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Kasey Dec 2012
There comes a beautiful point where you let go.
Words become insignificant and blur together like tongues of fire or grains of sand.
People stop being people. They stand idle and demanding  like traffic signs.
Everyday-- always there-- expecting you to understand their stupendous.
Once you've let go of individuality, and embrace all of this,
You'll rub your calloused hands together, now feeling-less from all those years of hanging on.
You'll wrap your mind around your neck like a plain scarf, ready to walk
Out into the freezing insanity that is apathy.
And it'll all be beautiful again.
Kasey Dec 2012
Do you even know what I would say
If every word became a flower?
My dear I'd have a rosebush to give to you.
Roses of every color.
Red for the I love yous
Yellow for the jokes, even the ones that were only funny because you said them.
Especially those ones.
Pink for all the honesty we shared:
About our future,
What we wanted,
What we thought.
White, though, for the perfect moments when we lay side-by-side
And told each other things no one else ever knew.
And learned things about ourselves we never imagined were possible.
Every feeling would sit safely in the leaves:
Our hands touched,
Our eyes met,
Our hearts beat together for the first time.
The flowers would be worth the thorns...
The tears.
Their beauty worth the pain.
And I promise our roses will never die.
Kasey Oct 2012
So many people writing poetry
So many people full of ****.
The readers, who feel and yearn for those feelings on the page,
And skim and search for them day after day
Know nothing of what beauty is.
Poetry is ******* for the heart.
Poets, the stars, are just doing their part.
Images of men at desks, using tears as ink
“This woman makes me feel what I can’t think!
Her beauty, her smile, it’s too much to bear!
Like flowers and rivers and fields of pink
My heart just swells and explodes in her presence!”
A man sits at a table
Thinking of what people think
Imagining what people want to hear
Words on a page, not feeling at all.
Poets are the politicians of the writing community.
Kasey Oct 2012
I have prayed
I have prayed and have cried
Each day I've fruitlessly fallen and tried
Again to get back up
And it seems the only truth I know
There is no truth in me
Redemption-less I seem to be
Like a born blind man squinting to see
Something transparent anyways.
My imperfections will define me
regulate my life
So those with less drive and strife
Cut through their struggles like a knife
While repetitively I beat mine
With a weak fist.
Was there a message I missed?
Is my downfall my own fault?
Will success ever opt to be mine?
Or
Am I doomed forever to fail.
Kasey Oct 2012
How truly wondrous are his works
He painted us the stars
He formed us out of dust and clay
And knows best who we are

The sky, the Earth and all of time
His marvelous creation.
And though we often stumble and stray
steadfast is His patience.

His love amplifies our spirits
Though we will never be deserving
He's immeasurably worthy of our praise
Yet still teaches us by serving.

It's Him who cares for each of us
And, like the stranded sheep
He'll search us out and care for us
So no climb is to steep.

All things, through Him, are possible
Through Him I find my worth
The Lord is greater than any gold
He knows, He made the Earth.
Kasey Oct 2012
We’re all born with our eyes closed to what we learn to be the world.
Our sounds begin with crying, our fingers bunched and curled.
We’re taught our eyes should open and our hands should follow suit.
Our lips we’re told to quiet, our lungs we’re taught to mute.
We’re taught rules are to be followed, enforced calmly with intent.
Our freedoms and our thoughts are forced and every feeling bent.
We grow into what we are made of and what we’re meant to be
These people born with their eyes closed now teaching us to see.
A potluck set of people and we’re told to pick just one
Forever and for always our individuality is undone
Over time it comes back around and soon we have to teach
Our own little entrées that bunched up hands can’t reach
Closed eyes are not able to watch and loud mouths don’t ever listen
We bend and break and force our little dishes until they glisten.
We age and rot and give up on what our hearts once dreamed
And dying we may realize that it’s not what it had seemed.
Saint Peter looks inside his book and asks us how we are
And crying with our eyes closed we ask our lucky stars
Why never in our lives we questioned what we were
Here we are at God’s front door and we finally concur
Hands bunched up and fingers curled, eyes shut and kept closed tightly
The world we lived on and left for here was horrid and unsightly.
Yet every morning we woke up and our eyes opened to the sun
We've been quietly observing a world that’s vastly overdone.
Kasey Oct 2012
I’m broken and I’m falling.
Not even sure where from.
Right now my heart is beating
Because no end has come
I’m waiting for the ending
Still watching for the sign
When I hit the ground
It’ll hit that you’re not mine.
I’m falling and I caused it.
No one pushed me off this ledge
I knew no one would catch me
I just aimed to hit the hedge.
I fell and now I'm breaking
It's no one's fault but mine
And like this broken record
I'll hit the ground and I'll be fine.
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