Five in the morning
feels fresh
and new,
as if
the world has
renewed itself
overnight,
and left
the early morning air
feeling
pure and untouched
against my skin,
within my lungs.

This is air
that the events of the day
have yet to fill;
it is a blank canvas,
whispering its request
to my soul:
for art to be
designed, created,
born, and painted
across its timespan.

Flowers in spring, me out of bed in the morning, and clean, fresh clothes. The miles in front of a long car drive, and the scenery before the eyes of the passengers. My heart in his hands, or my soul under my mother's gaze. Lawn chairs and lunches on sunny beach days with friends, when water sparkles, the sun embraces, and laughter is prince of the day. Hands held out to help those who have fallen, and vulnerability in the eyes of those accepting the offer. Music from the lips and instruments of men, then from the radio as we dance at 2 AM in the light of the TV. Romance as darkness falls, personal space shrinks, and eyes connect in intimacy. Moonlight as it peeks over a tree-capped mountain, slipping into the bedroom window from between the curtains.

So many words
unsaid,
trapped under the
ironclad guard on
my mouth,
all labelled with your
precious name.
Words- which flow
as easily as a
bubbling brook
into each other, to
make confessions
so teeming
with love that I have
no doubt
they would take your
breath away.
Confessions- which I
don't regret not professing,
but rather
regret being unable
to utter.
Because however
deeply attached I am to you,
and however
much you
surprise me
by genuinely
so caring
for me as well,
there will,
even if we were
by some
miracle
granted
d    e    c    a    d    e    s
of every day together,
always be that
one key
element missing;
the one that would
unlock
the cell
imprisoning
these words.

Your absence
laps
at my shore
like a
f o r g e t f u l tide;
some days
it stays
                                   out,
letting me
breathe,
letting me
be-
other days,
it makes up for this,
swamping me
in a
tsunami,
and all I
can do
is
keep my
eyes
trained on land.

You are the moon.
Please return soon.

Tonight is a night when the sky is
                   midnight blue velvet,

                   a night when the city on the
                   hill turns to Christmas
                   lights.

Tonight is a night when laughter and
                                 mirth flow freely,

                                 when camaraderie
                                 pillows in the air.

Tonight is a night when friendship
                                            warms the
                                            soul,

                                           good company
                                           fills the heart,

                                           and you wish it
                                           wouldn't end.

Dread crawls up my spine,
originating at
the small of my back
and leaving
penetrating
residue
on each
vertebra
as it climbs.
It sneaks
into my heart
when I'm
not looking
and POUNCES-
its incisors
clamp down
and its
venom
ejects
into my chest;
paralysis begins there and races outwards right into my limbs and brain until I can't think or move as the hallucinogens take over my mind's eye and play me a reel that boils my stomach.
Loss and
loneliness and
heartbreak
flash before my
eyes in a
sickening torrent.
I feel a
W  A  L  L
of irresistible
time behind my
back,
pushing me,
heels digging in
and pleading "no, no"
the whole way,
slowly, but inevitably
towards the end of everything I've ever known,
and everyone that
I've so
recently
grown to truly,
dearly love
as my friends.

So many around me
are counting down
to that day,
bound to the
same force as I,
but feeling it
instead
as a leash
that will only let
them go
inch
          by
                inch,
                      ­   day
                                 by
                                       day.

For them, a prison break;
for me, a life sentence
of aching for
the people
I've only just
claimed as mine;
among them,
the boy I've held on to,
just starting to become a man,
whom I love
with all my
bruised
and scarred heart.

I don't want to leave.
                                     .
                                      .
                       ­                .

Peace, happiness, security-
we reach for these,
but they often
slip from our grasp
as life
             wreaks

                         its

                          havoc

                           ­    on

                               our

                             hearts,
                             and we hit bottom.

Chaos                         around
              flutters
our
                    heads      ­             bats
                       like

worries crowd in and fill our ears eyes and lungs until they're our every waking moment and we can't breathe as they surround us,

and loss,
coming and going in a flash,
takes us out at the knees,
rips someone from their place
in our hearts,
and leaves us
b  r  o  k  e  n
on the ground
with no way out...

Until

a still, small voice
beckons you
out
of your pain;
the whisper
of a Father who
promises
love,
peace,
and an end to the darkness.*

His arms encircle you,
His presence fills you,
His love hushes your pain,
like a mother quieting her child,
changing your tears
of heartache
to those
of awe
that this kind of love
should not only
simply
exist,
but be given to you.
And on the heels of love
comes *peace.

The memories badger me
zipping in and out of
clarity
like
moths.
They echo
with your laughter,
or whimper
in your teary murmur.
For a moment,
I can see
and hear
all
the kind,
eloquent,
empty
compliments and promises
we uttered to each other
at 12 AM
in the dim light of your room.

And I want it back.

My heart
moans
and keens
in grief,
my chest
burns
like acid,
and my stomach
twists
like a towel
being wrung out,
with the
potent ache
of your absence.
Her absence;
because that
giggling,
loyal,
loving girl
is gone now.

She drowned in
a storm
of her own misery.
She was shot
by her own
baseless conclusions,
and her own
hopeless assumptions.
Life handed her lemons,
and her
naïveté
and
cynicism
shoved them
down
her
throat,
forcing her to
s
    w
         a
              l
                  l
                      o
                          w
before God made them
into lemonade.
And now,
I'm faced with
a colder,
more jaded version
of the girl I knew-
and so loved.

But the memories…

Whippy willow-branch crowns
and crystal-cold pool water -
grass-tickled bare feet
and breathless trampoline bouncing -
comfortable, starlit darkness
and hours spent amongst the trees.

These are the memories that return with the summer sun,
and I cannot shake their carefree presence,
or how they pierce my heart.

Summer was always our joy.

Time is such
an imp,
such a
prankster.

When something
fearful
is to come,
he skips
and races
just out of reach,
until,
in chasing him,
suddenly,
multiple weeks have passed
without realizing.

But if you're
highly anticipating
an event,
he ambles along
tripping you up
over and over,
and you wonder
how it could possibly still be the same day.

Does he find our frustration amusing?

Sometimes
I wish I wrote more
poems about
you, love.

But thoughts of you
are simply too precious
to share.

The gap
b e t w e e n
my arms,
created by your
a  b  s  e  n  c  e
from them,
***** my
breath
a  w   a    y.

"The Lord appeared to us in the past, saying: 'I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving kindness.'"

These words,
recorded in faithfulness
t   h  o   u   s   a   n   d   s
of years ago,
reach a hand
through time to
strike a tuning fork
against my soul,
setting praise
ringing
inside me.
I tremble with
energy
which urges me
to shout, sing, dance, cry, compose, raise my hands in the air,
or simply fall to my knees
in awe of Him;
Saviour,
Father,
Lord-

the ever-present
c
a
n
d
l
e
on my darkest days-
the unfaltering needle
pointing me to
true north
when
a hundred different opinions
clamour for my ear-
the unending ocean
of grace
and forgiveness
in times when I seem to make
nothing
but wrong decisions-
the magnanimous provider
of exactly what I
need,
though I've done
nothing to deserve it.

The one and only
Lord,
who can name each
and every star,
is
somehow
also the one
who whispered "temple"
in the ear of
a hurting
and lonely girl
to remind her
that she is precious, beloved, irreplaceable, sacred, held dear, and never,
never* alone.
It is this
indescribable,
uncontainable,
amazing God
to whom I will be
grateful
for
e
         t
                 e
                         r
                                  n
                                            i
                                                    t
          ­                                                   y
for loving me
with an everlasting love,
and drawing me
with His loving kindness.

Amen.

The sea,
an eternity of sapphires
topped with glittering diamonds
that roll and rustle and shush
against each other,
cresting into the shore
with eager greeting.

Darkness blankets
the sky,
and the
w  i  n  d
gains a
voice
by r u s h i n g
through the leaves.
Droplets
of stardust
f
a
l
l
onto my head.

This
untamed wilderness
is ironically calming;
it's like looking into a
mirror.

I am tiny,
miniscule amidst
these waves,
gray, grave, and claiming
every ounce
of
will and work
from my poor soul.
I have so much to give,
but how little it is
when compared with
the demand.

I don't travel much,
but when I do,
the absence of
omnipresent,
immovable
mountain ranges
always
disturbs
me.
I miss the
calming, cool blues and greens
that frame
my world,
and feel
e   x   p   o   s   e   d
without them.
But they welcome me
home
with
a sure embrace
each time.

My life is beginning
to feel like
a patchwork quilt
of deadlines
and tasks.
Even doing nothing
has started to seem
like something to do,
just another thing
to check off my
list,
with a certain amount
of time allotted for it,
and a clear time
to move on to
the next thing,
lest I fall behind.
Weeks,
days,
sometimes even
hours
are divided
and categorized
by what I should be
doing
in them.
I don't allow
any passion projects
too engrossing
or time-consuming
for fear of
losing
              myself
                              in
 ­                                     it
and forgetting my responsibilities.
All I can think
when my heart
nudges me to
read a book
or
write a story
is that I have
no time,
no time,
no time
for such things,
and that I must be
conscientious before, and over, content.

For too long, she'd been held back, held in, and suppressed.

"No more!" cried her spirit. It strained incessantly and undeniably against her rib cage. The buildup was too much. She let loose all that was burning and soaring in her soul, screamed her anger and frustration, sobbed her pain and loneliness, and sang at the top of her lungs. It was complete release, yet the more she gave, the more rose and expanded and ran rampant in her blood. The admirable and the beautiful mixed with the abhorrent and the ugly in a dizzying storm, all her highest heights and lowest depths roaring though her at once. She cried and laughed with the same breath.  She felt as if she would burst, for all that was contained within her shell couldn't remain so. It couldn't be possible that she wasn't about to explode from the love and rage and need that just kept growing, and growing, and growing. Everything she'd needed so desperately to express from so long came rushing out in a worldless deluge that drowned her senses until she was pure, raw emotion. All that had been and would be no longer existed. The only thing that was in all of time and space was the fierce, glorious feeling that she had become.

How could she go back?

Electricity-
searing through
every vein,
body brimming with
voltage, head to toe,
lightning
that strikes
every nerve simultaneously;
blinding, white hot pain
-
then blackness.

Flames-
the piercing spasms
of ten thousand sunburns,
combined with
the unbearable heat
of smothering summer darkness
licks slowly
up
       up
              up
your legs,
choking, choking
on dry smoke
and the ash of your own body;
screams, melting flesh, can't breathe, can't breathe,
-
then blackness.

Nails-
cleaving wrists
and feet,
invasive, bone-deep,
soul-deep
pangs, aches, agony,
as they punch out the other side
and iron
meets beam,
locking limbs in places.
Then lifting,
lifting,
lifting,
until you're
finally,
horribly,
upright,
hanging by your wrists,
iron grating
and grinding
against bone,
slowly,
oh so slowly,
suffocating under your own weight,
as muscle and sinew
convert from
allies
to traitors,
turning on you,
compressing,
and eventually crushing,
your lungs;
minutes          hours                      days
-
then blackness.

Oh, humanity.
Oh, terribly, cruelly creative
humanity.
So many torturous ways
to ****,
to execute
each other.

- the chair
- the stake
- the cross
- countless, countless others
each more brutal
than the last.
Oh, humanity.

Yet somehow...

the cross left
this darkness
for light,
a symbol of hope for
millions.
Men, women, children
everywhere
draw hope from
the cross.

WHY?

Why?
Because
we know
who it has
murdered - killed - slaughtered
massacred - executed - slain
sacrificed
but didn't
destroy;
who it
failed
to defeat.
The cross
couldn't defeat
HIM.

A thread shoves against
the confines of my chest,
reaching forlornly
for the dear people
I so long to trust.
It breeds a
R O A R I N G
discontent,
and a rising
scream
that I can't shake.

I beg God
for an opportunity
to demolish
the wall
that holds my heart
captive,
a heart burning
for the deep-running
b-o-n-d
whose absence has been
a gaping hole
for too long.

I thought I could survive
without this b-o-n-d,
but it turns out
that shouting
my deepest emotions
into the hole
where trust used to be
isn't anywhere near the same
as whispering them to another
in complete confidence.

Survival is get up, eat and get ready for the day. Work, go home, do some mindless activity, get ready for bed  and sleep. Each day has the same structure, the same form.

Two things break me out of that; friends and books. Time with these fuels my heart to beat for more. More than day-after-day drudgery, more than simply fulfilling obligations.

With these, days are morning cuddles with my car and music that fills a peaceful house. They are short  laughing conversations with my co-workers, or the way the sunlight hits the rain-laden clouds during my commute. They are the little moments of breath-stealing beauty in a good novel or my siblings' jokes. They are the clean feeling after a shower, and the soft warmth that curls around my bones when I bundle into bed for the night.

And this is living.

My heart
crackles
with an indecipherable
something
which gives it
shape,
yet seems to simultaneously,
parasitically
siphon
all
joy
and
will
from within it.

Maybe it's just
my heart
masquerading,
pretending substance
to cover up the overwhelming
nothing.

After all, nature abhors a vacuum.

Winter peeks
shyly
into early November,
d  o  t  t  i  n  g
the grass with white flakes-
but,
by midday,
she retreats from
all the
attention.

The emotions
in my chest
threaten to
EXPLODE
if I don't give them voice
in the form of lyrical language.

But I refuse.

This is one memory that I want to keep for myself, sweet and thrilling, and slow motion every time I replay it.

I want the details to remain clear
and vivid
in my mind
and against my skin.

Though I tell
my family and friends,
this is my memory;
I will not give it up
as a sacrifice
to the celestial chasm
that is poetry.

Stars that glimmer in a velvet sky,
sprinkles of colour dotting spring trees,
rivers galloping down mountainsides,
endless open stretches that beg to be run across with wild abandon,
heavy air hanging amidst thick trees, which shelter unseen creatures mere feet away,
infinite, firm, immovable ranges topped with glittering snow,
sun-streaked and sparkling oceans, smoothly beckoning or foaming with reckless passion.

When did we start shuttering our wide eyes,
closing out all but thin strips of our world’s breathtaking beauty?
How can anyone bear to be so readily sightless of this magnificence?
Maybe if we threw open the blinds
and bathed in the artistry of our Earth,
we wouldn’t be so irresponsible with it,
wouldn’t allow ourselves to be complicit in its devastation.

Purpose,
satisfying, glorious purpose
swells my heart
until it's
brimming,
bursting,
and begging to
overf
          \l
            \o
              \w
onto a page.
...
What
do I do?

Where
do I start?

How
do I direct this
bundle of
raw motivation?

How
do I mold it,
shape it
into a helpful,
useful format,
and
point it in
the direction
I
want?

How do I
use
it?

My foot has landed
on an unknown pebble
of information;
it rolls underfoot and
I tilt back with
a blinding blast
of panic.
Up is down
and down is
horizontal as I
tumble down the
s --
    t --
        a --
             i --
                 r --
                      s --
I've been so
p  a  i  n  s  t  a  k  i  n  g  l  y
climbing.
I land in a
knot of shock and grief
a mere
couple of steps from
the very bottom,
the very beginning.
Familiar
hurt, confusion, and anger
twist and turn
around me in
a smothering weave
that settles over
my senses.

I wish I didn't know this unwelcome cloak.

I wish I didn't have to know how to remove it, inch by inch.

I wish I didn't have to move past
midnight talks
and
midday laughs
and
frequent promises
to be
"BFFs".

I wish I didn't have to let you go.

"Do you like writing poetry?"

It's a strangely
difficult
question to answer.
I do not
like
it.
I do not
love
it.
It's something I
must do,
just
as much as
I must breathe.
If I do not,
I die a little
inside,
and it is
a - part - of - me,
just
as much as
my lungs.

I’m lost,
trying to swim
in a dry sea,
trying to force
myself to
draw breath
in an atmosphere
w i t h o u t    o x y g e n.
I reach,
but I can’t find
anything.
I’m an empty w
                         e
                          l
                          l,
and I don’t know
how to refill
myself.
However hard
I try,
however desperately
I grasp,
there’s nothing
to hold on to.

I have the heart of an artist,
but hands that disagree.
So the lined page
has become my canvas,
and various combinations
of 26 letters,
my medium.

The world
sparkles
like quartz,
a layer
of snowy white
reflecting
the
winter sunlight.
Festivity permeates the
air,
and all
of creation limns
Christmas.

In a
moment
of quiet,
through the
busyness buzz,
a soothing thought
                    s
               e
          s
     i
r
to my consciousness,
and
consoles my heart:

*"I'm going to be okay."

the buildings
hum
with the energy of
thousands of people.
Thousands of lives
converge,
made up of
thousands of unique combinations
of jobs,
love lives,
families,
and friendships-
thousands of experiences.
Thousands of worlds
blend together into
a symphony
of life and being.

Poets are:

people who experience uniquely

people who look past the first layer of perception

people who read the undercurrent of the world

people who translate its transcendence into comprehension

and people who voice it as best they can.

I'm a wounded dreamer
turned willful cynic
who rejects
the stained and shattered ideal
that anything earthly can be perfect.

And yet...

that night
under the lights,
those
mere
couple of minutes
in your arms
swaying to the music-
nothing could have made that moment better
which sounds an awful lot like perfection
to the ears
of this
wounded dreamer.

My imagination feels
stifled,
and offers me
neither plot
nor character
from
which
to
b
u
i
l
d
a new
story.
No creative scenarios
or
lines of witty dialogue
pop
into my head.

But
this is my own doing;
this
is what I
requested-
begged for,
even-
without
realizing
the
consequences.

Regret pools in me,
but
I know of
no
way
to reverse it.
I'm sorry
that I shut
my imagination
up,
but it
wouldn't
shut up
about
you.

Your
place
in my life
is empty
right
now,
a hole in my heart
that,
all too often,
I find myself
tumbling
into,
seeking the
warmth
and
comfort
of your presence.
But
I only hit
hard
floor
and hear an
echo
of laughter
and happiness.

Amid the madness-
the pretending to be alright,
and the different facets of me-
there are two sentences,
two haunting phrases
that connect my disjointed soul-

"How could I have been so wrong?"

and

"I should have known better."