Nostalgia

 nostalgia

It’s a weird thing.

Is it a person?

Is it a smell?

Is it a sound?

Is it a feeling?

Is it a memory?

Is it all good?

Is it bad?

I’m not sure,

but I do know that it’s 

different

for everyone.

I like that.

For me:

nostalgia is

barbie life in the dreamhouse,

if you give a cookie to a mouse.

ariel wondering what’s that word again,

waking up at three hours past ten.

stomping in puddles and dancing in the rain,

a mini ice bath to soothe my pain.

plastic wheels going round and round,

strobe lights flashing, crawling on the ground.

it races toward you, don’t let it hit your feet,

the red and blue sheep destroy my wheat.

sand spills everywhere and cubes of foam fill my mouth,

they give me a popsicle after falling south.

stinky feet in a hot plastic room,

flying through the tunnels or else I’ll meet my doom.

mulch tattoos with no vision in mind,

gripping her ankle because I’m blind.

water rushing up my nose, it stings,

braiding for hours with the thick golden string.

the cinnamon smell is so sweet and warm,

climbing up the house before the storm.

see?

does the poem make sense?

maybe parts but the whole?

only 

to 

me.

That’s

nostalgia’s

beauty.