Maybe you'd be sadness
Crying tears too deep to comprehend
Ashes of your mourning
Leave winter freezing
If you were an emotion
Something says you'd be anger
Flurry of hands
An orchestra of left hooks
With a single right to play bass
If you were an emotion
Perhaps you would be happiness
A bundle of smiles
Still stroking the fires of life
How marvelous you would be
If you were an emotion
I'll place my bets on all of the above
And even then some
You're a whisper dancing on winds
Never knowing any outcome
But feeling life as it flows
If you were an emotion
I'd never be able to call you mine alone
But something still tells me
You'll always be in my heart

Daughter, you are enough.
I did not make you with
overabundance or deficiency.
Why do you treat yourself
like you're too much?
Why do you tell yourself
you're not sufficient?

You, who buried yourself
in anger, in loathing,
in misguided insecurities:
I am drawing you out
like a shoot from the earth.
Be patient. Be present.
You're still growing into
the darling flower you are meant to be.
You burst forth in colorful laughter,
in song and in dance,
painting the world with your presence.
Your body stretches toward the sky,
reaching for the Son with everything you have.
A mouthful of crooked teeth
is all the more beautiful
as you bask in the glory of existence.

My wildflower,
I did not create you to uproot yourself,
to hide under the moss or the shrub.
I made your form bold and stark,
unmistakable in My garden.
I made you a captivating blossom,
meant to flourish under My touch.

So dance in the wind.
Sing to the heavens.
Laugh with the birds and the beasts,
for you are Mine.
You are cherished.
You are enough.

I had a dream once
You were driving, your last love in the front seat.
I sat in the middle.
Your hair looked different.
Suddenly you met across the armrests
and I had to watch as you kissed passionately,
speeding down the interstate,
totally engrossed in her lips.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heartbroken.
But it wasn't real.

I had a dream once
We were in a room with a congregation
They began to pray for a fallen Knight
who passed away two years ago.
I bowed my head.
Suddenly I felt your hand on mine.
Your head was low,
you didn't look at me,
but you grasped me like a lifeline.
I placed my hand on top of yours,
and you covered that one as well,
more relaxed but still distraught.
We held each other.
We prayed together.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heart swelling.
But it wasn't real.

How can you write what you feel,
What you know,
When you don’t?
How can I keep the words from running dry
When I’m wasting time trying to squeeze them
From the inkwell of my mind?

I am not an artist,
I am a student.

And yet everything I’ve learned
Seems to fail me.
Rhymes, meter, imagery:
Why do I know these things
If I can’t use them myself?

I am not an artist,
I am an observer.

This problem is not rare
And yet as I write about not writing
I write.
My lack of a story
Is a story itself.
Thinking is the enemy
And in this head of mine
My foe flies at me relentlessly.
Sometimes a mind overflowing with thoughts
Can hurt more than an imagination run dry.
Yet the pain only fuels me.

I am not an artist,
But I could be.

how can such a beautiful person
                                               torment themselves so much?
how can love pour out for others
                                               and hate be given to yourself?