blue chiffon roses
made from tulle
green ones made of wool
orange made from linen
purple made from flannel
but the prettiest ones of all
are the blue chiffon roses
i am not the lost sheep, for You know exactly where i am. but i am a stupid one.
i know i shouldn’t lag behind the flock or wander over to the edge of the cliff repeatedly to check how far we’ve come, but i do anyway.
i’m weak and my wool falls into my eyes so i can hardly see You, but i make only half-hearted efforts to swipe it away.
Father, i am not worthy of Your love in any way. but You give my hooves strength to keep following You.
thank You, Jesus. please, keep me close to You. I will wipe this wool from my eyes and keep stumbling after You, no matter how much it costs.
for You will be my strength and my song and my salvation.
thank You. -the blind sheep.
written December 16, 2018.
Mortality is surprising as it should be.
That you should die is not implied by life
Or pain. There is a sweater hanging in his closet.
If one were to look closely at the
neck the thread begins un
re. No one will
d. But it is his sweater and he noticed.
But it is only a sweater and really no one will notice.
It isn't what they look for.
this is my favorite pair of jeans.
they fit my legs tight and then loose and the color keeps to itself.
this is my favorite sweater.
it keeps me warm and it’s the color of moss.
i’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days, but i’ve showered between those days
i’ve been seeing you for a week but you’ve talked to your girlfriend between those days.
my neighbor threw my clothes on the floor cause he needed the dryer
so now i have to wash them all over again and i don’t have $3,
the machine ate two so i only have one left
your copy of rear window is on my floor.
your copy of monty python is on my floor.
thick hair, thick hands, thick wool,
i’m thinning but you’re only getting warmer
i’m tired of men entering my life and taking all of my heat right before winter comes.
In a merely daunting hallway
I walked what felt like miles
Hands coming out of under
Pulling my legs,
and my head
closer to the wall
trying to swallow me whole
Outside the only window
was a yellow light
dim and soft
soft as a kiss
But as I got deeper into the hall,
twas the time my eyes could see
in the dark
I found a door!
And a lady walked out of it
she walked fast
She also shed her tear
with a white wool handkerchief
that's been red from blood
I peeked inside
And what I saw,
a beautiful figure
of a young lad
hanging five inches
above the floor
Hands kept pulling me
everywhere they want to pull me to
But now they did not seem to try
to swallow me whole into the wall
It led me a to another door at the end of the hall
and you were awoken
from your dead-like sleep
And you spared me
a space on the bed
for me to sleep in
as you covered my cold flesh
with a white wool blanket
And when the sun shone behind you
"Thank you for the blanket', I say
'It was warm'
-A poem of a dream-
I had a crazy dream last night. And I decided to write a poem about it, if you're interested to know what the words really mean, feel free to contact and ask me about it!
My fear is like a worn blanket;
it keeps me bundled safe from cold,
Protects me from intruding talons
that reach to break frail bones.
Its edges are torn and tattered;
Hairy strings scratch at my throat.
I sometimes hold it all too tightly
and it wraps around my soul.
It sees that scary people scare me,
and knows that everyone is scary.
But this blanket isn’t just a haven,
the people claim it “unhealthy”.
They tear at fraying threads and seams
and I screech for them to stop.
It’s so comfortable and warm in here,
and it very rarely gets too hot.
I’ve grown accustomed to its feeling,
but the mad people do not care.
They tell me “Be more social.
The world shouldn’t scare you dear.”
But this itchy blanket shields my body
when people venture far too close.
When they try to shove ideals and dreams,
down an already suffocating throat.
Why can’t the scary people see
That this blanket is home, is mine?
They cause the frightful disrupt.
They make the blanket make me blind.
new work! please feel free to leave advice on editing!
walking in flames
- this is out of line but
I must write it
I feel it right now
I just can. not. stand blandness
I want the fire every second
but I only feel it some times -
walking in flames
but it belongs
to no shepard
a walk of ice
a walk of ice
with fire inside
to feel alive
A blant, cliché-sounding poem, interrupted, only to be felt
i long for damp gold tears
from the dying trees
for me to inhale the summer's death
and exhale the winter's birth
when the air is hangs low with drowsiness
and cinnamon settles in the wind
what more can i want-
than cold nose and warm chest-
so loosely wrapped in ochre wool?
Do you remember my wool sweater:
How the fibers used to catch on your wristwatch
And tangle themselves in the buttons on your checkered shirt?
Those loose threads said what I was too afraid to—
Don't let go;
Stay just a little longer.
Fiber after fiber, they unraveled,
Until that old wool sweater was tattered and frayed and scattered—
Softly curled strings on shirt edges and neckties,
A memory begging not to be forgotten.
Even after all this time,
I'd bet you still find specks of red on your pillowcases
Or on your jacket as you ride the bus to work.
I hope you do.