To love is to paint
delicately dragging your brush across a canvas
being deliberate with every flick of your wrist
every stroke gentle and planned
and when you make a mistake, you don't throw away the whole canvas
no, you pick up your brush and paint a happier picture over it

I've been afraid to paint for some time now.
I always jump into a painting with a happy picture in mind
but my end result is always the same
groggy. messy. not good enough.
maybe I'm just not destined to be a painter

When will the mornings feel different?
When your name doesn’t linger in my first thought,
When the light through the blinds doesn’t whisper your face,
And I rise without the weight of your absence?

When will the nights turn soft with forgetting?
When the pillow cradles only sleep—
Not the ghost of your laughter, your voice in my ear,
Not the echo of all that could never be?

When will the music play untainted,
A melody not stitched with your shadow?
When will I stop wondering if you’d love this song,
If its rhythm might stir something deep in you,
And silence the urge to send it your way?

When will the sight of your favorite team
Be just a score, a game, a fleeting moment—
Not a trigger pulling me back
To the sidelines of my unspoken longing?

When will the world stop speaking your name
In everything, in everyone, in places unknown?
When will my heart stop aching for answers
That it knows will never come?

Maybe the day will come.
Or maybe it never will.

It’s not that I want you gone from my head—
But I want you closer, real, mine.
I love you, I miss you,
And I know I always will.

I had forgotten the language of fire,
How words could burn and rise, inspire.
For years, my heart lay cold and still,
A hushed and empty, barren hill.

But then he came, with a quiet spark,
A light in the void, a song in the dark.
His presence a key, unlocking the door,
To parts of myself I’d lost before.

He stirred the ashes, he fanned the flame,
Awakening passions I could not name.
Poems poured forth, creativity bloomed,
A garden of love where shadows loomed.

Not since sixteen had I loved this way,
So fiercely alive, so willing to stay.
He reminded me of what it could be,
To love without fear, to simply be free.

But now he is gone, his light withdrawn,
And the fire he lit flickers at dawn.
My pen grows heavy, my heart turns cold,
As the warmth he gave begins to fold.

He was my muse, my radiant sun,
The source of the art my soul had spun.
Now every verse feels brittle and thin,
A hollow echo of what might have been.

Still, I thank him for the time he gave,
For waking the parts I couldn’t save.
Though the flame may fade, the embers remain,
A whisper of love, a trace of pain.

The Blue Heron waits
In the water's flow,
Against the wind's blow,
Still and unafraid;
At peace.

The Butterfly soars
Free in the breeze
Beside moss
Through the trees;
Strong wings.

The river runs deep
Next to small streams
Against the current
Blue Heron stands
Content, and waiting
                for the Butterfly to land.

©KSS 4/2024

I started building my house when I was five

Copying the words some pastor told me to say

I already had the foundation laid for me

But that was when it turned to concrete

Or so I thought



Slowly but surely the walls rose,

But they were built of twisted metal

Firm at first

But slowly it crumbles.



The roof is built, supposed to feel safe

But at this point it smothers me

In a house that is not my own

It is full of lies and deceit

It does not feel safe.



Then somewhere along the time,  

The hammers building turn to sledgehammers

Ripping down my walls

Revealing the carnage through the haze

I walk out, and walk away.



The freedom feels strange.

New words on my lips,

Ones I shudder to think of now.

I knew it wouldn’t last

But I wasn’t ready to return



But then music.

A single album, two friends.

Help lead me back down the path to the wreckage of my house

I know it is not all bad.

An intact siding here, a piece of tile there.

I collect the pieces I can still use

And I move to another spot.

I start to rebuild.



I still have questions about my faith, I’ll admit.

Sometimes I forget I’m not the only one I can depend on anymore.

But that’s normal.

I’m learning.

And I have people with me,

Visiting me and helping me rebuild.

I won’t lie and say it wasn’t hard.

But I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

In my journey of faith.