Poetry is everywhere.
Poetry is color,
it is a knowing glance,
an admiring gaze,
a pair of tear-filled eyes.
Poetry is the slow ascending of tension and a wooden thrill ride
on the stickiest day of the year.
It is the surprised cry of a toothless child
when she discovers her laughing mother
for the umpteenth time
as she plays an infinite game of peek-a-boo.
Poetry is what we see
hear
and experience
conceived, spat out, wrapped up
onto a folded piece
of notebook paper...
handed to a friend;
the gift of a new perspective.
Poetry is everywhere.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 10:49 PM UTC
Writing hides inside of me, in my innermost thoughts and ideas. Many times it is never found, or never searched for.
Writing hides in my sister's eyes. There is so much there, but fear keeps it hidden, even from me. Especially from me.
Writing hides in the unsaid things between two friends who have more in common than either would like to admit.
Writing hides in the beauty we take for granted and forget to appreciate day after day.
Writing hides itself well in the space between God and man, and the distress it causes them both.
Writing hides in regret and the deep longing for simpler times it arouses.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:44 AM UTC
Pink was your eyes
and the way I was willingly lost in them
Pink was the way your hands held me
before they tossed me aside
Pink was our tears
melting into laughter
as the ice around us did the same
Now, pink is the unwanted freedom
that I desperately need
Pink is a blemish on my memory
which my simple forgetfulness cannot erase
The old pink held your promises,
the new pink washed them away,
watched them break
Pink was never enough.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:44 AM UTC
I don’t think I’m gonna go to L.A. anymore.
The city streets have had their fun
Abusing my feet when I tried to run
No longer will you hold me down
I’m free and flying from this town
Though some things will always be left unsaid
And the letters I wrote in love, unread
Hearing your pain confirms what I know:
Any hope of a fix, I must forgo
The ten and the two may be a lonely sight
But racing to your door tonight
Would be struggling against the safest gray
I'll stay away. I'll stay away.
You had my heart and you’ve kept a piece
But this pain, I know, will someday cease
Today I’m praying for that release
And murmuring soliloquies of perfect peace
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
Two of them, pulling
A new experience? Not really.
But new, altogether, in a way
to me.
One is dominating and effective,
the other a gentle beckoning
And it's obvious how this battle
will turn out.
Both so close,
yet so far away.
A cliche
but so relevent here
You both caress, both feel, both know.
Each in your own way
Both of which I crave
Let's twist this structured reality and burn our self-imposed circumstances
We are more than this.
Or, at least, we could be.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:42 AM UTC
It was you who helped me find the pink
and together we discovered what love
could be, then feared it was all a lie.
Your words would bring flashbacks of a father
I still had yet to forgive.
And with you, sometimes, I felt that familiar pain.
The worst part was not the pain.
It wasn’t even the way the pink
changed; I could forgive
you for that. The worst part was losing love
just like I did from my father.
The both of you succeeded in convincing me of a lie.
For one pure summer, you didn’t tell a lie.
Together we felt peace, not pain.
You helped me forget the abuse of my father
and we blossomed, beautiful shakes of pink
Nothing could make me forget that love
and I wish every day there was nothing to forgive.
But don’t worry, darling, you I can forgive.
I’ll pretend the “I never loved you” was a lie;
I’ll remember what I thought was love
and dismiss the endless pain.
Today I reflect on the pink
and realize the one who hurt us first was my father.
I’ve found what I need in my Heavenly Father.
He’s given me the strength to forgive
and to restore my colors back to pink.
He gives me rest and lets me lie
back against Him, killing my pain
and covering me in limitless love.
Despite what I’ve said, I believe we had love.
But now I’ve found what I was missing in my Father.
He wants to heal you, to stop the pain,
but you have to let go and forgive.
Don’t believe the hopeless lie
That we can’t, once again, be pink.
I am made pink, and worthy of love.
I’ll reject the lie and embrace my Father.
He’s helped me forgive and said I’ll never relive the pain.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
I always liked the back door best. Everything outside the front door was beautiful; a forty-foot tall tree I couldn’t identify choked by a vine that bloomed with purple flowers in the spring that reminded me of mom’s perfume and tiny little pokey things that would stick to your clothes in the fall and the cul-de-sac with an island in the middle that was perfect for 5am-stargazing. But there was also a paved road, a satellite television dish, a blue car parked out front. But walking out the back door was walking into a different world. You were almost immediately met with a barrier of trees which seemed to only allow entry to me and my little sister. We thrived in our world of pretense, sometimes for a precious moment forgetting the hell between our front door and our back door. In those hours we were princesses, pirates, adventurers, and we were free.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:40 AM UTC