Moonlight peeks through my curtains: I think she's trying to remind me of something. It's kind of like that day on your calendar that you starred or circled a while back, but now that it's here you can't remember why you marked it.
Normally her rays would be welcome in my room, but tonight she's just rather cold and grey. It brings an undesirably familiar taste to my mouth. Not a bad taste, just a memory-loaded one. The memories are a bit too pleasant.
I cuddle more deeply into my covers and try to ignore her. What can she do, really? She can't force me into remembering anything! She doesn't even have her own light to give, it's all just borrowed from the sun. Cheap, borrowed beauty...
I was in love with the moon, once. But then again, I suppose that was when the moon loved me.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Beating Heart and Lullaby
Here, my dear,
I lay you down with a lullaby
And ask it to send you to sweetest dreams.
I want them to carry into your tomorrow,
To bless your day with hope
And with safety.
As I hold you close
The memories we've made seem like dreams:
Tangibly unreal and beautifully imperfect.
They're knocking at the bedroom door,
Slipping beneath it and into the seams of our lullaby.
There is peace here,
Peace made specially for you and I.
Your heart keeps rhythm for me,
More a feeling than a sound.
It's beats are beyond precious:
They tie me to the world and give proof of your life.
They are proof that dreams are reality
And that maybe reality lies tucked within our dreams.
Here, my dear.
Here I am drowning in dreams,
Immersed in lullaby and memory as it slips under the door.
Here I settle into the unfounded hope that this,
This dream and this night,
Will never have to pass.
The notion that You and I,
Beating heart and Lullaby,
Can stay like this forever.
I lay you down with a lullaby
And ask it to send you to sweetest dreams.
I want them to carry into your tomorrow,
To bless your day with hope
And with safety.
As I hold you close
The memories we've made seem like dreams:
Tangibly unreal and beautifully imperfect.
They're knocking at the bedroom door,
Slipping beneath it and into the seams of our lullaby.
There is peace here,
Peace made specially for you and I.
Your heart keeps rhythm for me,
More a feeling than a sound.
It's beats are beyond precious:
They tie me to the world and give proof of your life.
They are proof that dreams are reality
And that maybe reality lies tucked within our dreams.
Here, my dear.
Here I am drowning in dreams,
Immersed in lullaby and memory as it slips under the door.
Here I settle into the unfounded hope that this,
This dream and this night,
Will never have to pass.
The notion that You and I,
Beating heart and Lullaby,
Can stay like this forever.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
As I Sit In Science Class
As I sit in science class
Laughing at the galaxy
My professor makes the dullest things
Seem so completely interesting
It's nice to feel like I am smart
Like I can understand
The thousands of discoveries
That till now've been made by man
Laughing at the galaxy
My professor makes the dullest things
Seem so completely interesting
It's nice to feel like I am smart
Like I can understand
The thousands of discoveries
That till now've been made by man
Friday, January 11, 2013
We Are Broken?
You never know how broken a person is. It’s nearly impossible to find a someone who is willing to listen to the truth about the darkness that has enveloped and shaped an individual. It’s strange, but we enjoy our pain in a way. We like to think that no one else has experienced our hurt, that we alone know the depths of sorrow. Each of us wants someone to listen, to hear and appreciate how hard life has been, not necessarily understand or sympathize with us, but to see that we are strong. We want someone to validate our fears and our weak points in a way that we can’t do ourselves. Isn’t it mind boggling, then, just how unwilling the vast majority of us are to listen and hear other’s aches and pains without trying to one-up them? We try to make them feel like their problems don’t matter because ours are so much worse. This is the natural reaction of the human mind.
We are all BROKEN. We all hurt and need healing, we all feel pain that we can’t avoid. There are trials that some of us take harder than others, things that seem tiny in retrospect, but enormous while we are experiencing them. This is the curse that is being HUMAN. Being MORTAL and WEAK. We can bend, we can break, we can change.
But it’s also so beautiful. We are mendable, bendable, breakable, loveable, and endable. We hate, we love, we are passionate, we are instinctive and brave. We fear and we fight. We chase after warmth and light and joy. Whatever and whoever we are, we do what we do and feel what we feel for a reason. Each of us has this grand adventure of a story that would have everyone else on the edge of their seats or cowering back in fear. There are things that an audience couldn’t bear to see, and things that they would pay anything to share in.
As scattered as this is, the main point is to express just how fragile we are. We pretend to be strong, we put on a brave face to impress or to save others from bother. We build thick walls around our delicate hearts and hope in vain that the gesture is enough to shield us from the hurt. We don’t say what needs to be said, we don’t do what needs to be done, and we don’t see what’s directly in front of our faces simply because we fear it. We fear the repercussive pain of rejection that might come about if we offend. We fear the end of things--love, careers, friendships--that haven’t even begun yet. We are all so very fragile.
We are broken. We all need so much love, and yet we all need so desperately to give it.
We are all BROKEN. We all hurt and need healing, we all feel pain that we can’t avoid. There are trials that some of us take harder than others, things that seem tiny in retrospect, but enormous while we are experiencing them. This is the curse that is being HUMAN. Being MORTAL and WEAK. We can bend, we can break, we can change.
But it’s also so beautiful. We are mendable, bendable, breakable, loveable, and endable. We hate, we love, we are passionate, we are instinctive and brave. We fear and we fight. We chase after warmth and light and joy. Whatever and whoever we are, we do what we do and feel what we feel for a reason. Each of us has this grand adventure of a story that would have everyone else on the edge of their seats or cowering back in fear. There are things that an audience couldn’t bear to see, and things that they would pay anything to share in.
As scattered as this is, the main point is to express just how fragile we are. We pretend to be strong, we put on a brave face to impress or to save others from bother. We build thick walls around our delicate hearts and hope in vain that the gesture is enough to shield us from the hurt. We don’t say what needs to be said, we don’t do what needs to be done, and we don’t see what’s directly in front of our faces simply because we fear it. We fear the repercussive pain of rejection that might come about if we offend. We fear the end of things--love, careers, friendships--that haven’t even begun yet. We are all so very fragile.
We are broken. We all need so much love, and yet we all need so desperately to give it.
Monday, October 8, 2012
A Little Obnoxious, Actually
There's no song I can sing to bring you back.
Melodies dance,
Little notes that call your name.
They spring from my heart,
They come to my lips,
No matter how I fight them, they're there.
My heart is chalk full of songs for you.
Soulfully I sing them,
The happy little notes content
to orchestrate my sorrows
As if you could hear them.
Why won't they bring you back?
Bits of my very soul are forced through
As the songs burst from my heart!
Shouldn't that be enough?
Enough to prove that I'm qualified,
That I have just as much a right to be happy,
As any other ridiculous person on this ridiculous planet?
Course not.
But I keep on singing.
Blazing notes and phrases
Still springing up and bubbling over
Softly,
A little obnoxious, actually.
But there you go, I suppose.
You just aren't coming back.
But I'll sing your songs
Melodies dance,
Little notes that call your name.
They spring from my heart,
They come to my lips,
No matter how I fight them, they're there.
My heart is chalk full of songs for you.
Soulfully I sing them,
The happy little notes content
to orchestrate my sorrows
As if you could hear them.
Why won't they bring you back?
Bits of my very soul are forced through
As the songs burst from my heart!
Shouldn't that be enough?
Enough to prove that I'm qualified,
That I have just as much a right to be happy,
As any other ridiculous person on this ridiculous planet?
Course not.
But I keep on singing.
Blazing notes and phrases
Still springing up and bubbling over
Softly,
A little obnoxious, actually.
But there you go, I suppose.
You just aren't coming back.
But I'll sing your songs
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Almost and Always
Success is not set in stone.
It’s not always in the eye of the beholder,
But when it is, it’s easy to please.
It doesn’t really matter how many times,
It doesn’t seem to matter how hard,
You are trying.
What matters is doing the thing right.
Or how much fortune follows you.
It seems easy enough.
Until you’ve given it your all and realized
That you have no idea
What the right way is
To find success.
People tell you that it’s spelled out,
Clear in writing,
That for you, it’s not so hard.
They think that they know
Everything.
That they can say words to help you.
Sometimes you wonder if they’re right
If they really do know how it is
And you’re just too small,
You are just too blind
To see the truth.
But how can anyone know?
How can someone profess to know
Everything about you?
How you think,
How you work,
The things of the past that haunt you.
Success comes almost always.
If you try, if you aim at it well enough,
You might just get there.
But Almost sits calmly,
Constantly sharing the picture
With Always.
That is what they don’t know.
Success does not always come.
Not even to the skilled,
Or the fortunate.
Not even to those who need it most desperately.
Or those who most deserve it.
Success is not always.
And when it isn’t,
Grace intends for us to learn
Failure
With patience.
It’s not always in the eye of the beholder,
But when it is, it’s easy to please.
It doesn’t really matter how many times,
It doesn’t seem to matter how hard,
You are trying.
What matters is doing the thing right.
Or how much fortune follows you.
It seems easy enough.
Until you’ve given it your all and realized
That you have no idea
What the right way is
To find success.
People tell you that it’s spelled out,
Clear in writing,
That for you, it’s not so hard.
They think that they know
Everything.
That they can say words to help you.
Sometimes you wonder if they’re right
If they really do know how it is
And you’re just too small,
You are just too blind
To see the truth.
But how can anyone know?
How can someone profess to know
Everything about you?
How you think,
How you work,
The things of the past that haunt you.
Success comes almost always.
If you try, if you aim at it well enough,
You might just get there.
But Almost sits calmly,
Constantly sharing the picture
With Always.
That is what they don’t know.
Success does not always come.
Not even to the skilled,
Or the fortunate.
Not even to those who need it most desperately.
Or those who most deserve it.
Success is not always.
And when it isn’t,
Grace intends for us to learn
Failure
With patience.
Monday, September 24, 2012
What Poetry Is
Poetry - English 352
September 24th, 2012
What Poetry Is
It’s a vast, deep Ocean.
Rivers of words and emotions flowing in and out
Constantly.
Currents of ideas and people swirling through them, changing them,
Rearranging their shapes into something more familiar,
Comforting.
Centuries of walls stand round the shore,
Constraining:
Ancient attempts of power to withhold and bend knowledge, change it,
To feed it to society in a way which promotes rule,
Corrupting.
The walls are no longer holding the outside world at bay, but simply
Containing
The Sea. It is necessary to search, make an effort, but it is no longer forbidden
To know, to explore. Centuries of words flood it, deepen it,
Creating
Unfathomable, unending currents of evolving words.
Invisible to all but those who leap over the walls. It’s often the
Charismatic,
Those who are open and ready to drink in the words. They are the
Creative.
They will be the first to glean meaning. The Sea welcomes hearts with a steady, crashing song,
Waves of words leading to endless expressions and descriptions,
Caressing
Their ideas with its own grace, its own rhythm. Never quite
Changing
The words it contains, but allowing them to be bent to the will of new minds .
Though the words, the emotions, have been infinitely used and worn down, they are
Continuing:
Though the meanings differ and change, they continue to
Captivate
The minds of the brilliant and the simple, the proud and the humble.
The images contained by each simple creature in the sea, each simple word, vividly
Connect
Hearts to memories and experiences, objects and questions.
The countless mesmerizing rhythms of the ocean lead millions to
Contemplate
The advancing years, to wonder what might lie beyond what is now,
The meanings of what the secluded cees might be… To wonder if they might ever be
Complete.
Whatever poetry is, it is what it wants to be.
There are so many other letters,
Many more appropriate than the cees in the Sea.
September 24th, 2012
What Poetry Is
It’s a vast, deep Ocean.
Rivers of words and emotions flowing in and out
Constantly.
Currents of ideas and people swirling through them, changing them,
Rearranging their shapes into something more familiar,
Comforting.
Centuries of walls stand round the shore,
Constraining:
Ancient attempts of power to withhold and bend knowledge, change it,
To feed it to society in a way which promotes rule,
Corrupting.
The walls are no longer holding the outside world at bay, but simply
Containing
The Sea. It is necessary to search, make an effort, but it is no longer forbidden
To know, to explore. Centuries of words flood it, deepen it,
Creating
Unfathomable, unending currents of evolving words.
Invisible to all but those who leap over the walls. It’s often the
Charismatic,
Those who are open and ready to drink in the words. They are the
Creative.
They will be the first to glean meaning. The Sea welcomes hearts with a steady, crashing song,
Waves of words leading to endless expressions and descriptions,
Caressing
Their ideas with its own grace, its own rhythm. Never quite
Changing
The words it contains, but allowing them to be bent to the will of new minds .
Though the words, the emotions, have been infinitely used and worn down, they are
Continuing:
Though the meanings differ and change, they continue to
Captivate
The minds of the brilliant and the simple, the proud and the humble.
The images contained by each simple creature in the sea, each simple word, vividly
Connect
Hearts to memories and experiences, objects and questions.
The countless mesmerizing rhythms of the ocean lead millions to
Contemplate
The advancing years, to wonder what might lie beyond what is now,
The meanings of what the secluded cees might be… To wonder if they might ever be
Complete.
Whatever poetry is, it is what it wants to be.
There are so many other letters,
Many more appropriate than the cees in the Sea.
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