Collected Poetry by Isabelle Rideout

i. A Being of Thought

I am, so I think.

I am, or so I think. 

I am, at least I think, so I think.

I am, therefore I think.

I think, therefore I am.

I think I am, therefore I am as I think.

My thoughts think I am.

I am through my thoughts.

My thoughts think they are, therefore I think I am.

I am in my thoughts. 

In my thoughts, I think I am. 

I am through my thoughts, the thoughts that I think. 

I think.

I am.

I think I am.

I think I am a being of thought.

ii. Dreams From a Butterfly’s Life

Perhaps all of life is a dream. 

Thought together at the seams. 

Perhaps everything isn’t real. 

Though if I think it is, what’s the big deal? 

Does it matter if I think thoughts,

or if thoughts think me? 

If reality is real,

or merely a dream?

For if I believe it is, it is. 

If I think it is, it is. 

And if I believe I am, I am

If I think I am, I am. 

Perhaps I think thoughts. 

Perhaps they think me. 

Perhaps I am thought by another being. 

But if all of life was a dream, 

I would think it all the same. 

So I think thoughts and they think me. 

iii. My Own Dreams

Swirling at the seams, 

falling at the edge of view, 

I can see my dreams, 

all the stories that I brew. 

The stars can bring the light, 

and the sun will shine, 

for living life is bright

from this view of mine. 

I’ll tell a tale of light,

that forgets to leave its mark.

I’ll miss a dream in the night,

left behind in the dark.

Through snow and rain and hail,

weather fair and not,

on oceans I will sail,

forgetting what I’ve sought. 

Every story told, 

every breath that I take, 

forms a dream so old, 

that I forget it when I wake. 

I look to the sky, 

and I look to the sea. 

I wonder and ask why, 

why I am me. 

The dreams beyond my sleep

may forget me when I wake, 

but tales I sow and reap 

are always mine to make. 

The stars, the sun, the moon, 

they populate the sky, 

but I know one day soon, 

they too shall die. 

And so every story ends, 

as it all begins. 

Time heals and mends, 

in the hearths of inns. 

Or so once I dreamed

in the sleep of my mind.

Where, at the seams, 

the universe, for once, seemed kind. 

iv. A Scene from the End of My Life

Chimes heard on the breeze

Oh, the story my brain weaves

Wind rustles through the leaves

The memories slip away with ease

Cold nips at all things

To dream many dreams with wings

Acorns fall from trees

To sail upon those infinite seas

Flowers bloom in color

Though time makes it duller

Logs are stacked neatly

To me, Death whispers sweetly

In the sky, the sun sinks

All thoughts my brain thinks

v. Pretty, Empty Things

A confession:  

I am full 

of pretty

empty

things.

It’s all a

hollow lie

that I tie up

in a pretty bow

and pretty paper.

It doesn’t

mean 

anything.

It just

sounds 

nice. 

How beautiful. 

How meaningless. 

How ironic that I write beautiful nothings about my beautiful nothings.

Just another one of those things

that sounds nice

but doesn’t mean

anything

at all.