Her eyes like soft, chilly glass scan the brooding horizon
Glancing at the looming, fathomless mass creeping up the shore
Their disheveled, limp forms crawling, their phantom echoes calling
But she cannot hear, no she will not hear
Her dainty hands hide her porcelain figure in a rose-glass, bubblegum crevice
effacing the ephemeral love whose blackened lungs could sing no more
Rocking restlessly with the trembling melody plucking in her stomachs
He would not hear, she will not hear
Her teeth chattering at the thought of his swirling kaleidoscope of foolish kalopsia,
Which blacked out the heavens of the once alluring, once dependable, once understanding lucre of love,
She buries her soaked, streaked, blank eyes into her white, mangled gown
She should not hear, she will not hear
Her mind stabs itself, burying the untouchable, unpierceable cries of “Why me”
Her nesh, snow-white feet flee the phantasmic scene
Bidding farewell to the resurrected, approaching demon dressed in pink silk
She will not hear him, no, she cannot hear her
Her eyes, frozen in their sockets, refuse to orbit their dead sun and again face such a love
Abandoned by his...
I write to tell my truth,
the tiny voice whose inconquerable murmur
swirls within the ice-cold waves of my brain
and the firey abysses of my heart.
I write to scream in pain,
With my one assurance, my one plea, my one word
the last leaf that falls each autumn
and the first rose of spring's cherry blossoms
I write to laugh and leap and sing and dance,
to let the golden sunbeams of the glittering sunset sprinkle me with
warmth, light, and happiness
And fill my trembling hands
with sparkling flecks of sunlight
I write to breathe
To breathe in the ever-turning, ever-changing, technicolor horizon
and taste the colors of the chilly wind on my tongue
And smell the traces of magic hidden beneath the star-sprinkled universe
I write to breathe
I write to laugh and leap and sing and dance
I write to scream in pain
I write to tell my truth.
with his white and black feathers
perceiving the world through a rainbow-tinted g l a s s
with his pink skirt and technicolor eyes
unhearing the e u p h o r i c ephemera of yesterday's sorrow
multicolored bandaids decorating his unscarred canvas
he skates figure-eights in patrol of the c l o u d e d heavens
and he falls.
Raindrops patter on the sun-scarred pavement;
The grey squares drink the wine of the world's falling tears;
Blood, glaciers, rivers, and tears are dropped from the heavens' clouded embrace.
Kissing the ground as they fall from grace;
Little shards of liquid pain seal the world's changing fate;
The earth is green from denying its dizziness and bulimic news;
It spins faster and faster to save its phantom face.
The sky's stomach rumbles with fury;
It aches for retribution and resolution and revolution and revenge;
It gasps at the carnage mankind has made of its beautiful lands.
It cries as finally all hope caves in;
Its loyal stars demand bloodshed as a price for sin;
tears fall down the sun's smiling face;
It finally sees its young child being torn by rage's wind.
Brown tears and white tears and universal fears crawl down the sky's trembling face;
It cries adieu to its prodigal lands that never returned to peace and grace.
A small white canvas sits alone
Still to be painted, still to be sold
Ethereal tones, unshaped by man
Pure until the next day began
When small fingerprints traced her corners
Painting with purples her once white face
Thumbprints pressed themselves into the canvas
Creating impressions of beauty and grace
A thick black brush dipped in blues
Stroked her remaining space
covering up her original feathers
and leaving stars in their place
The painting is happily put up for sale
But she stands out in the crowd
They all sell pink plastic paper
And fingerprints are not allowed
Hundreds of hands rip and tear her figure
And pull the colors from her frame
Disfiguring the hues that became her soul
and then throw the disaster into flames
The small white canvas sits alone
Burned to the core and broken down
the colors were gone, so was her frame
Her identity was gone, so...
After the sun fell on my sufferings with no solace
after God’s hand wavered, and disappeared from my sight
after refusing to climb into gentle morning’s hopeful embrace
after drowning in hurricanes of paralyzing shame and relentless guilt
after closing my eyes to the possibility of tomorrow
after permanently silencing myself
after golden hands clasped mine own of soaked memory, blood, ink, and tears
after the obsidian horizon split into innumerable, heavenly paintstrokes of gold, red, purple, and blue,
after stepping onto the hardwood floor
after taking one step
after clasping the cold, weathered knob of the deck door
after stepping into the myriad of stars
after gently opening my grayish-bluish eyes
after raising my mouth to the universe and letting go
after screaming all of me into the abyss of the heavens....
I was a myriad of stars-
thousands of thoughts sprinkled in the dark.
Each floated alone in the dark abyss
but was still inseparably connected to another by the irreplaceable forces of fate.
I sat in my darkness,
letting constellations form in strange patterns around me.
I watched as the wild creation took shape
into a form of me that I could no longer recognize.
The scripted stars of plastic became my identity as I molded under others' gravity.
Scared, the facades of my atmosphere grew thicker
To protect my small iron core that was growing weaker.
But now I'm awake
And I dance under the blanket of stars,
instead of letting its darkness extinguish my sunbeams in its heavy, navy, velvet fists.
I am now a galaxy of my own, with innumerable stars and planets of my God's design
filling my past, present, and future.
Others' gravity was once the author of my destiny;
writing my future in a...
Back in the days of the "Writing for the News" Group, I read someone's "I Believe" piece. (I really wish that I remember who's it was) I vividly remember reading one point that stuck out to me that whole night. It was:
"You can make a mistake without being one."
At the time, I saw my issues and problems as the entirety of my identity. My mind was like a $5000 3D camera zoomed in on every flaw, and it would play my defeats on repeat in the movie theater of my mind. This quote stopped the tape from rolling.
Mistakes are not the end unless we make them. Flaws aren't the predictors of our futures unless we give them the reigns.
Shame had a tight leash wrapped around my passion, happiness, communication, hope, and dreams. It stifled my voice, but it will...