Riley welch is a poet from texas living in Denver. She posts three original poems a week. 

The sun is up too early now.

Thinking about patterns.

Thinking about the rings on your fingertips.

I don’t think they match the rings on trees,
and to be honest,
I don’t like that metaphor much.

Sometimes things just are.
Sometimes I just am.

Sometimes your fingertips circle out until I think your whole hand may just be the print.
Hand print.
Why isn’t all of our skin grooved to match it.
catching on all things, easy and small.

Could it be,
that maybe
the small fists we made when we were young,
carving my lifelines into my palms
really did know the future?

Doesn’t it feel ingenuine.
That you could predict it all.

When I was very little,
I thought about death a lot,
as you only can when you realize your understanding of the world is not forever.

And I always wondered if “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” was a little hint.
If it all was just a dream,
and how all my repeating dreams could be my future or my past,
and someday I’d actually
wake up.



On the edge of a cliff while a woman was singing