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sharyn Feb 2014
Rain falls heavily.
She curses under her breath.
Only to learn
of its life-bringing depth.

She is drenched—
in mercy,
in love,
in grace.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014
sharyn Feb 2014
I have a love for sitting in busy places where people pass by,
where faces and phases are masked and disguised
with smiles that lie
and words of "I'm fine."

My head fills with wonder of their trials and their triumphs,
of the times they've suffered and the moments they've succumbed
to pressures, temptations,
and occasions that needed patience.

I gaze with awe, curious of their stories,
their wins and defeats, and pains that they carried.
Lives so beautifully woven by God's graceful fingers,
my heart they've stolen, I doubt they even figure.

Lovely people, they don't even know.
It breaks my heart that their value's unknown
to family, friends,
and those with whom they need to make amends.

Most of all, they don't know themselves
of their strength, their power,
of their bravery and valor.

So here's to you, you reading this line:
Pursue, push through, take this as a sign.
Believe it or not, you are perfectly designed.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014 (latest edit: February 25, 2014)
sharyn Feb 2014
Inadequacy.
Anything and everything
was never enough.
Stopped trying, gave it all up.
She emptied, He overflowed.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014 (last edit: March 13, 2014)
Tanka.
sharyn Feb 2014
A muted mile,
treading feet.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Battered body,
troubles and trials.
One step, two
another distance conquered.
Closer to the finish line,
yet a thousand more ahead.
Bruised and broken,
carried with Immaculate Hands
misty eyes and tears of relief
Love has overcome.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014
In-class writing. // Prompt: Write a poem using words that sound pleasing to the class (a list we created together).
sharyn Feb 2014
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
after our six-hour drive.
Sounds of traffic outside my window
remind me I'm no longer home.
Our house, not home, was empty—
filled with silence and awkward glances.
Even father stared at the wooden floors
stained with scratches whose art matched those
of the masterpieces our neighborly spiders
have conjured up in the corners of our lonely abode.

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
after our six-year stay.
Clinking silverware, stomping feet, morning chaos
Home.

*—S.C., January 29, 2014
In-class writing. // Prompt: Create a new poem using the first line of Frank O'Hara's "The Day Lady Died."

— The End —