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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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..

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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:

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.