you are enough. you are loved.
So much of what you fear can
There are no mirrors I can
For perception once skewed see all
So fickle and short sighted
Can’t see what lays before you
Or just beyond.
To all that is beautiful.
You **** hope
Before it may give you
It seems to me
the more things change
the more they stay the same.
I wonder how the rules evolve
but we keep at the same game
and though tired at competing
we're addicted to the bother
for when we lose we need to prove
and when we win we need another
and though we're all exhausted
we are spurred on by the lies
and i feel i've lived a million lives
and tried a million tries.
people in their wholeness
can only be understood.
We, unaccustomed to courage
We, who have chosen
with choices we were not aware
as we made them.
we need a revolution.
some courageous warriors
that will lead us into
but the frontline soldiers
never come home.
Maya Angelou, Touched by an Angel.
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
That the third element of the periodic table is what can untangle an angled mind.
is that the force in the world is the force in you.
and that it all comes down
to the basics.
what we do
what we don't do
or is not doing
enough of an action
all you do
can be counted toward
all you have
the most beautiful thing
that god does
is that he gifts them
to each other.
dedicated to all the people god has gifted me with.
especially those reading this, that know this.
On her Heart
I know it ain’t
That easy for you
She lays bleeding out
In your empty excuses
You could’ve known
And should've done
There’s nothing more painful then watching children suffer by the ones meant to love them most.
You comment in that kind of
About the heart I wear on my
Except that what’s on my sleeve
Is not my heart
It’s merely it’s
What I like most about the sky
Is what I like most about you.
How you hold the stars.
But share it with the rest of us.
You’re the kind of heaven.
That allows visitors.
our own little
i am anxious.
He tells me, many feel that way. Many
go through this. Many
find there's a way out.
And i know he means the anxiety and worry and sadness
that is handled.
I wonder if
my eyes still hold traces of year long stretches of depression. If
my face is lined in all the places anxiety set itself in. If
my jaws and temples and cheek bones speak. If
the tenderness of my belly still serves to remind of three overdoses. if
my heartbeat tells its story in its endless ceaseless rhythm.
I want to just press him close so he can hear for himself
what i cannot
How Hassidic girls get married.
"sometimes profanity offers relief denied even to prayer"
I need a Bible.
written in four letter words.
they think im the problem.
I always knew I was.
I just hurt
more than others
and I hurt that
the execution was set
before I even got to the courtroom.
so the witness stand felt like the gallows.
and I held on to my pride.
and swallowed it whole.
how Hassidic girls get married.
It keeps me settled.
In a skin
Or is it simply
This thing that takes me through the world.
When i rather
hover over it.
This thing that
I can never
I try to make it
It never understands.
This body is a home
Where i know this is my place.
But cant unpack my bags.
And its taking
They said you cant put a period in the middle of a sentence.
Can't start a thought with an and or a but.
But I did.
And I think the best place to put a period is wherever it belongs.
Because life has taught me that not all thoughts have a subject and a predicate.
Sometimes an incomplete sentence ends in a period.
Or an exclamation mark!
And I've known too many people who's voices have been quieted midsentence.
Punctured by others who have punctuated their thoughts with a small and deliberate mark of ink.
Charcoal, the ashes of fire.
And I've known people who have ended their story with a period before having completed their thoughts.
For their energy ran out before their thoughts had run through.
and a period seemed to them like the only way out.
For they imagined they had run out of paper.
But I put a period in the middle of a sentence because sometimes a sentence is complete when it's imperfect.
Like I am.
and sometimes I put a period in the middle of a sentence because sometimes a sentence is complete even if others can't understand it.
Like God is.
they sent us to a therapist.
said the answers
than the questions we cant word.
but the questions aren't
nor are it's answers.
it's the size of my heart.
I wonder how the dark makes mirrors of windows.
That when i look out, past my existence, into the darkness, all i see is a reflection of myself.
Why do the nights not allow us to see others?
Where does the dark hide goodwill and love, that it so fiercely doesn't let us find them?
And i wonder about windows and mirrors.
for is glass ever so transparent that all you will ever see is through?
Or can transparency be tainted by transient plays of light and dark and sun and moon and stars. By ourselves and our perceptions that we limit with the games of lights and shadows that our minds play.
and i think that if darkness makes mirrors of windows, empathy makes way for clarity and understanding.
For i was staring at my reflection in the night dressed window when my light went out.
within was now as dark as it was out.
And in the darkness i was able to see what i couldn't in the light.
the fickleness of glass, and the lies that mirrors tell us.
To make us think that we are alone in a darkness when we venture to look out.
To blind us of everything by reflecting only our selves.
inevitably its the imbalances; of light and dark, of inside and outside, of myself and others, that blind us.
this one's long, my apologies. but the long way was the best way to explain it.
They wonder about whether
and how it can happen
to the sweetest
but King David
had a daughter.
and ****** in his family.
Just keep loving through the healing.
and know even a princess
beyond the wild blue yonder
within the forests deep
I search with wild abandon
for what I cannot keep
for to even scrape
the edges of the sun
puts worth to the chasing
that's a cyclical run
for beyond the wild blue yonder
churning oceans weep
a world that is at once
wide awake and fast asleep.
Is a victory of an accusation.
"Being heard is so close to being loved that for the average person it is nearly indistinguishable"
maybe love is what melts us into one.
and im so frozen into myself that this melting seems impossible.
they say love heals.
if so I keep running
in fear of this healing.
An ear can break a human heart
as can a word, an eye.
A ****** is inevitable
when perpetuating lies.
"An ear can break a human heart
As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
So dangerously near."
you can't be what you're not.
you can't not be what you are.
Tell someone often enough to shut UP
We don't do much of husbandry and wifely things.
But the quiet holds a calm energy.
a gentle love
that my fearful heart drowns in.
John Green says 'a lot of things will hurt you, but only the last thing will **** you'.
Perhaps life's purpose is to maintain our curousity about that final, capitalized T, Thing.
Not in a 'predict your future' horoscopic sense, but rather as a barometer of 'is this the most awful event that is destined to be my last' scale.
Is this a merely a lost battle or is it a lost war?
Will this be just another difficult time whose intensity will ultimately fade in the dust that settles with enough sunlight and time.
I wonder often about the stories we tell about those times that hurt so bad, they nearly killed us.
Not the stories we tell others,
though those do matter. Just as well.
Rather the stories we tell ourselves.
and how they are remembered can matter more than how they really were.
For they may have only hurt when it happened.
But they may be the last thing that will **** you.
Don't let others play the tune for your finale
as your curtain comes down.
they tell me to
to allow things
and I wonder
because i'm not ready
to face the consequences
that might come
and I want it.
but not yet.
and I wonder why only I had to give
Got saved by the beauty.
as do I.
it's the only hope and prayer I can believe in.
A broken heart bears witness to grace.
because the person you've shared it with now holds a part of it.
And though the person you've split your heart open for
might never even know
but this is the kind of broken heart that needs no healing,
because it is how we heal the world.
I keep my truths like swords
safely in a scabbard
and pull them out in dangerous times
when my honor's nearly shattered
it's good to know
the world within
and the world around
and regardless it'll be
whether you are
Her grasses may be greener
but what you may not know
is she bleeds each night
upon her field
in hope for it to grow.
Her grasses are all poisoned
but look right to the eyes
that sees only
of a thousand desperate tries.
Spent formative time,
my wild horse
my wild mind
to the place
right before the world ends,
then Dedicated the rest of a lifetime,
to the effort,
of saddling her,
all the whilst wishing
shed just take off
one last time
I’m married for two years.
I have anxiety.
I like watching figure skating
We narrow our life down to sentences.
And we wonder where the past has gone.
First the awareness.
in the place.
that hurts most.
in that soft spot.
between heart and mind.
At times at peace.
often pulling them apart.
We move in and out of our
Best and worst places
Hopefully, more graciously
So though it’s not different
i dare to wish
and tend to dream
for the alternative would be
a life of limited to worries
and what i know and see.
And some say that hope is futile
a live yet barren tree
but i believe in the thousand stars
that light the dark for me.
And hope may be the thing with feathers
but whats not said, yet's true.
Is that the thing with feathers
can fly right up to you
it can build a nest upon your window
and lay a golden egg
and i grant myself these empty dreams
so that i at least have that.
Met a robin
in the graveyard.
She was singing.
to the ghosts
The love and honor
We grace to our
I write in words and ink but live in blood and tears.
That's really all the difference.
Because my written thoughts are black and white and clear.
And my life is a whirlwind of energy and ****** oceans. Intense and swirling waters. Constant waves lapping up the shore.
Beautiful. Ceaseless. Sometimes dangerous.
And words written in ink may seem more perfect but life's written in blood. So I dare to write in blood.
Because blood is warm. And life. And connection.
And I want to provide warmth, life and connection more than perfection.
Because it's what I want to receive.
They say that blood is thicker than water. But I think that blood may be thinner than ink.
Because the perfectly spoken word can be as warm and connecting and life giving as the complete and imperfect human beings that I meet.
When in loneliness and hurt and low in energy. When the fear is in meeting with other people, in connecting with them. When I can't tolerate the warmth that might come from risking connection. Maybe because I fear burning up from the heat. and maybe for i feel like a candle that's been burned to it's end. And I am afraid that I cant endure any more burning.
Ink. On paper. When brought to my nearly dying flame, suddenly causes flames. I catch on fire.
I've found connection in people and paper.
I've found love in blood and ink.
Because in both I've found you and some new parts of myself.
desperate times call for desperate measures.
it's a life lived in desperation then.
a desperate hope.
so near to despair.
I went for a walk
It was quiet
but it was
I wonder at the ironies
of shadows and of light.
for the storm's shadow is a rainbow
and the sun's is black as night.
And i know where the rainbow hides
when the storm is dead
and i know where the shadows lay
after the sun has set
the rainbows sit in the sun
and shadows lay in the night
and i know because my life is
but shadows, rainbows, light.
I know that I can reach the sun,
I know you doubt and wonder.
But I can ride a thunderstorm
To catch the bolt of thunder.
I know you think i cannot
The truth yells from your eyes.
For they haven't learned to match up
To the part of you that lies.
For i see the sun as you do
It's only another star.
Too small and too distant
From where you stand and are.
From where I stand the sun is there,
Just waiting to be taken
By one that will distribute it
To the lonely and forsaken.
So that when its dark and overcast
They can take it as a hinter.
How there are times of less sun
In the dark and lonely winter.
But there's always enough warmth
In a world that stands and holds.
All the thousand stories
That it's people haven't told.
I'm the zebra in a stable,
the salmon in a pond,
the only blue eyed brunette
in a group of all the blonde.
I'm the coke in an ice cream shop
the green leaf in the fall.
It seems as though I may Belong
but really don't at all.
Shame tells it’s stories
In third person.
sometimes the only way out is through.
I wonder though.
because I don't know what is at the other end of
we fell out of love
as we fell in.
and all at once.
i listen intently to the silence. I know it's telling me something. the silence surrounds me, covers me, at once serves to calm and stifle me.
for in the silence is steadiness.
and though i hope for steadiness, it is so unknown that it frightens me. so i don't tune in to silence often.
silence is the flat line on the heart monitor. The lone tree in an empty field. The small twinkling star in the black sky. The empty chair on the lawn.
when i do finally listen, the silence tells me that strength and power is in what an individual IS, more than what it does.
for silence is the world in a state of being. It's the cessation of all distractions and business that we involve ourselves in the effort to become. The silence tells me, breathe slow.
You already are.