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  Apr 13 Hannah Jones
Madisen Kuhn
your parents
have wounds
they kept hidden
while pushing you
on the swing

now you’re seventeen
squeezing your eyes
shut and daydreaming
about all the ways
you will be better

you can create an ocean
between
once you’ve collected
enough freedom
to dig the pit
(it is reminiscent
of the one in your stomach)

the bridges
are yours to build
you don’t have to be
an island
but you don’t have to be
a punching bag

their wounds are
not an excuse
they do not get
to point to theirs
while brandishing
***** fingernails to
draw blood

but while their teeth
are sharp and their
eyes are dark
their broken skin shows
there’s still a beating
heart
in there
somewhere

maybe when i’m older
i’ll be brave enough
to reach out
and try
to feel it beat
feel free to help me come up with a title for this
Hannah Jones Apr 12
I feel Your pain--
or do You feel mine?
Confusion's where
hearts intertwine:
which Lover starts,
which Lover ends?
The depth of feeling
all depends
on how raw I
let myself be
when my better
half I ne'er see.
But I can trust
that He is near.
He promised me
He'd be right here
if I were to
but say His name.
He knows that love
is not a game,
but rather, it
is sustenance
for the poor heart
that hardly gets
attention. He, too,
feels alone
when every heart
should be a home
for He who knows it.
He who shares
His everything.
No one compares
to this devoted,
loving Man.
And yet I never
understand
why  m y  heart cannot
comprehend
the act of letting
His love in.
I  k n o w  He loves me.
K n o w  He cares.
So why do I
feel unaware
of how my own heart
can respond?
He wants more for me,
far beyond
my expectations.
So, dear one,
turn constantly
toward the Son
who sees your passion,
feels your pain,
your isolation,
and your strain
to be accepted.
To be heard.
He hangs on
your every word.
He is  h e r e.
H e  feels alone.
When He knocks,
open your home.
Dine with Him.
Pour out your-self.
Take your heart
off of the shelf,
dust it off,
and lay it there.
He'll present His
sacred, bare,
most wounded muscle.
His own, too,
has been neglected.
What to do?
Feel His pain--
yours, too, combine.
Healing's where
hearts intertwine.
》Revelation 3:20《
Because God has a human heart.
i shouldn’t expect
to stand still
while the untethered
and unbothered
wind demonstrates
the power of the universe
as it sends the rain sideways
twisting dead and
soon to be dead leaves
in its playful vortices

because my roots
are brand new
my limbs are still
thin and delicate like
soft green saplings

for awhile
i will bend
and shake
and fear
the thunder
until i dig down
far enough
in the dirt

the bending
and the shaking
is part of
the beauty

if stay here long enough
if i let the storm soak into me
instead of letting myself
run for cover
i will become
strong and steady
like an old oak tree

i will wear my growth rings
like gold metals
proudly parading
the proof of
what i have weathered
—there will be
too many to count

and i will find myself
smiling at the sky
when the dark clouds roll in
because i am
still here
still standing
after all this time.
i don’t think my mother
ever brushed my hair.
and if she did,
i can’t remember it.
i could lie and say
that i wonder why,
but i know why.
it was because
she was busy with
my sister’s brand-new curls,
busy tending to her own
dark roots and dry ends.

when i am a mother,
i will balance my sons
and daughters on my lap
and one by one
comb through
their soft mops
with patient hands.

they will never wonder
why i left them
to sort out
the knots
on their own.

they will know
i am there
to help untangle
the predestined messes
caused by the wind,
and caused by me.
Hannah Jones Apr 6
I cling
to my vice
because it is
the only constant
in a world
that seems to move on
without me.

To stand still
is to fall back.

Back into that hole
I've been living in.
Not stuck,
for I have always
been capable
of calling for help.

But I have been called higher,
deeper,
cleaner.

My new constant
should be the knowledge
of my struggle.
I am free to refuse,
to stay still,
but at what cost?

My sanctity
will cost me
everything.

I am not
the version of myself
that will be called
holy
heroic
courageous
I am called to conversion
day, after day,
after day.

Teach me to wade.
I can't swim,
so guide me in
to my ankles
my knees
my waist

Prepare my lungs
to be submerged
for I can't stand
on dry land
much longer.

My purity
lies past the horizon
and, little by little,
I will make my way.
Striving, not perfect. Because perfection doesn't exist in this part of life. Just wait, I'll make my way to heroic virtue. Because I want to be well.

》Ezekiel 47:1-9, 12《
》John 5:1-16《
Hannah Jones Apr 4
Feeling the impact
of hard things
doesn't make me
a failure.

I
am not
the Savior.

I am a beggar
showing other beggars
where to find bread.

It's their choice to eat.
》Ephesians 4:1-3《

Missionary work is tough, often fruitless upon first glance. I am thankful for the chance to fight for love. It's hard. Loving is hard. But there's nothing else I'd rather be doing. Praise God for the tough moments that seem to last for weeks.
Hannah Jones Apr 4
Cut the pretense.
We both know
--we as in me
and myself
looking in the "I" of the beholder--
that you're scared.

Every fiber
of my being
fights against this pen
this hand
these thoughts

What to think?
Maybe forcing thought
is my form of rebellion
You can't invade
if thoughts are
my barricade
so I build
piling high rhymes
pseudanymes for good times
--words that are not my own.

What do I own?
I borrow my words,
my thoughts,
my emotions.

Do I go through the motions?
Or have I learned how to respond
as anything besides a pawn
in a game I don't even
know how to play?

Just stay.
If you're in quicksand,
sink.
If you're thirsty,
drink.

And  t h i n k.
Think for yourself.
Your mind is your weapon
as is your heart
so play your part
with courage
for you were cast for a reason.

Embrace your season.
Bear the cross
and let it be messy.
Nobody believes that it's easy
so stop resisting
and start lifting
Let yourself be strong
Let yourself be weak
Let yourself  b e.

Your strength is your presence.
Your weakness, your solitude.

"Yourself to yourself--"
too near, or too far?
Can you even determine
proximity
when reality and reverie
blend more often than not?

Be at peace.
Stop resisting.
Know where you stand,
and have a seat.

We've been waiting for you.
Prompt: resistance
Result: unnamed inner demons coming to light
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