megan-8 - Hello Poetry

I wonder if the moon feels like we take it for granted. Maybe we are the ones responsible for the waxing and the waning of the moon. We must learn of our responsibility. It is the same for people It is a constant cycle of convincing ourselves we are something people want to see-- luminous like the orb that lights the night. And then convincing ourselves we are only a crescent of a person-- not worth the space allotted to us. Just like the moon. It is not nature that controls its cycle. We are born from the moon. It is more human than we are comfortable admitting. Waning is genetic and there is no cure.

0

May 12, 2013

May 12, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC

We are children of the night

I wonder if the moon feels like we take it for granted. Maybe we are the ones responsible for the waxing and the waning of the moon. We must learn of our responsibility. It is the same for people It is a constant cycle of convincing ourselves we are something people want to see-- luminous like the orb that lights the night. And then convincing ourselves we are only a crescent of a person-- not worth the space allotted to us. Just like the moon. It is not nature that controls its cycle. We are born from the moon. It is more human than we are comfortable admitting. Waning is genetic and there is no cure.

17

Every time I look around Sedona, Arizona I cannot deny the existence of God. He's helped me see the beauty in everything & I think that is what I adore most about Him. I see it in how the sun stretches its fingers into every nook and cranny the mountains try to hide. I bet even the mountains feel alive within the warmth of the sun's grasp. I hear it in the tiny pebbles rolling downstream or down crevices to new homes. I see it in new beginnings. I think I'd like to get married in Sedona because it's the first place I've ever fallen in love with. And the only place I still believe in beauty. In simplicity and purity. And in forgiveness. It's the only place I can go to find myself and when I sit within the valley of two red rocked mountains that could pass as monuments, I feel closest to God. And whether that is because I feel like I'm nestled between the powerful palms of an endearing God or because whenever I see the sun reflect off those red washed walls I realize God didn't just paint these rocks for me, they are his masterpieces as well. Where he too can seek refuge when the rest of the world gets a little stormy. It is in Sedona, Arizona (population 10,000) where I realize I truly am made in God's image.

0

Mar 29, 2013

Mar 29, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC

Paradise is where you feel the most at home.

Every time I look around Sedona, Arizona I cannot deny the existence of God. He's helped me see the beauty in everything & I think that is what I adore most about Him. I see it in how the sun stretches its fingers into every nook and cranny the mountains try to hide. I bet even the mountains feel alive within the warmth of the sun's grasp. I hear it in the tiny pebbles rolling downstream or down crevices to new homes. I see it in new beginnings. I think I'd like to get married in Sedona because it's the first place I've ever fallen in love with. And the only place I still believe in beauty. In simplicity and purity. And in forgiveness. It's the only place I can go to find myself and when I sit within the valley of two red rocked mountains that could pass as monuments, I feel closest to God. And whether that is because I feel like I'm nestled between the powerful palms of an endearing God or because whenever I see the sun reflect off those red washed walls I realize God didn't just paint these rocks for me, they are his masterpieces as well. Where he too can seek refuge when the rest of the world gets a little stormy. It is in Sedona, Arizona (population 10,000) where I realize I truly am made in God's image.

36

There’s a girl. She lives somewhere between Dayton and the rusty, old tracks of Georgia. Lips like cinnamon, hips like sugar. She smells like October but shines like summer. But underneath, she’s calloused and bruised. Surviving off an ***** that only pumps blue, matching the hues of her arms. You can read them like a book, they tell her story. Her tears could fill the empty keg her cheating boyfriend drinks from, as she cries her galactic eyes to sleep. She awakes, breathes easy, but stays. As if to prove she has heart, by letting him break it. As if to prove he loves her, by letting him break her.

0

Feb 19, 2013

Feb 19, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC

the last chapter of her story

There’s a girl. She lives somewhere between Dayton and the rusty, old tracks of Georgia. Lips like cinnamon, hips like sugar. She smells like October but shines like summer. But underneath, she’s calloused and bruised. Surviving off an ***** that only pumps blue, matching the hues of her arms. You can read them like a book, they tell her story. Her tears could fill the empty keg her cheating boyfriend drinks from, as she cries her galactic eyes to sleep. She awakes, breathes easy, but stays. As if to prove she has heart, by letting him break it. As if to prove he loves her, by letting him break her.

19

This is not a poem a legend, or myth. This is my story. This is my rescue. This is my redemption. This is a young girl who wore her shame like chains it never set her free. Tugging at her clothes trying to get the tightness to stop mocking her. Wanting to be any body but herself, be in any body but her own. She wore approval like static electricity, she always c l u n g to it. Even if it never came. She’d scrawl the words SOME DAY in black ink down her arms so when the other kid’s words caused her to hang her head she’d look down and remember some day is one day closer. some day is just one day closer. She learned to carry herself like a flagpole, it’s all she had out there. Until she met Him. He who canoed about her arteries and wrote books about the things she couldn’t see in herself. He who gave her someday, everyday. Who showed her how to break the chains of shame. Who told her the reason her clothes might feel a little too tight, was because they couldn’t stand to be too far away from her. She stopped hearing others insults and only felt His love. His name? His name is Jesus. He saved me from myself. I think we poets know best that these words inside of us can either be anchors or they can be life vests. Choose wisely. Someone else’s life could depend on it.

0

Feb 16, 2013

Feb 16, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC

thirsty for redemption:

This is not a poem a legend, or myth. This is my story. This is my rescue. This is my redemption. This is a young girl who wore her shame like chains it never set her free. Tugging at her clothes trying to get the tightness to stop mocking her. Wanting to be any body but herself, be in any body but her own. She wore approval like static electricity, she always c l u n g to it. Even if it never came. She’d scrawl the words SOME DAY in black ink down her arms so when the other kid’s words caused her to hang her head she’d look down and remember some day is one day closer. some day is just one day closer. She learned to carry herself like a flagpole, it’s all she had out there. Until she met Him. He who canoed about her arteries and wrote books about the things she couldn’t see in herself. He who gave her someday, everyday. Who showed her how to break the chains of shame. Who told her the reason her clothes might feel a little too tight, was because they couldn’t stand to be too far away from her. She stopped hearing others insults and only felt His love. His name? His name is Jesus. He saved me from myself. I think we poets know best that these words inside of us can either be anchors or they can be life vests. Choose wisely. Someone else’s life could depend on it.

49

They tell me, I don’t know what pain feels like. Because of the color of my skin and the numbers that roll in on my daddy’s paycheck— I must not know what pain feels like. Any maybe that’s true but then again, maybe it’s not. Cause things— they’re rough all over. I come home and my heart rips apart when I see my mother’s broken heart has finally escaped from her eyes in the form of tears. Because she only has three fifths of her senses so she’s different, not normal, damaged. But enough of the Helen Keller jokes. To you, she’s just some dead lady with a problem with her eyes or ears or something but to me, I see part of Helen Keller in my mother. She was born with Usher’s Syndrome. One part hearing loss, one part vision loss. She had her first pair of hearing aids by the time she was five and by the time she was thirty— she realized there was something wrong with her eyes, too. There’s nothing more we can do for you, doctors urged. Filling her with empty promises and false hope with every, “Maybe it won’t get any worse.” We know now, that’s not the case. They’ve put an expiration date on her vision five years, ten if we’re lucky. But still my mother remains unbroken. I mean she has her bad days, but most of them are good. That’s why my definition of strong, begins with the word “Mom.” But no Mom, you’re not alone. At every 11:11 I wish for it all to go away or at least slow down so you have a chance to catch up. I utter midnight prayers, face decorated in the light cast off from my alarm clock whispering I plead “Dear God, what did she do wrong?” But I’m not angry anymore and I don’t blame Him. I know she of all people, can handle it. But if it were me I would have cracked years ago. But if the day is to come, blind due to genetic defect, I’ll be here. I’ll proudly grab her hand in public, just to give her walking stick a rest. I’ll be the guide dog she hopes she never needs. I’ll take her hands and help her trace out the outlines of every sight she never got to see but really wanted to. I’ll put her palms over the heartbeat of the grandchild she may never have the pleasure of seeing. I’ll spend forever divulging every detail of my loving husbands face she may never have meet. I won’t let her miss out. And on those days where it’s too much to handle, I’ll be the whisper— smooth like the wind, delicate like honey. “Don’t give up, you’ve made it this far. Plus you look really old, you don’t want to see that anyway.”

0

Feb 12, 2013

Feb 12, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC

I'[m] h[o][m]e

They tell me, I don’t know what pain feels like. Because of the color of my skin and the numbers that roll in on my daddy’s paycheck— I must not know what pain feels like. Any maybe that’s true but then again, maybe it’s not. Cause things— they’re rough all over. I come home and my heart rips apart when I see my mother’s broken heart has finally escaped from her eyes in the form of tears. Because she only has three fifths of her senses so she’s different, not normal, damaged. But enough of the Helen Keller jokes. To you, she’s just some dead lady with a problem with her eyes or ears or something but to me, I see part of Helen Keller in my mother. She was born with Usher’s Syndrome. One part hearing loss, one part vision loss. She had her first pair of hearing aids by the time she was five and by the time she was thirty— she realized there was something wrong with her eyes, too. There’s nothing more we can do for you, doctors urged. Filling her with empty promises and false hope with every, “Maybe it won’t get any worse.” We know now, that’s not the case. They’ve put an expiration date on her vision five years, ten if we’re lucky. But still my mother remains unbroken. I mean she has her bad days, but most of them are good. That’s why my definition of strong, begins with the word “Mom.” But no Mom, you’re not alone. At every 11:11 I wish for it all to go away or at least slow down so you have a chance to catch up. I utter midnight prayers, face decorated in the light cast off from my alarm clock whispering I plead “Dear God, what did she do wrong?” But I’m not angry anymore and I don’t blame Him. I know she of all people, can handle it. But if it were me I would have cracked years ago. But if the day is to come, blind due to genetic defect, I’ll be here. I’ll proudly grab her hand in public, just to give her walking stick a rest. I’ll be the guide dog she hopes she never needs. I’ll take her hands and help her trace out the outlines of every sight she never got to see but really wanted to. I’ll put her palms over the heartbeat of the grandchild she may never have the pleasure of seeing. I’ll spend forever divulging every detail of my loving husbands face she may never have meet. I won’t let her miss out. And on those days where it’s too much to handle, I’ll be the whisper— smooth like the wind, delicate like honey. “Don’t give up, you’ve made it this far. Plus you look really old, you don’t want to see that anyway.”

69

I’m in love with the memory of you. We tap dance on the neural connections that connect my brain, to my soul. Tapity- tap- tap. But only on those hot summer nights. You kisses taste like moonshine and your arms in mine, make music. Tapity-tap-tap. I fell for you where brown eyes met blue. Where first date dinners met third date kisses. Where camouflage and bullets met pearls and lipstick. Where moon-lit dances met tear stained airports. And where friendly fire, met you. I got that tapity-tap-tap on my door, I fell to the floor and now here I am, tapity-tap-tapin’ my shoes tryin’ to get back to you. But death marches to its own beat, tapity-tap-tap If there is reincarnation, I’m jealous other people get to have you in their lives, and I don’t anymore. My heartbeat echoes, tapity… tap… …tap. Tapity…. tap… tap.

0

Feb 8, 2013

Feb 8, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC

The Story of Us (A work in progress)

I’m in love with the memory of you. We tap dance on the neural connections that connect my brain, to my soul. Tapity- tap- tap. But only on those hot summer nights. You kisses taste like moonshine and your arms in mine, make music. Tapity-tap-tap. I fell for you where brown eyes met blue. Where first date dinners met third date kisses. Where camouflage and bullets met pearls and lipstick. Where moon-lit dances met tear stained airports. And where friendly fire, met you. I got that tapity-tap-tap on my door, I fell to the floor and now here I am, tapity-tap-tapin’ my shoes tryin’ to get back to you. But death marches to its own beat, tapity-tap-tap If there is reincarnation, I’m jealous other people get to have you in their lives, and I don’t anymore. My heartbeat echoes, tapity… tap… …tap. Tapity…. tap… tap.

37

I spent the morning tossing a Frisbee, and my worries along with it. I soon found myself swinging to the sound of forgetfulness and nostalgia. My childhood memories danced at my feet, but with out stretched arms, only my fingertips graced their excellence. The touch sent the memories of crawdad fishing and tree forts tingling up my spine. The me I used to be boiled in my blood. When wet grass and free time were enough. When I wore scrapped elbows as jewelry and the fresh wood scent decorated my body as perfume. Back when my dog was my best friend and I had yet to realize that wasn’t okay. “Ignorance is bliss,” they chime. I know. I don’t want bliss. I want life. Brutally beautiful, if you let it.

0

Feb 5, 2013

Feb 5, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC

Thanks, nostalgia

I spent the morning tossing a Frisbee, and my worries along with it. I soon found myself swinging to the sound of forgetfulness and nostalgia. My childhood memories danced at my feet, but with out stretched arms, only my fingertips graced their excellence. The touch sent the memories of crawdad fishing and tree forts tingling up my spine. The me I used to be boiled in my blood. When wet grass and free time were enough. When I wore scrapped elbows as jewelry and the fresh wood scent decorated my body as perfume. Back when my dog was my best friend and I had yet to realize that wasn’t okay. “Ignorance is bliss,” they chime. I know. I don’t want bliss. I want life. Brutally beautiful, if you let it.

18

They say, that the sun sets best in Arizona. The only reason I believed them was because the first time we met you leaned in close, crooked smile and all pointed to the horizon ablaze and whispered "I painted that for you." I've downloaded it's image on my retinas, so even in the pangs of night I know it's warmth. Through my search, I have noted: That everything is more beautiful when it burns. That the sparks of a first kiss will be forever envious of the pulsating rays of the sun. And that love isn't beautiful until it is set on fire. You taught me that. We spent our time getting lost in each others horizons. Staying up late, chain smoking and getting drunk on Walt Whitman until morning dripped from the skyline. And like the rainbow that serves as a reminder of God's mercy, the sunset is a reminder of yours. You just couldn't let me burn any longer.

0

Feb 3, 2013

Feb 3, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC

You paint my skies

They say, that the sun sets best in Arizona. The only reason I believed them was because the first time we met you leaned in close, crooked smile and all pointed to the horizon ablaze and whispered "I painted that for you." I've downloaded it's image on my retinas, so even in the pangs of night I know it's warmth. Through my search, I have noted: That everything is more beautiful when it burns. That the sparks of a first kiss will be forever envious of the pulsating rays of the sun. And that love isn't beautiful until it is set on fire. You taught me that. We spent our time getting lost in each others horizons. Staying up late, chain smoking and getting drunk on Walt Whitman until morning dripped from the skyline. And like the rainbow that serves as a reminder of God's mercy, the sunset is a reminder of yours. You just couldn't let me burn any longer.

24

I wonder what everyone else was feeling when you were rushed to the hospital. Again. Eyes rolled, mouths scoffed, unsurprised. Like the only place it made sense for you to be was locked up or six feet under. I managed to stitch together the fragmented sentences I had heard and fill the spaces in between with what I could infer. Two sole letters reverberated off the cave walls of my mind: OD, OD, OD. An anthem I fell asleep to where I dreamed of a bedroom for remission to make love to your addictions. Those two letters became five before I could grasp the finality. D E A T H. I was shattered. The pieces of myself, I’ve retrieved off the floor and put them together in the puzzle of my life where I have no place for drugs to fit. I think about you more often than anyone is willing to believe. When you took your first sip of alcohol, a mixed drink of one part peer pressure and another part curiosity, did you know you’d end up drinking your life away? Driving and drinking don’t go together- but maybe no one ever told you that. But soon, it wasn’t enough. You felt the need to get high to get through the day, but did you hear your life start to break and our hearts along with it? You always had a ‘go big or go home’ mentality, I just wish you hadn’t applied it to drugs. “Drugs don’t **** has become the war cry. I know. They do so much more than that. They rip families apart steal honor from fathers, children from mothers, and life from anyone. You huff and you puff and soon you become the big bad wolf who brings the house d o w n I still hold you in the highest respect and I can’t make that point clear enough. You never stopped fighting. That monkey on your back didn’t live an easy life.

0

Feb 3, 2013

Feb 3, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC

Dear Remission, you're too late now.

I wonder what everyone else was feeling when you were rushed to the hospital. Again. Eyes rolled, mouths scoffed, unsurprised. Like the only place it made sense for you to be was locked up or six feet under. I managed to stitch together the fragmented sentences I had heard and fill the spaces in between with what I could infer. Two sole letters reverberated off the cave walls of my mind: OD, OD, OD. An anthem I fell asleep to where I dreamed of a bedroom for remission to make love to your addictions. Those two letters became five before I could grasp the finality. D E A T H. I was shattered. The pieces of myself, I’ve retrieved off the floor and put them together in the puzzle of my life where I have no place for drugs to fit. I think about you more often than anyone is willing to believe. When you took your first sip of alcohol, a mixed drink of one part peer pressure and another part curiosity, did you know you’d end up drinking your life away? Driving and drinking don’t go together- but maybe no one ever told you that. But soon, it wasn’t enough. You felt the need to get high to get through the day, but did you hear your life start to break and our hearts along with it? You always had a ‘go big or go home’ mentality, I just wish you hadn’t applied it to drugs. “Drugs don’t **** has become the war cry. I know. They do so much more than that. They rip families apart steal honor from fathers, children from mothers, and life from anyone. You huff and you puff and soon you become the big bad wolf who brings the house d o w n I still hold you in the highest respect and I can’t make that point clear enough. You never stopped fighting. That monkey on your back didn’t live an easy life.

61

Whoever said that the eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never seen a set of poetic hands. As they tumbled syllables into songs like waterfalls roaring a powerful “Hallelujah.” Hands drenched in blood decorated with scrapes and bruises grasping for memories long repressed. Memories only brought back when their pen grazes the inviting blank canvas before them. 2 o’clock in the morning crying to no one in particular as their heart slowly but however, beautifully bleeds onto the canvas, crinkled around the edges because it’s taken awhile to get these words out. Whoever said that they eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never gotten a glimpse of the complexity that is a poet’s mind. Minds crammed with the hurts of yesterday, the dreams of tomorrow, and the change they wish to bring about. Different experiences call certain memories from subconscious to conscious as their dreams slow dance with doubt. And their ideas for change are wasted on ears filled with fingers of ignorance. Still they press on, in a beautifully, depressing battle of desire versus dejection. Hoping a single phrase will strike the ear of someone who needed to hear it. And touch the heart of someone who needed to feel it. Because the potential to reach the unwilling, the unable, and the unwanted, is worth the uphill struggle. Whoever said that they eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never experienced the power of a poetic heart. Hearts strong with experience, but cautious because of it. The unrelenting beat as it is used, stepped on, and thrown away. Do you hear it? Ringing in your ears. Unable to escape from it’s heartbreaking melody of “what ifs” and “if onlys.” Hiding behind walls of regret and instances of deceit where it was once stolen. 911 was called, but they were cardiac arrested for allowing this break in to occur. An accessory to their own pain. Whoever said that the eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never met a poet.

0

Feb 2, 2013

Feb 2, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC

Whoever said

Whoever said that the eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never seen a set of poetic hands. As they tumbled syllables into songs like waterfalls roaring a powerful “Hallelujah.” Hands drenched in blood decorated with scrapes and bruises grasping for memories long repressed. Memories only brought back when their pen grazes the inviting blank canvas before them. 2 o’clock in the morning crying to no one in particular as their heart slowly but however, beautifully bleeds onto the canvas, crinkled around the edges because it’s taken awhile to get these words out. Whoever said that they eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never gotten a glimpse of the complexity that is a poet’s mind. Minds crammed with the hurts of yesterday, the dreams of tomorrow, and the change they wish to bring about. Different experiences call certain memories from subconscious to conscious as their dreams slow dance with doubt. And their ideas for change are wasted on ears filled with fingers of ignorance. Still they press on, in a beautifully, depressing battle of desire versus dejection. Hoping a single phrase will strike the ear of someone who needed to hear it. And touch the heart of someone who needed to feel it. Because the potential to reach the unwilling, the unable, and the unwanted, is worth the uphill struggle. Whoever said that they eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never experienced the power of a poetic heart. Hearts strong with experience, but cautious because of it. The unrelenting beat as it is used, stepped on, and thrown away. Do you hear it? Ringing in your ears. Unable to escape from it’s heartbreaking melody of “what ifs” and “if onlys.” Hiding behind walls of regret and instances of deceit where it was once stolen. 911 was called, but they were cardiac arrested for allowing this break in to occur. An accessory to their own pain. Whoever said that the eyes are the windows to the soul had obviously never met a poet.

79