Forgive me, Father who has shapéd me,
Forgive me, for I know not what You do.
Such knowledge is reservéd still for Thee,
While I, left blind, can naught but cry for You.
Forgive me, Father who has blesséd me,
Forgive me, for I know not what I do.
I know not how to act or speak or be,
And, try as I might, I fall short of You.
Forgive me, Father who has guided me,
Forgive me, for I know not what to do.
And, like a fool, I so oft refuse Thee.
Despite this, You remain faithful and true.
For like a flower, I am fading fast.
But You, O God, You will not fade, but last.

Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry
I’m sorry that i’m what you want
Please, oh please, just let me slip by
I have made your heart hurt enough.
     I can’t be the one that you love.

Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry
I’m sorry that i couldn’t stay
Please, oh please, just tell me a lie
Say you never loved me anyway.
     Forget all our yesterdays.

Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry
I’m sorry for all my mistakes
Please, oh please, just dry those blue eyes
I lack the courage it takes.
     What needs to be said, i’m too scared to say.

Don’t cry for me. Please, don’t cry.
     I am not worth your tears.

silently puppeteering,
ceaselessly poised under our noses and over our heads,
most visible when crawling by,
and too often moving much too fast.
time is an imposing figure,
intimidating and all too present.

yet it is also just the ticking of a clock,
seconds between minutes,
minutes between hours.
clouds slowly drifting across the sky,
the rising of the sun and moon,
generous and unhampered.

and is it fair to give it our burdens?
to use it as a pocket in which we neatly tuck away our problems?
time is not our enemy,
but neither is it our friend.
we ask it to heal all wounds
but time has no cures and no sympathy.
time has no intentions.

and so we ponder and debate and ask it for favors,
and time watches and says nothing.

an object in motion tends to stay in motion.
an object at rest tends to stay at rest.
my thoughts spiral
and i cannot get out of bed.

hello, poetry
i've missed you.
what worlds have you created since i've been away?
Who have you comforted,
who have you met?
tell them hello from me.
thank you, poetry
i hope to see you again soon.

but eventually, all the metaphors fall apart
and come to nothing
like paper dissolving in water
fanciful words dissolving with it
and without romanticized phrases
and rose-tinted writings
there is only unembellished truth

music is a sigh of relief in a world that holds its breath

the game has ended
all the cards in their places
still, i am alone

i finally remembered what it was
to feel happy and content
instead of just "not sad"
the sun comes around more often
sticks around longer
it paints my world in colors more beautiful
than those it gives the sky because suddenly,
when my friends laugh , i can too
and i am loud again
and instead of walking, i skip
suddenly, instead of dreading the day,
i wake up to moments full of potential
and i worry less about every single thing i do
suddenly, being with people
is as invigorating as it used to be
once upon a time ago.
of course, the rain will come again
and the sun will leave with summer
and it is then, especially, that i will hurt again
but suddenly, i have hope.

it scares me;
i am constantly terrified of how fast it comes and goes,
how slow it comes and goes,
how much power it holds.

i can think
of no better way to describe it but to call it sand
i try to focus on each grain, each second, and
it just slips right from my hand.

it makes me
want to do everything available to me,
want to do nothing but crumple and weep,
want to stop and go unseen.

i am scared.
i am so scared of what it will bring,
so scared, because time is the one thing
that i can never keep.

why must sadness always be my muse?
why can i only use words
to fill my own emptiness?
i want to write about the sunbeams that dance on my wall
about how my baby sister laughs
about the stars and my passions
i want to get so carried away in the love and beauty i know that i forget how to write and my words become nonsense and my sentences run on and on and on until they overflow
i want kindness and joy to emanate from my work
i want my cheeks to ache from smiling
instead of my eyes burning from tears
i want to change
i want to heal

i am no poet.
my words are far too clumsy
my metaphors are feebly founded
my sentences go on and on
never reaching the point
i wish i had graceful words
and beautiful metaphors
and masterfully crafted sentences
that would work together
to frame my feelings in the perfect way
i wish that i could articulate the emotions that wage wars in my mind
i wish i could do them justice.
and i try
but this is all there is
and i'm sorry.

we are not meant to be whole
we are not meant to have the same pieces
we are not meant to be puzzles
we are meant to be people

light and loose
bending and flowing and spreading
beautiful,
thoughtful,
meaningless,
my watercolor words.

my mother used to
tell me that i keep my heart
hidden in my head

so i will take your hand
and you will take mine
and we will stand.
sometimes still and sometimes grieving,
sometimes silent, sometimes numb -
there is a time to mourn and a time to heal.
We will recover kindness from the debris
not to **** with,
but to bring life.
gather the things we've lost and rebuild
again
and again
and again.
yes, we will all die one day
but on all the other days, we will not.

i hate her.
i hate the way she talks,
the way it's always the wrong thing,
the way her voice is always uneven.
i hate the way she slouches;
is it apathy she feels, or the weight of the world?
she can never seem to decide.
i hate that she isn't smarter,
that she isn't calmer,
that she isn't motivated,
that she isn't kind.
i hate that she trusts too much or too little.
i hate that she makes everything a big deal.
i hate her fickleness.
i hate her anger that she has no right to feel,
and the sadness she doesn't understand,
and her stupid ticks
and stupid fights
and stupid feelings.
i hate that she likes feeling sad
just to feel anything at all.
i hate her cliche words.
i hate her clumsiness.
i hate that she loves attention.
i hate that she tries to drag everyone into her problems,
ignoring the way they're hurting,
in some sort of warped cry for help.
i hate that she likes the way fire feels against her skin,
but most of all,
i hate that she can still face herself in the mirror day after day.

my candle ignites
and the wax begins to wane
i, too, start to melt

For days flooded with sun and days shining with rain
For suffocating joy and blinding pain
For hallways left empty, for rooms full of laughter
For dark raging storms and the light that comes after
For the pounding music that leaves pounding aches
For frustration and accidents and every mistake
For walls that tell stories and the stories not told
For jokes between friends that never grow old
For bright blues of the day and dark blacks of the night
For little things, big things, and in-between things alike
For those brought together and those torn apart
For stars in our eyes and love in our hearts.

my mother once said,
"brown eyes are so beautiful,
but they're so sad, too."

I look into a mirror
And though i don’t always like what i see,
There’s still a flicker in my eyes
And i’m glad that i am me.

the sun is setting,
colors sprawled across the sky.
ends hold beauty, too.

first love seems so real

second's just for fun

third love's quite the prettiest

(fourth never sees the sun)

For the days flooded with sun and the ones shining with rain
For the suffocating joy and the blinding pain
For hallways left empty and rooms full of laughter
For the dark raging storm and the light that comes after
For the pounding music that leaves pounding aches
For frustration and accidents and all our mistakes
For walls that tell stories and stories untold
For jokes between friends that never grow old
For brilliant blues and for blacks of the night
For the little things and the big things and all things alike
For these concepts and happenings we’ve all seen before
Here is your requiem, that you won’t be ignored.

Happiness is thick air,
Full of anticipation;
A silvery autumn breeze
Skating across the textured sky;
Laughter bouncing between friends,
Escaping briefly to bring smiles to the faces of onlookers.
Nostalgia is when the moon is bright,
So the whole family steps outside to see it;
Driving at daybreak,
Hues of pink and gold and orange painting one’s vision;
Not quite catching fireflies,
But reaching for them anyway.
Anger is a rainy day,
When the sun still glimmers through the dark clouds;
An eyelash perched delicately on someone’s cheek,
Wiped away without a wish being made;
The pounding of music,
As it shakes bones and rattles hearts.
Sadness is a freezing winter night,
When not even breaths can be kept secret;
The dim glow of streetlamps at the glimmer of dawn,
Flickering before going out altogether until night falls again;
The last whisper of color in the air,
In the unrecognized moment that day warps into night and the world is almost still.
Emotions are yours to define.

A sickness rises from my stomach
Through my chest, into my throat, making a mess of me
(i refuse to let it spill from my mouth)
Sometimes it’s all i can feel
It becomes a comfort, and one of many fears
I am distressed that i may be obvious, pesky, and ignored
But my heart fell from my sleeve long ago
And my own feet tread over it.
Silence burns in my throat and compresses my chest
Words that refuse to be said haunt my thoughts
The ringing in my ears is ever-present;
Nothing is loud enough, and silence too often deafens me
Harshness radiates from me, unwanted, but always lingering
My existence is much too clumsy.
My vanity vies for attention (and is abrasively rebuked by heart and mind)
Heart and mind are always at war, united only against me
Laughing used to help,
But it’s not that funny anymore
It hurts.
I don’t like being sick
(but i don’t try to get better).