Love
Not merely confined to the faces within the safe walls of your own, small
World.
Love stretched
Rather to accommodate the new faces of everyday life -
Yet never wearing out. Though, met with a certain few that frustrate with expressions bearing the weight of strife -
The grey-haired man in queue to pay for groceries with a quarrelsome wife;
The raven-haired girl with eyes to reflect them;
Love in turn smiles
A contagious smile. Though, rarely returned with even a slightest grin.
You see, to some, smiling is an expression of love, and perhaps not everyone is filled with so much that it has no choice but to overflow, like sweet honey from a cup.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:48 PM UTC
I can't tell which I despise more
to be swept over and pulled under
by the violent currents of sadness, of anger, of frustation, of confusion -
by every single emotion
some I can't even give a name to
until my lungs are **** near full of water
or to float on the river
and not even feel the water lapping at my skin
and not even take notice of the cool and the blue of this liquid mirror under me
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
I find myself wanting to run (away), both figuratively
and literally.
My feet carry me through all-too-familiar places;
at a steady, slow pace
in hopes that
it will stop my mind from dragging me to strange ones;
(ones I might not be able to find my way back from)
in a frenzied, impulsive motion.
But again, this effort is in vain.
My feet slow to a walk, then to a stop.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
I look into your eyes and they hide absolutely nothing
in all their shades of
brown.
They're not the type one could get lost or drown in ;
so tell me why
I find myself wanting to dive in still
- and head first -
when I can see the bottom
so ******
clearly
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
I will not bow.
To these demons
of depression, of anxiety, of emptiness, of isolation,
of self-destruction.
I will not cower.
To agree or disagree; to break or simply to bend,
that is my only power.
To remind myself that I have the upper hand.
(For all those years ago, the battle had been fought, and for us victory has been bought)
I will not be trampled underfoot.
It's true that my God, in a grave, was put -
but it is also, that He rose again.
And for that reason, in death
I will not remain.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC
The world calls my Passion
'human',
but my God, how It rages
whether you give yourself over to It or not;
sooner or later
It begins to twist; It mutates
and its true form is revealed
- oh It is much more inhuman,
and oh, how much more severely the world is mistaken -
than anyone could have
imagined.
Passion, It bares its fangs through its hellish
ear-to-ear grin, saliva dripping off its teeth in the most
hypnotic, animalistic fashion.
Those who place themselves in between its very jaws
(and they are Most),
caring only that this demon of theirs
has enough to eat, a full belly:
an appeased appetite(monstrous as it is)
they are left to starve,
a decaying image.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:41 AM UTC
It's hard fighting for what you want,
and it's hard fighting for the greater good;
but fighting against what your very self desires,
your heart's desires,
in all its destructive, frothing rawness;
for the greatest good?
"Impossible"
resounds, and it ricochets off the walls of my mind into a series of never-ending; ear-splitting; soul-dividing screams.
Yet, another voice, still and small
- one that most of the world is deaf to -
drowns out entirely all else
the moment I turn my ears to it.
And it belongs to
you.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
Yellow seeps into my field of vision from the edges. A subtle evil ...
and I know
what's coming next. My heart picks up speed like my adrenaline-addicted brother's car does on a free road. Perspiration forms on the small of my back;
accompanied by odd flashes of heat in a room cold enough that most are wearing jackets - or well, wish they had brought one.
And suddenly I find myself on the ground, hiding away in some musty closet(which is not all that bad a place to be, really)
still as can be
so as not to aggravate the monster, the one beginning to stir in me.
A growing tornado, spinning,
searching for a subject on which its all-consuming discord may be unleashed upon.
Myself.
I begin to think of the comfort I crave so immensely in this moment,
and how it can possibly be acquired;
of the satisfaction of tearing up an entire pile of paper(popping bubble wrap won't do this time);
or stabbing something - anything - with a knife, until whatever is left is beyond recognition;
or striking the surface in front of me until my knuckles turn black and blue, and red;
I know I must stop thinking now.
So instead, I try to purge the bloodthirsty-ness through my tears,
and cries to God to help dissolve my fears.
I am so
tired.
The turmoil within calms a little after some time - it has to appear so on the outside, anyway.
I cry and beg and pray that I will not return to the land from which I have been brought such a long way, though I know my efforts are not necessary.
For I have deep confidence that I will not,
and that morning will come.
For His faithfulness reaches as high as the skies,
and His peace transcends.
Trust me when I say that on Wednesday night, the storm which transpired seems to have lasted a mere millisecond compared to one moment spent in His embrace.
I realize then for the thousandth time:
He is the true source, the only source, of comfort.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 8:13 AM UTC
I'm glad this morning wasn't your last,
nor the last time
you fell. Last month? I don't exactly
Like to keep in mind when. Not even in the back of it.
Though that little purple streak on your forehead that I see
It stares at me
From the corner of my eyes. But I know you've gone through, and more importantly, pulled through
significantly worse things, grandma.
I see it, that gentle strength,
in the kindness of your eyes, your lovely smile. Heck,
my friends say you're the cutest granny they've ever met.
Everyone can see it. Your radiance, beauty.
I see it, ten years
ago, when you used to run around the house chasing my brat of a brother. With that cane I realize now that we needed more of. I see it, in the stories
told, whether in first or third person.
Two of them when I hear, the tears I can't
hold. Four of them when we hear, we're all spurred
To follow.
First; the little girl that saw
heads off from their shoulders, and also
no reason to scream.
War is a terrible thing.
Second; the young woman, stronger than a team
Of men. Teaching other young lasses in an all-girl school
to fight for their dreams.
Third; the widow, victim not
merely of the torment of heartbreak, of a life severed too soon, upon your rugged self, though
never defining you.
But also of the undeserved consequences - in the form of those coveting the hand of the Queen, the one whose kingdom they had broken into.
Fourth, the mother of two. Best of the best;
I see where mum got it from. I pray He'll help me live up to that,
I know He will. Ten years down the road.
I see it.
I see it. I see, grandma.
Even as soon, that little purple streak fades, and one day -
all the rest of you with it -
We will always see you, just as He above does.
I do pray too, that you won't fall again
any time soon.
I love you, always.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC