ordinary.  Form is concealed compartments, hide and seek.  Form is a feeling.  Form is your connection to friends lost and living, invisible fingerprints on a precious surface.  Form is a bittersweet window to the past.  Form is comfort carried into the future.  Form is the size of a postage stamp, a slight weight in a pocket.  Form is the madness of constraint.  Form is a reassuring guidance.  Form is forgetting, remembering, and forgetting again.  Form is a found artifact of perseverance.  Form is at once contradiction and peaceful agreement.  Form is something you could easily miss, but the absence of form would be felt.  Form is that which we hold.  Form is that which holds us in return.

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Form is the face of a watch, memories frozen in time.

Form is simple, yet complex.

A juxtaposition of the tangible and immaterial.

Time.

Form is soft leather brushing up against my wrist.

A handheld inheritance, tactile, and comforting.

Form is grief weighing on my heart.

A raw sting that creeps through every now and then.

Form is embossed and rustic, intricately woven.

Read, listen to music, pray.

Singing, dancing.

All will be okay.

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Form is my walks on campus, listening to my favorite music.

Form is motivating, entertaining, nostalgic, and sentimental.

Form represents our daily selves, even when we don't want to.

Form can be surprising, anxious, deep, and rewarding.

Form is a vessel for attachment, balance, and security.

Form is pods of fresh air that occur throughout my day, refreshing myself and those around me.

Running through the fields playing soccer every recess, forcing myself to be disciplined and go to the gym, getting enough sleep, bettering myself everyday. Form is anything that I can stick to and provides comfort, stability, and structure in my life. Form is passed down, learned, inspired, shared, and celebrated. Form is something that I can always look to - an object, routine, person, food, song… It will always be there without a doubt and instill confidence within me. Form is something that speaks to me, and I speak back.

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Form is a compass rose, meaningful and meaningless. Form leaves you to yourself and holds your hand along the way. Form is a long bedtime. Form is a day-to-day object. Form is a pointless compass, lucky and worthless. Form is a compass that does not point. Form is veins, in a human or a plant. Form is phonetic details, written out /laɪk soʊ/. Form has purpose, and no purpose, and only what purpose we assign, and what purpose is prescribed to it. Form is holding and letting go. Form is a thing for storing information, for bringing luck, for tradition. Form is a dull, shiny silver-grey. Form is inherited, form is created by oneself. Form is memory, form is comfort, form is handheld, form is stolen. Form is for preservation and to be preserved. Form is scratched up from living in my pocket.

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Form is the most honest lie.

Form is the wind making the ocean dance in waves.

Form is the story that is reflected on an off-white rock.

Form is using its past trauma as a way to beautify itself with dark spots and glitter.

Form is getting warm and cozy next to a bonfire on a warm summer day.

Form is the crisp breeze breaking the heat between two beings.

Form is a rock you stumble upon.

Form is a love that sweeps you off your feet.

Form is a man written by a woman.

A man that you stumble upon who sweeps you off your feet.

A man that creates heat between you.

A man that you get cozy with next to a bonfire.

Form is evidence of a meet-cute preserved in the most mundane trinket.

Form is a story I’ll tell my kids of the man that was written by a woman.

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Form is my mother’s gloss breaking through—imperfect memories of sitting scared on the skytrain. Form is bringing myself into today, tie an apron around my waist, never quite knowing where I’m going. Form is how I know who I am—tarnished celestial affection that brings history into the present. Form is comfort in golden loops. It jingles and sways as I look behind me. Form swings me into the future. Form is 90s charm in a 2025 body. Form is vintage like ideas that define me, like my mother’s influence, like falling asleep with the lights on, like dark colours that fade against a silken backdrop. Form is tangled in my hair. Form is almost lost. Form kisses my dog goodnight. Form is functional reminders of attachment. Form is honest. Form is connection to others, to the self.

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Form is the curved shoreline of the rocky embankment, blanketed in icy crystals, of the Hudson as the bumpy plane descends to earth.

Form is the soft part of reindeer, stretched over your great uncle’s cedar frame, the dye staining your skin for weeks, sewn within the tough grasp of arthritic hands.

Form is leaning into tradition, as your unsteady fingertips stitch beads that can’t lay flat as your kookum teases in a language you don’t understand anymore.

Form is regretting the shelf you’ve placed your culture on to be blanketed in dust as your ancestors cry for generations that are lost.

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Form is the smooth bumpiness of the body. It’s the yellow “mouth” showing the signature sagging sides, with a strip of pink, purposefully placed in the centre. Form is the round head and tummy, hard with your hands and soft with your eyes. Form is the younger you, staring back knowing that their memory will never fade.

Form is the 5th grade teacher asking you if you could get a “real book”. It’s the plushie you’d see sitting on the window sill, staring at you with sunken eyes. Form is the grumpy attitude that thankfully never rubbed off on you.

Form is the real book that’s highly sought for. Form is yelling “Nobody!” to the unfortunate soul who’s it. It’s the trip to the office after scoring your first home run, smiling and in pain of the thrill. It’s putting your thumb up and head down on the desk, fighting the urge to look at their shoes.

Form is the younger you, in awe of who they’ll become.

Form is the future you, proud of how much they’ve grown.

Form is the current you, living moments turned to memories.

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Form is a small, painted rock. It is small and solid, something tangible to hold on to, a canvas that shapes you. Form is a gray streak. It is imperfect, even in perfection. Even in the happiest moments.

Small Rock

Canvas

Imperfection

Foundation

Container for memories.

Form holds memories to form you. Your past makes the present and the present will make your past. Form is a gray rock, mundane without your magical touch.

I ask my girlfriend to smile every night before I turn off the lights

I check on my favourite teams, hoping they have made a trade which will finally see them win.

I remind myself to follow my dreams.

I paint myself, again and again, every day.

My form is hope and love.

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Form is fragility, littered with rough surfaces that offer glimpses into the soul. Form is magic, honed through our experiences. A physical testament to the lengths of our imagination. A lens that guides us through life’s tornados, providing both stability and freedom. Form is a reflection, carrying the weight of failures and triumphs, bending but never breaking.

Form is the long drive to Maracas Bay, where each corner reveals a secret, winding through the forest on the lone road that leads us home. It is the rhythm of waves crashing against the shore beneath the moonlight. It is not just the shape we inhabit, but the story written across our hearts, waiting to be read, waiting to flourish. Form is the sound of birds chirping, whispering of our potential. It is the foundation through which we add flavor to individuality, revising the recipe until we are certain we are home.

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Form is weight noticed only when it snaps off—it hangs loosely in buckles and broken chains and snake plant roots that beg for water by gripping onto the packed earth. Form’s got one name, “form”, but dual faces that form in knotted string, engraved letter loops and tangled rhythm blues! Form can be cradled between two palms! It perseveres through preservation of purpose, like a porcupine NOT a porpoise as its spikes snap your hair shut behind your nape. Form hops forward along the sidewalk numbers, chalk hieroglyphs and it’s the rock you kick or maybe the lace or print under your shoes! It’s the mark they leave but mostly it’s the understanding you have that when you jump you’ll land maybe not where you aimed but close! It’s the intention to jump the intention to land the GOOD FORTUNE you had not to lose another keychain down the drain when you thought it was a curse. Form is a NAT 20–good on you!

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Form is a plastic cataract form is scratched it’s a craft a bothering to the apparent form is a one way fog form like lycra is an acrylic formica laminate melting bending not head on what a spun refraction an event horizon what a muffled spoiled sight warped ever closer it’s scuffed prayer tossed in a messenger bag form is a polymer and anything except glass what is it except a medium plastic cataract

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Form is red yarn knotted into expert patterns.

Form is small imperfections of something handmade,

but also evidence of craftsmanship and skill.

Form is John Wayne,

guitar chords,

tiny tattoos speckling the limbs of one of my favorite people,

love everyday on my hands.

Form is tangible,

ritual,

carrying a trace of its existence

in the world-

red yarn becomes

knots becomes

gloves becomes

warmth.

Form is dual,

repetitive,

routine,

waking up and taking iron supplements with a full glass of water

and heading out into the morning chill of

my own visible breath,

marching down my front stoop and through the hedges of

beginning.

Form is timing,

pacing,

a schedule of geographic locations to arrive at and

familiar faces to converse with.

Form is coffee and cream,

small drops spilling out as I

rush to wherever I'm rushing to.

Red yarn turns dark with be-speckled coffee moisture that I

quickly rub away.

Dammit!

I hope it doesn't stain!

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the case and the tools to remove and replace the filters on my hearing aids

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form asks to be pulled apart. form could insist that it was made for the unfurling. form is repetition, and the time in between. form is a resting place, the act of again and again. form is a flatness forced into flowering.

form has prongs that it uses to see. form requests kindly, that you read the instructions. form opens when you ask. form is plastic, unassuming and quite simply there.

form is bisecting into unusable halves.

form is an asking, a begging of noise nearly muted. form collapses into being, rears out of itself. form wants and it wants and it wants. form can be discarded, it says here in the instructions. form is the below, the shapes in the dark. form is fitting, just perfectly, into space as it is.

form asked me today, if i needed it, and neither one of us heard the answer. form is:

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Form is a green turtle hat. Form is composed of everyday items that represent parts of ourselves with endless meaning. Form is a personality that wants to be something else while being somebody else. Form is carried around and is meant to be shared with others. Form is a memory of a market that carries joy and wonder hidden through simple acts. Form is personable through the littlest of things, simple accessories with simple function. Form is everyday pieces that shape meaning. Form is a game of hide and seek whispered through each room. Form is a woven crochet keychain, both fragile and clear. Form is the curve of a smile, and the smell of cotton candy. Form is a ferris wheel that acts as a vessel for you and me alike. Form is a blend between games where playful exchanges are more than simple movements.

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Form is something round, built from flat surfaces. Form looks deceptive; it feels unexpected. Form is sometimes heavy, sometimes light. It looks different depending on the angle and the viewer's eyes. Form is emotional, familial, pressuring, yet honourable. Form identifies us. Form borrows from others. Form is Fireboy and Watergirl, and flying to space in Dad's silver Honda Civic. Form is complicated, imperfect, and important. Form respects some and offends others.

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form is dancing like a puppet

shining, counting, praying

form is a black abyss of desire

eating you alive

biting the apple

form has tender flesh

touching tender grooves

a holy object used for sin

form is heavy, falling through my fingers

form is coiling up like a snake

controlling, ecstasy, rebellion, pain

form is the pleasure of surrendering

form is adolescence and black lingerie

form bites you like an apple

form is confessing, rejecting, healing

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Form is something only I can read. Form slips through my fingers the same way silk feels cold and expensive. Form is worn down into a false silver. Form is watching a rainbow of colours emerge as a showing of time. Form is a learned language. Form grounds me. Form makes little ticks so quietly I confuse it for my own heart. Form is many little scratches that they are almost invisible. Form has a magical reflection that distorts its code. Form has lived lives without me. I have chosen to repair form because I don't think everthing should be discarded. Form is made from many things that have lived many lives. Form can sway.

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form is an embroidered blue thread. form is the everyday wrapped in a memory. for is the sun, the suns, the day, the days, sundays--the start for some and the absolute end for others. form is a thread ailing the reliable routine--form is the reliable routine, ail itself. form is the dying routine.

is wrinkled and leathered, a fraying seam upon a used to be bright cloth. form is thin tattered loved cloth. cannot conform a thread to form. uncontaining a day form is the crux of the everyday. buildings, trees, skies, stars, spotlights, potlights, nostalgia, homes, houses, burnt.

form is the thread embroidering new blues.

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Form is the programming board to build computers. It is complex, yet simple, cold, but hot. Form shows you exactly how things are made while also subverting all expectations. Form evokes senses, memory, and history all enmeshed into one. Form tastes spicy but feels like <LOVE3. Form BrEakS tradition but also follows the rules. Form is everyday, from hopscotch and jump rope, to London bridge during kids play. Form allows you to create with out punishment or worry. Function and time compete or compliment distance and rhyme. Form feels like my first poem in 3rd grade, a colouring book turned into a 10-line favorite. Like that poem, form can take flight like an Oriole, dark from one angle and bright orange from another. The wings of form carrying the bird through a cold winter’s night, and months later through a flowery bright summer’s day. Form creates different products from sImIlar pIeces.

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Form is the condensed nectar of a mother's love, it is tradition that shapeshifts in different shapes and textures, for it could be round, cubical or irregular, or dense or wispy. Form is becoming under the sun, it is transcendental, allowing an intangible ethos to come out of its shadows. Form can be striking and direct as substances but perhaps we should pay a closer look to the memories and meanings that overflow the boundaries of the form. Form is really just a blob.

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Form is glasses that make me look older than I am, that add a layer of protection between the world and my eyes. Form is a lens through which words find clarity.
They frame the rhythm, hold the rhyme,
A structure that dances with measured time.

From the warm orange rising sun to the hues of pink and blue, form brings me one step closer to taking in nature and peace. From day to night, form sharpens my vision and blurs out the negatives.

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I got this book from 4 generations in Kamloops, BC I originally got it to use for work and I liked the message, but then I started using it for everything (school, work, journaling etc.)

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Form is the future and generations to plan for.

Form can feel sentimental and warming like grandma's hugs or mom’s dinner special.

Form means flipping through pages to find the perfect one for ideas to fill in.

Form is connection.

Form is whatever you imagine it to be.

Form can be overlooked and over valued.

Form could be in front of you and sometimes in the back of your mind.

Form adapts to repetition or freedom with choice.

Form and games are like acting or playing pretend.

Form can be marco polo at the park or manhunt in the dark.

Sometimes the form could also be cops and robbers or Indians and cowboys.

Form can be a child's innocence and curiosity or it can be an elder with a lifetime of knowledge.

Form can be simple or over complicated like academic research papers.

Form is what you make it to be.

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Form is all the moments in life that have led to this one. Form is the weight you carry with you. Form is the tool to break it down, scattered into ashes. Form carries you through life, winding and submerging into every crevice. Form is everything in time. Form pulls you backwards, rushes you forward, holds you in place. Form is boundless by nature. Ever changing, yet contained. Form is the way you watch your parents love. Form is how you love. Form is the red flower given to you on your birthday. Form is what finds you. Form is the unseen necessary. Form is the break between day to night, the dawn following sunset. Form is everyone before you and everyone after. Form is the backline of interconnectedness. Form is always there.

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Form is a layer with a thousand possibilities,

it is a quiet breath filling unnoticed spaces

It is the space between the ice and the milk, where time shifts, and liquid speaks.

Form is the swirl of dark and light,
tangled in delicate balance.
It is the curve of a hand holding a glass,
the flicker of light caught on the rim of a moment.

Form is the quiet blend of opposites,
the way coffee slides into milk,
an embrace between bitter and sweet,
soft and bold.

Form is the place where time is slow,
like a stream of milk swirling
into dark depths,
Form asks, where does the surface end,
and where does it begin?

Form is waiting for consumption,
Waiting to settle,
Waiting to stir,
Waiting to become something.

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Form is a reflection clouded with fingerprints. Blurring out my pores, acne scars, and imperfections that make me wince.

Form is an allowance to spend wisely (and yet mostly wasted, capitalism is to be blamed). Form is table manners I was taught as a child. The order to use your utensils, the direction in which to scoop your soup, and the manner in which you should twirl your pasta (which I still get wrong).

Form is a current that twists and turns. A pair of wings made of wax. A plot with holes. Form embraces, chokes, and engulfs. Form is contradiction.

Form is what tells me that I am imperfect. Form is what tells me that I am perfect, even so. Form is what tells me that I am mundane. Form is what tells me that I am unique, even so.

Form is what tells me that I am human.

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Form is a delicate gem

Colourful, transparent, and small.

Form is deciphering a new place

That smells of salt and is shadowed by clouds.

Form is a clasp

That is too small for hands to close in one go.

Form is playdates planned at recess in between jump ropes.

Form is a bracelet that sits in the corner of a closet,

offering a hint of sea salt with every look.

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Form is symmetry, echoing the ridges, the edges, the shine of the other side. It ebbs and it flows through points and arrows, ending with diamond-studded tips that reflect the world around them. Form is consistency — where would we be without the promise of something, without the reliability of knowing what comes next? Form is faith, faith in its smoothness, faith in its hardness, faith in knowing it will outlast you, and will be passed on through the consequent generations.

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Form forms us all

bit by bit

generation by generation

holding together the loose threads.

Slipping through my fingers

form is for us all

holding together the closest

and farthest reaching desires.

Form is few and far between

enigmatic and often missed,

I hold it in my heart.

Form is all around my home town

from forests to fields.

From is difficult to understand

it hurts. It grips

and takes a hold.

It softens

sometimes.

Form will find you in strange places

like the back of your kitchen sink

or bathroom door.

Form falls through the cracks

of old couch cushions

if scratches at your neck

like an old wool sweater.

Form can fold up small

can be locked away

safely with a careful latch.

From needs tending

and form needs laughter.

form needs dancing

and crafting

and chatter.