Sunday, January 20, 2019

My Heart ❤️

“I will read long books and the journals of dead writers. I will feel closer to them than I ever felt to people I used to know before I withdrew from the world. It will be sweet and cool this friendship of mine with dead poets, for I won’t have to touch them or answer their questions. They will talk to me and not expect me to answer. And I’ll get sleepy listening to their voices explain the mysteries to me. I’ll fall asleep with the book still in my fingers, and it will rain.”

Talk to Me Like the Rain and Let Me Listen, Tennessee Williams

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Dying





There is a voice always speaking
It says I'm never enough. 
That I will never be nor should I try. 
That I'm not worth being. 
But I am and I keep trying.


The battle is daily and I try to ignore the screams.
Yet they work their way in and deplete the roots I try so desperately to tend and grow within my psyche. 
I'm just one of those without a "green" thumb. 
The only things that seem to cultivate are poison weeds.


Some days it's an ocean with waves overtaking my breath,
Then it ebbs slowly.
Oh, that time is immeasurable, splendid. Even if for only a moment.
But those waves always return; sucking the breath right out of me, assuring me I will drown. 
Yet I don't.


Then there are those days where the breeze ruffles the flowers and grass as I lie in the sunshine within the scent of just being.
The leaves whisper stories of history past and all that is to be. 
I am content. I listen.


Then the clouds gather, the skies turn grey, and the rain begins. Oh so lovely rain. You cleanse me of the world we live in, even just for a moment.
It is worth every single drop on my skin and on our Earth.
Raindrops are themselves a rebirth of sorts.


I beg you to aid in cultivating my true roots. Water them with your strength and sustain them with your boundlessness.
There is only so much I can do.
And I'm weary, so very weary. 
Sprinkle me with your miracle.and allow me to thrive.

Thursday, March 8, 2018

Learn to Hear My Song Again

You heard it as a child, that sweet song from your momma.
Each year it changed but was always the same fuzzy blanket on your soul

As you grew you listened to the songs that made you feel that same feeling
Impressing the words into your growing sense of self

Soon you began to hear a new tune, one that seemed to radiate your own light
A song you knew by heart because it was yours.

So you sang that aria, all the while still imparting the soft sweet notes of favorites
Ballads that touch and speak your essential nature

You are walking through life as the chorus of you follows along
Suddenly you are stopped in your tracks by an alchemic sound, so rich, so pure

So unlike any other recitation, the amoroso euphony of metrical composition
It vibrates through and into the quintessence and recess of your heart.

The orchestra of harmony that brings tears to your eyes and passion unknown
Your hands touch as you pass but you realize you can't let go

And so begins a whole new musical creation. One song made from two
A duet perfectly in sync that felt like it would conquer the world

It did for a long while. They listened to the world and made the world listen to theirs
It was beautiful, and real, and pleasing to the ear. Everyone wanted to know our song

We composed two new lullabies who not only harmonized our song but sang their own
Brand new concertos with tiny hands and tiny feet and lots of hair

Wildly blaring scores calming into sweet nighttime ballads
I hummed every single note, every single word, every single melody, every night

As time went on I never stopped, only our volume started to lower and the melody slowed
I strained to listen, to hear, to feel - anything. But the silence started to grow

Silence grew into the deafening sound of heartbreak, a slow sharpness emanating sadness and hurt
If only you could hear effusion and make an effort to be a devoted conductor

One focused on our song and not the radio of vice or apathetic dispassion
I wanted to be every song, every word, the only thing you ever wanted

The etude is ending isn't it? I shouldn't keep trying to encourage the musicians to keep playing
The notes only echo in the stark halls of what we once were

The concert is over and it breaks me into pieces. I don't want the music to stop
A diminuendo of every note we've ever composed together

With affanoto spirit, I let those notes float away with my tears.
I need to learn my own song. I just hope it is still playing.






Monday, December 11, 2017

I Walk

See, here’s the thing. I just want you to hear me.
To understand that I’m a good person.
I have a voice worth hearing.
A woman who sees many things.
More importantly, a human who can understand well beyond common context.

I don't say that boastfully.
It is simply true.
I always have, even as a young child.
My heart developed words that my mind heard.
I have always listened.

I respect your opinion, your thoughts, your ways.
So why can’t you just accept me?
Why do I even have to ask?
Why do I even care?
Why should I?

I’m so tired of your (of everyone's)
inability to allow me to be me.
It's too much I suppose.
Don't be sad for me or assume I need sympathy.
Don't feel like you have to say something.

I’m not always happy; in fact, I’m usually struggling with something every single moment.
I have anxiety and depression.
It is diagnosed.
It can rear its ugly head and bring me tomy knees.
It’s really fucking cumbersome and I get tired.

I have so many moments I don’t share because none of you understand.
How can you explain something to others that they can’t see?
Cant even feel?
But I do, profoundly.
But I'm not the sad girl.

I want to shout. So loudly.
But no one wants to hear that do they?
I want state fervently every word that comes to mind.
Obviously, that shit doesn’t work.
I accept that.

I really just want to leave.
To be alone.
To take care of me because no one else can.
And to let nature surround me with loving warmth
even on the coldest days.

I know I make you uncomfortable.
I know you don’t know what to say.
I get it.
I understand, some things are just too much.
Maybe I am too much.

That’s why I feel alone.
You wouldn’t hold my hand anyway; you’re too timid.
So I walk alone.
As I guess I should.
I suppose that is what is meant for me.


I think I'm okay with that.
So...I Walk.
I walk.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Sad Girl

No one likes the sad girl. She lingers in the corners watching, listening, building castles in the air; it makes you uneasy so you do your best to ignore her. 
No one likes to hear her speak, for she speaks most often of the dark places in her mind. Those dark places are like mirrors and you are afraid of what you might see. Her eyes are like oceans - what lies beneath also lies within. She can see things hidden, she can hear the whispers of the waves, and she can feel what is suppressed. She is the storm.
No one likes to watch her move because her paths are uncharted, unfamiliar, and seemingly indefinite. Her fingers touch the leaves as she walks by, her hand catches the wind through the window. She stops to let the sun shine all of its warmth into her soul. She is the reason for your apprehension. She makes you still.
No one likes the sad girl, her tears and her words contain unfathomable weight. Too much for this world. Along her lines are stories, written by every second she has lived and ever will live. Every wrinkle a tale, every pore a memory, every hair a moment that has touched her. She is indescribable, yet she is tangible. She is not you.
No one wants to get too close. She is never really open though her heart is like a river - ever moving, unrestrained. To see inside, under the current, the clearness of her intentions.The white noise of her raging. To be near her is to burn. She is fire.
No one sings her song. The soft ancient melody that the world has hummed forever, it is hers. A song that changes and forever stays the same. The dark sky that is her, full of stars, most unseen.The moon her only light. She changes the tides and you still can't see.
No one likes the sad girl.
How would they know she is luminescent...

Monday, September 4, 2017

Like A Cuddle

As a kitty curls into your chest
With trust unconditional
And a child holds onto you with
Innocence and true love

I will let go in the same way.
With love and no conditions.
A hug and a kiss
With understanding and sweetness.

Because it means the most to everyone that way.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

It's Okay

You can tell me things are wrong but
It's okay
Things may happen that cause dismay but
It's okay
I can pretend to be okay
But I'm not.
You can say you are
But you aren't.
I'm glad we can be honest and admit
We aren't okay
Just so we can be.
Secrets and withheld thoughts only cause us harm
Honesty and love holds us together.
And that's what we are.
Together.
You have said it.
I have said it.
The universe has made it clear.
We will be okay.
No matter how hard or how many times we have to fight.
We. Are. Okay.
And that's why I love you.

Somewhere Inside

  • I keep all of Sophie's drawings.
  • The cleaning bug doesn't usually bite me but when it does it is usually all out. I go overboard.
  • I love things that touch my heart.
  • I love a good heart wrenching book or movie.
  • I believe in fairy tales.
  • I wish I could let go of all of my insecurities and live completely free.
  • I feel like I get on people's nerves.
  • I want to be noticed but I don't like attention.
  • I have trouble sleeping - too many thoughts and fears.
  • Music makes my soul feel free.
  • I can be terribly stubborn.
  • I can be judgemental
  • Mountains make me happy.
  • I secretly wish I could afford to focus my energy on some type of art and my family, not a "job".
  • I often feel out of place or irrelevant.
  • I enjoy detail specific activities.
  • Sophie can make me the happiest person in the world and break my heart so completely - all in the same instant.
  • Chris can do the same thing.
  • I can read a day away.
  • Friendships are hard for me.
  • Philosophy intrigues me.
  • I love Willie Wonka.
  • I fear early death.
  • I wish my mother could be here.