Moonlight & Metaphors

I hope you have sea legs , my father said to me as we got on a fishing boat in a small town  in Newfoundland. Sea legs, I thought,  how peculiar that person can measure  their ability to stand  while the ocean waves crash against the sides keeping us afloat In Italy, as the dock swayed  while l loaded my luggage onto the water-taxi  with a bald Venetian man Sea legs, I thought  that's why I can stand.  My mother smiled over, as I stood up and breathed in the Adriatic  In Toronto, the subway jerks to a stop Sea legs,  I thought, that's why I can stand.

            The other night, a poet asked me if I was a writer, and I stood there and froze at his simple but complicated question. The word hit me with the force of a mass of bricks. I suddenly stopped and thought, am I a writer? The word felt too good for me, like it was insulting of me to call myself that considering all to the great living and lived writers, authors, poets. Am I a writer? Well, to me no, I didn't think I could call myself that, it felt too good for me.             I once read this book, "My Salinger Year" by Joanna Rakoff to be exact, and one of my favourite quotes from it explained that being able to call yourself a writer takes one thing —   you must write. It's been a while since I picked up that pen, and I'm sitting here with the question lingering in my head, can I still call myself that? I want to, but life just gets so busy and it takes all the time it can get. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want to feel like

There's a line between poetry and people. But somehow you transcend that line; you blur it, making art out of yourself with your whispers. "You're a masterpiece"

Dear Little Brother, The only place I know where to start is the beginning. I was about two years old when mom and dad first brought you home and from what I am told, I was so excited for your birth. We grew up side by side— learning NSYNC dance routines, playing Super Mario Sunshine and being diehard WWE fans. You let me dress you up all girly and I refereed your wrestling matches as you choke slammed large pillows and pinned them.   Somewhere in those years of videogames, dancing and constantly training each other to play soccer, we both grew up. Now we’re driving to different cities together, you’re almost finished high school and instead of rocking out to the Backstreet Boys, we’ve got a playlist of rappers that we both sing to at the top of our lungs. However, no matter how much time passes, no matter how many little fights we’ve gotten into (me always winning), you have always done one thing that saves me time and time again: you’ve been my best friend. You’ve been my te