A polished rock that said "live"

slipped through my fingers

and shattered on the ground in front of me,

like accidentally ignoring good advice,

like growing up and realizing

that to live

is not a right,

but a privalege --

and opportunity

to rip away the swingset chains

that have tied us to our pasts

with knots

that take 7 billion prayers

to untie,

to open up

and set us free --

free to skip stones on clean water,

to superglue broken rocks together

like puzzle pieces

encouraging Life.

But when it's put back together

the cracks are still visible,

with gaps

from pieces of ourselves we've left behind.

Don't give up on that rock,

or else you're no better

than the ground that broke it,

that broke you.

A rock your strength

will never stop telling you,

"Live."

I've got LOVE scrawled on my knuckles,
HOPE written in my palm,
so that every time I write,
every time I tremble,
every time I raise my hand or my fist,
I am reminded
that there is still goodness in this world to hold onto.

If I punch someone,
LOVE would be imprinted on my cheek.
When I shake someone's hand,
I am giving them more than just a meaningless gesture.

In all that we do
with our hands,
there is room for improvement --
in every wave,
in every brush of the hair,
in every high five or fist bump
lies an opportunity to give more.
Take it.

Take your fistful of HOPE
and throw it at a stranger,
like a snowball
on the first snow of winter.
Then, reach out your hand
and help them onto their feet
as a reminder
that the winter may be cold,
but spring brings the sun.
And goodness always seems to show up
and knock on your door,
when you need to hear from it most.

So when the world
has suckerpunched you in the heart
with hate,
with lack of light,
I pray you remember
that HOPE and LOVE
are just an arms length away.

To be fair,
it's not entirely your fault.
I tell you it is in the heat of the shouting,
but really,
I don't know how to expect any different.

The rope that ties us together
is frozen
and ready to shatter,
yet we keep pulling
and fighting
and hurting ourselves
in this relentless game of tug of war.

The problem was never
not caring enough --
in fact,
the problem is caring too much,
which is far more dangerous.
We have risen so high together
that falling now
is not an option.
But I would give anything
to feel the wind on my face.

We complete each other,
but individual brokenness
is hard to shake
because once you break
it has to be your job to return to whole.
I've put my cracks and shards of glass into your hands,
and so started the bleeding...
and so left the amount of pressure needed
to make it stop.

I knew it was a bad idea,
I knew I shouldn’t have gone,
but there I was,
in a sea of people, strangers;
rivers of red cups filled with questionability
and a smell as strong as gasoline
radiating from everyone’s breath.
Generic high school drinking party,
Generic mistakes to be made.

Then, a face,
older than the rest.
He gave me a red cup.
I accepted, I consumed,
and then I was consumed.
The people wearing different colors –
blurry red, blue, black –
they disappeared.

Hours of pitch black darkness,
waking up a mess,
not knowing what hit me,
not knowing who hit me.

All that was left were the reminders,
black and blue on thighs and neck,
blood, and blood not sent from the moon.

Now, the aftermath,
but nothing adds up;
1 + 1 does not equal 2 anymore.
Everything equals what happened,
everything equals red streaks against skin,
the blue blanket I woke up in.

But that's the point of it all, isn't it?
Life may sucker-punch you in the heart,
make you bleed,
but the world will never run out of band-aids,
always someone will be there.

And I will be all right.

So far
I have not done a thing right.
Right now
I am treading water
in the ocean of my own ****-ups.
I am tired
of regrets being brought into existence
and having nowhere else to go
but my damaged thoughts.
So far
I haven't learned enough.
So far
in all the autumns that have past
I have not risen
enough.