What works for me?
What pushes me to be better?
Who gets to see that part of me?
Apart from all the bull shit.
Apart from the burden I feel
Every time I wake up
The choices I’ve made
Have led me here
Have led me away from you
But in another time &
I would be with you,
Holding your hand
Instead of sitting here
Trapped by what I’ve chosen
What wouldn’t I give up now
To go back and decide again
To make that defining choice, differently
To walk into the sunset with you
Instead of turning back
And choosing familiar
Over the new possible.
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Do I write for fun?
Or when the power of words hit me?
Do I write to process, to understand
The beauty of things that surround?
Would I write if energy was freely given,
Flowing to me in a continuous
And purifying rain of words?
If the bones in my hand didn’t ache
As I typed
And my heavy head wasn’t throbbing
From buried pain?
If my day wasn’t congested with
Chores and human frailties
Could I produce
A brilliant new world?
Or would I still sit here, wilting
Creativity dripping down the
Sides of my face
Not knowing how to come back from all this madness?
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She came to my door
Broken and shamed
Last night to explain
How she rose above
The light until
She reached the
Be easy to
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Underneath your wings
I used to lie
Hidden from the world
Upon sanded beaches
Once I craved
The wind as it
Up from valleys below
Caught between the realities
In ancient lullabies
Before feeling brought
Pain and loving
Now I long for the
Protection and sanctification
Once given to a little child born
In the haunted memories of long ago
Ignored, though never
Behind an old man’s eyes
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Too much time has passed to save her.
All that’s left is a hollow
Right here in my chest.
I miss her – the fun we used to have –
The realness & fullness between us –
Ripe, like summer fruit.
The juice drips as I take a bite
And taste the flavor – remembering her.
All that’s left is an image of a scared
Girl in a box, trapped – cowering down as
The walls move inward to flatten her
New world. I can’t reach her, try as I might
To lift her out – to tell her (convince her) none
Of it matters – it’s not real. But I can’t get
To her. The walls are too thick – she
Can’t hear me above her own pain.
Fifteen years is a long time to wait to wake up.
The scariest part is I think she may
Still be asleep, not realizing she’s not a
Scared kid anymore &
The four walls of high school are
Never coming back.
I am a writer. I am brave. I am beautiful. I am scared. I am not fearless. Anyone who says so is a liar. The first step towards growth is admitting there is fear, admitting you are scared. But I can stay here, in this fear, or I can step forward. I may drag fear with me-the path out could be longer than I’d like to imagine, but at least I’d be moving forward and not dismally backwards, or tragically stagnant.
People are scared. They are scared shitless. WE can make this for something. We can create good from this. Give it back. Give all of it back. All the fear you feel, all the bravery you’ve known, all the love that creates, take that up inside you and pour it back out. So people know they are not alone.