Isn’t there such a thrill
in knowing
I don’t have to listen to anyone
or do what they say
including myself?
“Stay in bed!” I say
“Lie down, sleep, and only sleep-“
and yet
here I am.

There's beauty, a peace
in discovering
tiny steps

Satisfaction in the small goals,
the close goalposts
the list of checkmarks

There is peace
In lowering the expectations
but not the goal
In lessening the pressure, the blame, that
cycle of shame
So that even if the speed slows,
it never fully stops moving

Progress
Healing
is not linear

Tiny steps
That never quit
Will overcome every setback,
Every rewind,
Every mistake
Tiny steps are what keep us moving
And faith is what takes us to the end.

I know in my heart
I have already crossed the Rubicon
And my course is set, with no way to return
The river only flows downhill
And I am on it, for better or for worse
Come hell or high water

Even if it drags me to the depths, smothers me
My body will be taken to the mouth of the river
To the doorstep of the sea

Every morning I am made to sign
To decide again, to recommit
Allowing myself to fall
I see the ports and docks along the shore, but know
My heart is already in the sea
There is no decision
But to follow.

Everything we love, we will lose
The deeper it binds, the deeper it cuts
Should we not love a sunrise
because it is lost once the sun sets?
Look away from the beauty
So we are not as chilled, being left
in the dark, cold and alone?

No,
I can assure you
It is far better to see and be burned
than to never feel warmth at all.

I think I am too analytical for love.
Which is contrary, startlingly so, considering
How deeply I have loved before.

I think it may be a fluke, the times I've thought I've loved
They say thinking you have something is sometimes
The same as having it: to be true,
It hurts the same once it's gone.

But maybe I am a fool,
Fooling myself in these fools errands

Searching for something I cannot allow myself to have
I am too analytical, I focus on the small things
To make excuses, and find reasons for dismissal
Simultaneously fighting for reasons
To love, and to let go
Because I'm not sure where the path goes
And the uncertainty is terrifying.

So I analyze, and pick apart
And keep it all to myself
Hoping and praying but with no end to the sentence because
I don't even know what I'm asking for.

For things to work out -
To continue? To end? To end in heartbreak, or in relief?
To last in treachery, through deceit, to lead
To peace? If I'm hopeful.

If anyone could break through my programming
Like waking a robot back to life, bringing sentience and emotion
Where it was once quiet and dark inside
I'd hope it's you.
Because there's a chance it could be, and
I've found no one else who could.
I don't even know what's there, anymore,
What could be brought to light?

Maybe you would only wake me to hurt me,
Or to use me
Maybe I should be willing to risk it to see the light at all

I am in a world I don't understand
And I am scared
But I'm willing to let you try.

This moment is everything in the universe
can’t you see?
nothing exists out of this
room, this conversation, this moment
is all there is and all there will ever be

this time, this second, is outside of time:
I can’t fathom leaving this room
I can’t fathom leaving this minute
this is all there is

I wish that I could bottle it
to keep it safe, to watch it back
rewinding the tape again and again

I know time is passing. It must be, of course-
but I can’t understand how time could let this go
I don’t understand how the world could let this pass
instead of pausing in this scene
until all the LEDs in the tv burn out

It is incomprehensibly sad, to know
this cannot stay.
Even as we sit here
it is ending
don’t you find the ending sad, that this will never happen again?
There really is no rewind-
grasping time is like holding water
it leaves droplets clinging to my skin
but the moment itself is gone.

Isn’t it unbearable?
But doesn’t it mean we must
cherish even more so,
relentless pursue the life we have
for the spare moments we get?

To relentlessly pursue that which we love:
overcoming the fear of loss, in loss of time
to **** the marrow from the bone
is this not, in the end, the highest aim
of a life well-lived?

I must be red-green colorblind
To miss the signs I'm driving by
Pressing the gas as the road gets slicker
Rain and pain splattering onto the windshield
I can see the pain coming
If I breathe too deep, I feel the stitch in my side
I'm getting weaker
I'm too drawn in to fight, to pull away
I want to stay,
I want you to stay -

I can see the crash and ambulance lights up ahead
Minutes before they arrive
911 is on speed-dial, the bystanders on standby

Maybe I'll hold my breath
Just to watch the world burn
Moving into the smoke
Breathing deeper for the hell of it

Straining to hear whispers,
A last cry, or a word
Maybe it's a death rattle
Maybe it's a yell for her

Maybe I've tried enough, I know it'll hurt
Maybe my only chance
Is to watch the world burn.

Maybe the only thing keeping me alive
Is to hope that one day,
I'll walk through the flames
I'll be glad I had tried.

Isn't it beautiful
How the most vivid colors and scenes
Can be created from
Only the black and white on a page?
Movement, harmonies, blends of hues
Described with only memories wished from a writer to you.

Why is it
That I give others the power to hurt me
So quickly
Before I'm sure they won't?

I watch myself do it,
Like when the horror movie turns towards the basement
And as they walk down the stairs
I scream for them to stop,
And yet that is simply the way the story goes.

To avoid it is to stop playing the movie altogether
And while I know what is coming
I know I need to simply let it play
To see the end at all.

The beauty of a sunset and sunrise
Is the wash of night that wipes everything clean.
The long hours between:
When you can't see your hand before your eyes
You can't see the mistakes left lying at your feet
And in the golden dawn
Even broken glass and aging decay looks beautiful.

The silhouette of mountain ranges glow softly in the distance
Across the vast expanse...
In the morning, you can start walking in any direction,
Until you decide you've gone far enough.

At your feet the ground is new, untouched
Undisturbed tracks of animals and others unseen
Living around you, before you
So you can try to walk again
To live again
Like them.

Maybe this time
With not so many mistakes left in your tracks.
And if not -
There is always the next morning.

It is still surprising how painful it is
The ripping of roots, nested deep in fertile soil
Leaving great gaps under the surface
Pulling up clumps which refuse to let go

Is there a purpose to repeating this pain?
Why nest so deeply in a place,
Under the faint glow of a time clock
Its ticking pervading every dream
Knowing there will be an end?

Walking through my favorite city
Cobblestones, brick, pastry scents, coffee mugs clinking
I see the end of the street approaching
And I do not slow
I do not know if I can, even if I wanted to.

As I turn the corner
I leave it all behind,
This new street is quiet, and foreign, and dim.
But as I walk, I notice more
And my roots take hold again anyway.

Through every city, down every street
The journey holds its meaning in
What you see, what you hear,
The moments and memories
Are not meant to last,
But to be remembered.

We ache to find the right words,
the right way to say
something which cannot be said right at all
because once it is spoken,
it makes everything wrong
the world becomes broken
and nothing can
become right again.

They struggle to contain
The feelings inside bottles
Messages to throw in the ocean, iced over
They skitter with a clatter
Scattered snow-covered glasses
A pirate's best haven
Maybe one of these corks popped
Leads straight to my heart

Through monsters and ruins
Sharp claws and fanged vices
Struggling up to the surface,
Finding purchase in the darkness

Messages in bottles
Voices to be unheard
Some are my own
But the labels are too worn
Best leave them closed, and wait
For the ice to thaw under her.

I remember waking up on Saturday mornings
to watch the reruns
of my favorite tv shows,
or staying up late at night
so I didn’t have to record
the finale I was waiting on,
for what felt like
years.

It’s the same feeling I get now
putting my makeup on
picking what colors to wear,
checking the weather
when I reread our texts, thinking ahead
hoping against hope
this one will go better.

Every date is a rerun
a replay, the same night
by a different name
and the heartbreak feels
the same
as my stomach twists and I realize
you, again, saw this
as just a game.

Every chance
I let hope fly
like an arrow loosed from a quiver
I’ve always had an itchy trigger finger
aiming for love,
though I miss every time.

And though it hurts,
and I’m bandaged and bruised
from weeks and years
of valentine’s blues
I dust it off and try again;
one of these days,
my original will air.

I'm proud of myself
For seeing the truth.

Like excavating a great ruin
An archeologist of my own pain,
The more I dig up the more it hurts
Yet I know exactly where the answers lie.

Underneath the dirt and grime
The dust that clogs my lungs and throat
Until I can't even tell if I'm crying, because
My face is numb in the cold

My fingertips are cracked and
Bleeding, it's
Shattering
I'm losing rhythm

And yet now,
I'm on a peaceful plane ride home.
The white noise and warmth is soothing
As I relax into the padded seat.

I left a lot of bodies under the rubble.
But I am done grieving
For what I've found died a long time ago.

They say it makes you stronger
Like a callus, like a muscle
Turning the soft into something tougher
Hardening the weak, reinforcing the strong

I think what doesn't **** you,
It simply scars you
It is what you learn from your wounds, if anything at all
Which changes you:
To not touch the hot stove
To not reach for the sharp edge
So you are prepared for what comes next.

I'm waiting for certainty
Surety, that moment of stillness
When everything stops,
You can't take your eyes off them
And you just know the world is right, again.

Isn't that what they say?
Something new should feel this way
Shouldn't feel this way
Uncertain, unsteady, questioning, flustered questions
Piquing my anxiety, my mind racing
Yet my unrelenting heart still skips a beat
Tormenting, unfaithful feelings
I wish I could be sure, before I want more
But something in my head is disconnected, and it stutters my steps
I'm stuttering in my words

I don't know how to explain myself
Speaking, critiquing
Saying my own words back at me
I wish I could feel the things I'm waiting for
So I could stop waiting, and instead
Just feel.

The quiet tapping of small bare feet echos from the hall,
as the door creaks open and
the smell of pancakes follow.

It's the holiday season, and later
cookies with prints from children's hands
will be baking in the oven.

The dog will need to be bathed
after rolling in the mud and snow outside
but dad will do it for me, while the kids laugh.

Morning kisses and
"see you later" hugs and
"I love you" looks and
all the little things
lying around the house
create a living scrapbook of what our family has made,
how we have grown
to fill this house, and make it our home.

I know I’m “sentimental.”
At least, that’s what I’ve coined it
because it sounds better to a stranger than
to more truthfully admit, I’m annoying.

I talk too much and I ramble,
I’m emotional instead of careful.
I leave my wounds out in the open
and call my friends when I’m hurting,

and it drives them away.

Yes, it does.
Because despite what we’ve told ourselves
we don’t love “openness” that much.

Outside of a seminar, or textbook,
it’s like
opening a wound: the problem is,
it’s for me and not for you.
It’s aid is for me to choose

And some can’t handle the sight of blood.
As the stitches open, one by one,
those who stay let the music play
and let me bleed until it’s done.

Surgeons of the heart, they are:
hearts, minds, and souls most of all,
healed not by the works of their own hands
but by grace and patience in God’s plan.

To those whose prayers are answered with struggle: the pain is meant to be
part of the wonder.

When they reach out a hand, take it -
but not to bind their wounds and scrapes,
instead be patient and respect their space
so they can learn at their own pace
the truth behind both sorrow
and strength.

We all reap the seeds we sow
and this I pray for those who don’t know:
Share the love you wish you had
and someone, I promise,
will soon take your hand.

When I die
I want my ashes to be emptied into the sea
so I may touch every shore
and reach into every place I’ve ever been.
I want no grave
let me rest in the entire world.

If you only knew
how the thought of you
makes the blood buzz in my veins
like alcohol, the liquid courage I need
to speak your name
and yet
this empty room only echoes it back to me.

I don't understand how it must feel to have never questioned your own existence.

I stand at the sink, hot water scalding my skin as I scrub dried food from plates and forks.

I don't understand how it must feel to have never asked yourself the question, to have weighed the good and the waste in each hand.

The yard outside the window is frozen, painted in white, not a single breeze today. Maybe it'll finally melt the ice on the driveway.

Does everyone have moments of living that don't feel alive?

I dry the dishes.

I've come home / I hate it here
It looks the same / exactly as terrifying
I find it comforting / similar to a straight jacket
The stillness / it's suffocating

Hands reach for hugs / unwanted
Eyes search for meaning / we look away
Colors stream around us / they're dull, shades of gray

Why do I want to run away?

I can feel fire at my fingertips
the heat of all I want to do
it coalesces before me
forging myself into who I want to be
finally seeing clearly,
wiping clean the fogged mirror:
WHO I AM.

I am everything I’ve ever wanted to be
and still, I am not yet all that I’ve dreamed to be

that hope for more
is the best part.

Three raps on the door
Why not four?
Who comes to knock at this hour? they say
But is it late, or early?

What are you wearing?
How is the weather?
It doesn’t matter much, if you’re under a stoop
you will be sheltered from the rain
Unless, of course,
the sky is clear
But if sunlight or the moon is at your back,
I have no clue.

But you do.

Who comes to knock? they say
Who are you?

Are you merely the name you are called to?
If that, then what else are you?
Besides the names, the words,
the thoughts
others hold inside their heads

Refracted reflections of
fleeting conversations,
like passing notes
Only mere simple impressions
of the very person you spend every day,
every hour,
every minute walking alongside.

The knock comes again,
at your door.
Who are you?

I miss who I used to think I was
When I loved myself
In ignorant bliss
Of my flaws, and the mistakes I had yet to make.

As I've grown older, I've come to know myself better
And I can't say if I've liked the change.
But I'm stuck here with me, for better or for worse
So we will bear the growing pains

From old me, to new me
Pretending to shift while staying the same
Fooling myself with the same name
Unable to decipher these blaming games

Who or what is responsible for how I turned out
I don't know
But I know I'm not who I thought I'd be, at twenty-three
At least I still have hope that time will make up the difference.

Words can always carry a message
To me, from me,
Even once the messenger is gone.
Stories and legends will always persist,
Not to judge but to inspire
Not to compare struggle, but instead to lift higher
Those few and many stuck in despair
On the shoulders of those who came before.

Because if they did it,
I can do it too.
And one day,
I'll be a story
For the next unredeemed who sits in this chair
Discouraged, alone, and tired
And tomorrow, like me,
They'll no longer be sitting there.

I have strived in earnest
at many an affectation,
played my hand, and found
the cards were not dealt in my favor.

I have considered myself an intellectual,
esteemed, yet trying to be
frugal in my pride
I shied away from arrogance
and found I lacked the spine, or the eyes
to see what words of mine
could stand alone
beside the shoulders of greats.

This is not to be self-disparaging;
on the contrary, it is quite limiting
to believe you have no limits
for when the results come in, and the chips are down
who can be blamed but yourself?

No, I do not fancy myself
some seer of politics or
wordsmith of old,
I am too impatient
to sift the extent of knowledge in my hands,
I dump in the whole bag of flour
mix, and hope for the best.

So here I sit:
enjoying the feeling
of words running over my tongue
and within the bones of my fingers,
the scratch of a pen
beside the sound of birds
in the early morning.

To many, it is not much
but to me, it is enough
to consider myself a
simple poet
with nothing to share
but my condolences
for the ones who cannot create freely.

I go through life with pebbles in my pockets
Walking alone through the storms with my raincoat on
Sand sinks between my toes on beaches,
A cool breeze flows against my cheek under forest trees
And my jacket hangs down with the weight of rocks
In those big wide pockets at my sides.

I pull them out, hold them in my palm
Pick out a piece of seaglass to admire in the sunlight
Set aside one perfectly smooth;
I'll send it skipping on the next lake I find.

Some are beautiful,
Some come with cold dirt that reminds me exactly where it once laid,
Some are scuffed from days, years, of scrapes and hits
And I no longer remember why I picked them up at all.

But as I walk,
Across regions and eons and ranges
I keep some and toss some
Though I'm always adding more.

The memories come with me,
And day after day,
I do my best
To leave the heaviest stones in the miles behind
I try keep my pockets light.

Would you tell me -
I know you’ll have to let go sometime,
because eventually, we all must
but would you, tell me
you won’t let me go
just so I could hear it, one time
and believe you
for now?

Among wretched hearts
and with gnashing of teeth-
no, I don't know why I can't fall asleep
I'm twisted in sheets
aching for love
knowing no one will come for me.

As the flowers died
I remembered the joy, shared between us
I was surprised, and it almost shocked you
How happy the small gesture made me.

As the flowers wilted
I wished for new ones to replace them
As if replacing them would instead heal them
And bring the colors back fresh and new.

As the flowers died
I didn't clean them up
I left the petals where they fell,
Lit candles to cover the sickly sweet, rotting smell
Because I was the only one who could smell them anyway.
There really weren't any flowers there.

I can taste the salt in my mouth
Sand crunching between grinding teeth
Rocks pressed into my skin, my palms
Grit under my fingernails
Sweat dripping from my brow
Underneath the beating sun

Beating out into the ground
Old past dreams, burying them alive

Waiting to see if they will sprout to life
Or stay under the surface, decomposing
Poisoning with their debris, seeping into my blood
Like a deep infection
Growing roots I must pull out like weeds
Only to bury again

Until it takes
In this infertile soil
Finally growing a scraggly, ugly thing
That will bloom after enduring storms,
Being battered by the waves of violent seas

The wolves will come to dig it up,
Rooting noses in the dust

Keep them at the threshold,
Keep the door shut

Give it time to let it bloom
Trust in the time in takes
To make something truly strong
You must endure.