Why Life Is Worth Living
March 29, 2012
easter egg hunting looking up and seeing the sky
opening your eyes underwater burning candles
drinking water when you’re thirsty watching the snow fall
seeing fireworks explode laying in bed
dipping your toes into a river intertwining your fingers with another’s
feeling the sun on your skin painting what you imagine
singing along to songs having bonfires sitting by a fireplace
riding horses in the fall chocolate milk
watching lightning split the sky the way you feel after workouts
fishing on a calm day knowing you are worth something
swimming in the summer watching the sun rise
backrubs that ‘new baby smell’ smiling
proving to others that you can do anything having family dinners
falling hopelessly in love skipping rocks
helping others who need you laying with the one you love
writing because you want to sipping hot cocoa in the winter
feeling strong capturing time through photographs
holding a new baby breathing after it rains trampolines
playing sports expressing yourself building things
listening to the ‘peepers’ chirp learning every day
creating new life making dinner for fun planting a garden
seeing old friends staying up late reading feeling accomplished
suddenly understanding a math problem experimenting
falling asleep without any time between when you climb in and sleeping
seeing your family picking daisies
getting sand between your toes devoting yourself to something you <3
saving lives hearing the melody of a piano
sharpening a pencil because you’ve worn it down creating something beautiful
realizing life is better than in the movies running
making shapes with sparklers curling up in a blanket
movie nights cutting the grass observing the stars
thanksgiving dinners ice cream on a hot summer day popsicles
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
Waking Up Each Morning,
Falling Asleep Each Night
I twist and turn
Unable to sleep
I fidget and frown
And silently weep.
They mustn’t hear me
Or they’ll know of my pain
Only an adolescent with
A heart brutally slain.
Sleep overcomes me
And I begin dreaming
Yet it’s all a lie
I feel like screaming.
My voice is gone
Along with my heart
I listen to sad songs
Feeling sadly torn apart.
What do I do now?
I deserve to be the one who’s free
But I’ve lost all control
Because he’s over me.
I know it’s depressing
But now I really don’t care
Not everyone can be happy
Of sadness, I’ve had more than my share.
I wake and think of you
And everything we shared
Then Life hits me in the face
Now
You
Don’t
Care
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
When I am alone, I feel I am as unreachable as the inky bottom of the ocean.
When I am praised, I glow inside and out with rosy pink satisfaction.
When I am depressed, I believe that only I can pull myself up from the dark blue swirls in my mind.
When I am loved, the best of me comes out and waves a bright, sunny hello.
When I am angry, I cannot suppress a cloud of black and red rage from emerging.
When I am me, I do not know what I can create or destruct.
I do not know why I can vary so differently,
As the shades of a multi-hued rainbow,
But I am who I am.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:39 PM UTC
When I am alone, I feel I am as unreachable as the inky bottom of the ocean.
When I am praised, I glow inside and out with rosy pink satisfaction.
When I am depressed, I believe that only I can pull myself up from the dark blue swirls in my mind.
When I am loved, the best of me comes out and waves a bright, sunny hello.
When I am angry, I cannot suppress a cloud of black and red rage from emerging.
When I am me, I do not know what I can create or destruct.
I do not know why I can vary so differently,
As the shades of a multi-hued rainbow,
But I am who I am.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:39 PM UTC
The Life of a Work of Art
The life of a work of art
Begins with an idea,
Just like any mother conceives the idea
Of new life inside her swelling tummy.
Conception; the piece is put together in one’s mind
Detail by detail, until it is formed enough to meet its body; a canvas.
Through rough pencil outlines,
The art is born
From the first touch of pencil to canvas.
The soul and body of the art become welded together.
But, life has begun since the moment of conception.
The piece is fragile and easily destructible;
A newborn.
It must be touched gently, as its lines grow darker and thicker
And the picture begins to change.
An infant, the general outlines are visible.
As a toddler, the artwork is growing from a skeletal sketch
To a generally-shaded drawing.
A child, the piece is maturing quickly.
Paint brush strokes define basic colors and shapes.
A pubescent teen, the art is nearly finished.
Matted, it becomes a young adult.
Signed, framed, and mounted,
The photo is an adult.
It remains on its mount ‘til the paint cracks and yellows
And deceases after a natural disaster
Extinguishes the life of a work of art.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
Place your right hand
Over your left breast.
Don’t you feel that?
It’s called Purpose.
It beats every second
To keep you alive and well for a reason;
A purpose.
The reason may not be clear right now.
In fact, mud may be clearer.
But, the dirt has to settle from
The slippery water
Eventually.
You were born
To live.
Don’t cut the purpose short.
Let it go out on its own
When it is time.
So live.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
My heart pushes on,
Although my body and mind cry out in detest.
My ribs confine it,
Like a circular room with bare, barred walls.
My own physical self was designed
To keep my heart away from the outside world.
It remains trapped by a bony cage
And shielded by ivory skin.
There are no windows
Or cracks in the shutters.
This was God’s design;
The heart is not meant to be given to another, I guess.
Only He could reveal it,
If my body were to be popped open like a locket.
No dim rays of hope-filled sunlight
Peek in through the bars of my bones.
I am to keep my heart locked away forever as I sit,
Listening to the clock keep ticking.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
The lights are too bright
The chair is too hard
The pants are too tight
You’re being too annoying
This pen hurts my hand too much
You’re never there for me
I’m not that mean.
I’m just
P
M
Sing.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
THE LIAR
I thought you were different
But really,
You’re just like everyone else.
Don’t you have any sense of compassion or guilt?
Anything at all?
I don’t know how you can sleep at night
Knowing who you really are.
You keep acting happier than before
And I can’t take it any more.
I’m ready to get rid of you
For everything you’ve done to me.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
‘Learning’
Seriously, people?
How can you expect Us
To remember the first fifty digits of Pi
The theory stating the circumference
Of a circle embedded in a square
Divided by this
Or that
Times the velocity of E=MC something?
I don’t remember
Nor care
Of the event that changed the history
Of the coffee bean
Or how to throw a lacrosse ball.
We know you don’t recall either
So let’s get real here.
Teach me something worthwhile.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC