Early

I awoke early this morning
Sleepless in the wee-hours
the night still lingering,
the dawn struggling.
I didn't have to be awake,
holiday has granted me
the privilege of
uninterrupted sleep.
The light revealed
the world around me
covered in millions
of small ice-crytals;
like God's breath frozen
on the intricate tree branches.
What it means I do not know,
but it is a subtle reminder
of how beautiful things
can be, even in our fallen world.

Perfume

There's an empty
bottle of perfume
on my dresser.
a stark reminder
of the scent that used
to follow another me,
a different me.
The smell of her
washed away ages ago
yet still,
there's that empty bottle
sitting on my dresser.

The Other House

Here I am, at the other house.
The house I did not grow up in
I have not come home from school
to this unfamiliar collection
of walls, furniture, appliances.
My belongings are not here,
because I don't belong.
I lay here in a bed,
much too big.
and listen for the non-existent
traffic to pass my window as it
does in my now empty home.

I catch myself wondering
about the people who once
called this their home.
Why did they leave?
What did they do when they saw the house
ablaze
everything they loved going up in smoke.

Has anyone else lay in this
cold room sleepless
or thought of sneaking out the window
for a midnight stroll.
Were they ever curious
of the graveyard just up the road
and the frozen ground
beneath the snow.
Did they like the constant
trickle of the river in the spring
or loose their breath
on a winter morning
marveling at the complexity
of snow clining to the branches
of the surrounding wood.

How was it different
if this was their home?

Symphony

I find comfort in the quiet places
the stillness of night,
the rhythm of sleep,
the sound of stars that shine
long through the night
no one to appreciate their beauty.
The sound of snow flakes falling,
of dandelion seeds drifting,
the hum of the setting sun.
Perhaps no humanly noise will ever
be able to capture the majesty
of natures symphony.

loose

the greatest fear
that wells up inside
is only an idea
a daydream
somehow everything might
slip through my fist
like trying to cup water
in your hands
everything might be
ripped away
everything i love and hate
gone
every familiar comfort torn
from my loosened grasp
the emptiness of loss wells up
as i struggle to hold on

Time

some swear time is a bandage
a cold one,
like using steel to stop bleeding
It just numbs everything.
Lets you forget about the blood
still seeping out underneath.

Five

Five
It's supposed to take five years
for every cell in your body
to clone itself and die.
After five years
you're completely new
nothing of the old is remaining.
You only remember the child
you used to be, the one you're not.
I waited:
I waited five years
it's a long time.
Like a prisoner to myself
and everything the darkness ever touched
... every cell holding me back like bars.
Until finally my sentence was up
I was released-- New!
I sprang forth only to trip on my way out
scrapping my knees, bruising my heart
earning five more years.
I'm not waiting this time...
I'm not sitting in the bath tub
scrubbing with steel wool any longer
trying to shorten my sentence
and erase all of the mistakes.
I'm not trying to peel off my skin.
Because someone saw me.
They saw my cage and they said,
"Five years wasted, five more to go
I have a key.
I can unlock you.I'll make you new
right now." and I am free,
no longer waiting for
five years to pass.

washing feet

I often catch a fleeting thought
streaming across my mind
at times when I'm over come
with emotions I'd like to pretend
I don't feel.
Why do tears bloom in eyes
when sadness is impending,
when anger is peaking
anguish is rising,
frustrations are showing
and even when happiness is abounding.
Where does that empty victory come from
after ragged breathing
and choking sobs
catching thick in the throat
like a fish flopping around in a boat
struggling for its last breath.
No other creature does this,
lets water flow freely
from glassy eyes.
and no other creature tries so hard
to avoid what is only natural.
Instead of embracing it
for what it is
a release of what's welling up inside;
a way to wash feet,
while reverently asking for forgiveness
to show how wrong we were
to cleanse our eyes of images of evil
and get a clear view of a savior staring
down at us, ready to wipe our tears.

Live

I want to be untamed.
Was I ever?
I cannot image
the reckless child
that I never was.
It was always
look both ways
before you cross.
I want to run away
and not stop
until I can't remember
which way home.
To find adventure
everywhere I turn.
To say what I think.
To spend nights
under an endless
starry sky.
I want to roll through
open meadows,
pick wild flowers
wander through woods.
I want to tread
where no one has ever
dared to.
I want to live
like I never did.

Winter

Winter comes softly
like a loss of hope
it creeps in quietly.
Becoming colder
and colder
and colder.
Day by day
as nights take over
darkness impending.
Even the days are dark
there's no light
to remind how beautiful
things can be,
how alive you can feel.
The snow drifts down like ash
softly, slowly,
covering every trace of growth
as if the end has come.
Then winter fully descends
with moaning, howling
winds-- inner anguish.
It covers in a blanket
of heavy misery
snuffing out hope.
Until all that's left
is cold,white
emptiness.

November Means Wait

When the end is near
it will look like
a november day.
The sky dark and
overcast,scarcely
letting in a ray
of light.
All life has been leeched
from the fruitless earth.
Trees mere skeletons
waving back and forth
in the cold harsh wind.
Snow gently flowing
down like ash.

We are in expectance
that the sky will rip open
with lightning and fire
a blinding light
the true end of all.

As for now
November
simply means wait.

Look

Am I just an overlay?
My existence barely there.
I wonder often
if anyone ever sees me
or just looks right through.

Falling Back

Why are the things
we run from
so appealing
to run right back to?

Somewhere in the middle
we turn right round
deciding we were wrong
that we want what
we dispise most

It's some sort of
sickening cycle.
A form of self-torture.

In the end
do you even know what you want?

Is there Anyone

My bones are weary.
My heart heavy.
My burden is overwhelming.
My yoke is a struggle.
I just need someone
to lean against.
I just need
a moment's rest.
Is there anyone?
Invisible as I may be
my transgressions
are plain to see.
Is there anyone?
Someone to listen
and truly hear.
To wipe away tears
Is there anyone?

I've felt so alone.
Until I hear Your voice
small and still
insisting that You
will carry me.
That You will give me rest,
let me lean against You
catch my breath.
You will take away
my burden and yoke;
set me free.
You'll catch my tears
as they fall, scouring
my heart and purging it.
You'll hold me
like a babe,
with your nail-scared hands.
You ask, "is there anyone
who will let me?"

Tissue

Sometimes I get fed up
with always being
your Kleenex box.
To you I'm just something
to dry your tears with,
blow out all of the gross
then dispose of.

Depths

You'd never know
what lies just
beneath her surface.
Like trying to stare
into murky water.
Do you even want to?
or are you just
as content as the others
to only tread lightly.
You see what
you want to see.
Unless you care
to put on an
oxygen mask,
an anchor to a secure spot
and dive into her
uncharted depths
looking deeper
and deeper
and deeper.
Don't be surprised
at what you find
buried under
a bright smile
calm demeanor
simple shrug;
you were warned.
And in the end?
You really only see
what she lets you,
wants you to see.

Somethings Come Slowly

Somethings come slowly
like knitting a scarf
they come stitch-by-stitch
you have to keep going
tediously
it doesn't feel like
anything is happening.

Somethings come slowly
like mending
a broken heart.
Like healing
a bruised soul.
Patience and
the utmost care
gentleness
tenderness
soft words
spoken sweetly into ears.

Somethings come slowly
you have to step back.
Then over time
the stitches bring together
one beautiful,
complete work.
Something whole.

God Shops Second Hand

God is savvy.
He shops second hand.
He takes old,
worn, tattered,things
turns them round
and says,
"I can use this,"
He buys them,
takes them home
washes them clean.
Removes every stain.
Then piece by peace
he sews them back
together
patching the holes
with His own fabric
His own spirit.
Gives them a
second chance
and cherishes them.
Then it is as if
they are completely new,
ready to be used by Him.

Gates of Hell

There is nothing like
the big innocent eyes
of a young
inexperienced child.
They are wide
and open
starring at the world
with wonder.
Anything could be magic
anything...
But then
there is always that
gentle but nagging voice
sinisterly informing
that not everything
is as it seems
the world can be terrible-
it can hurt.
And slowly
hope fades,
like a life support patient
wasting away
in a bleak hospital room
until nearly all is gone.
Supposedly,
it says on the
gates of hell
"abandon all hope
ye who enter here".
As if our own world
is hell
hopeless.
But if
no one had ever told
that wide-eyed child
to give up their dreams
and wonder
they might just
hold on.

Coniferous

It is the season
after autumn
before winter
shortly after
the fall
of leaves
leaving the trees
they once clothed
to stand there
naked
like skeletons
waiting for snow
an ice
to hang off of them.

And I am just like them.
Little pieces
of protection
dying
and falling to the ground
leaving bare branches
for everyone to see.
I wish I could have
grown needles instead.
Covered myself in spikes
that never change,
always protect.
I would be ugly
without decoration
of buds in spring
and lush summers
and flaming autumn
but I would be safe.
My fruit would be
worthless
everyone would know
to keep their distance.
After all,
who could love
something so harsh?

First Grade

Underneath the surface
of a freckled face
and wide smile
they knew there was a child
afraid of people's ways.
Afraid of anger
of displeasure
from those who were
many times her size;
trained by
the sting of slaps
to be seen and not heard.
Bright as a lightbulb
quick to prove
her worth
to do good
to do right.
But the slightest
raise of your voice
could send a wave of fear
over face
her big eyes
filling then overflowing
with tears,
afraid of the punishment
she knew was coming.
She'd promise to be better--
to try harder
to work more
to prove she was good.
That she didn't deserve
to be hurt.

Wings

I'm always being told
that life is an adventure
this is the peak of my life
nothing is holding me back
except a long wounded wing.

It's strange to notice
that a bird will sit
with a cage door
flung wide open
quietly on its perch
singing to itself
too scared to leave
everything its ever known
to go where its always
wanted to go.

One day,
one day,
I promise I'll leave.
In the middle of the night
to who knows where.
For my adventure to begin
just as soon
as I remember
how to fly.

That Season

Its that kind of season
now when the trees
stand there
naked,
you can hear the
chattering of their branches
as the wind
blows straight through
your tired bones.
Nights are long
darkness pending.
Goosebumps come in waves
as you brave the cold.
The air is sharp.
Each breath reminding you
that you're alive.
But inside all you feel is
numb.

Waste

Sometimes I get so tired
of wasted days
wasted hours
wasted years.
The clock
is prone to mock
with it's constant tick.
Every moment
is supposed to be lived
and loved
as a precious gift.
Well here I am
wasting my breath
my thoughts
my time
on things that will
always be as barren
as a dead tree.

I'm Sorry

I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I'm so bitter.
I wasn't always this way;
before I knew the feeling
of my arm twisted
behind my back.
Twisted like him
and the smirk on his face.
Taking so much pleasure
from my innocent pain.

I'm sorry.
I'm not that child anymore
I've learned to kill or be killed
to lock everything away
out of reach
so nothing will ever be
stolen.

Author's note

Okay so this month even though no one reads my blog  yet, I have decided to write one poem daily as good practice. So this means that a lot of the stuff I put up won't likely be my best. but these talents don't bloom overnight, it takes practice and discipline which writing daily will force me to do.

November

November is here:
she breathes her icy breath
on the bark of trees
makes their leaves fall-
like the hair of grieving men.
Makes their bones grow brittle
they shake in the wind-- half asleep.
She sets the stage for winter.
Prepares us to be slapped
by his cold, open fist.
It's the longest time
until things will grow again.
For now,
everything dies.

Rendition

I never meant it to be like this:
this regret
this remorse
for what?
For love...
No, for something
only faintly resembling it;
a facade.
No, not love,
something else...
twisted and thorny,
coming on so slowly.
The first touch like fingertips.
Until its too late.
You only notice
how trapped you are
when skin is broken
teeth are gnashed
pain seers from every part.
Yes, you can escape
pull out your own dagger
and cut yourself free.
Yes, you're free,
but it's when you turn
to catch a glimpse
over your shoulder
that you realize
your heart is caught
back in the thorns,
trapped in this
Redition

Linden Trees

My name isn't beautiful.
It doesn't roll off your tongue.
It is who I am,
or perhaps rather
who I am not.

It does not mean
"gentleness is in her soul"
It means lime tree.
Not delicate, graceful
but strong, sturdy, unmoving.
Producing limes:
sour, acidic fruit
that make your face cringe.
Only good for preventing scurvy,
for cleansing things
for stinging wounds.

Two girls

I look in the mirror somedays
and wonder if
the person starring back
is a still a little girl
an innocent child
who is lost in the big world
and needs someone
to bring her home and
look after her
or
if the person starring back
once was a girl who
 grew up so long ago
that she doesn't know
how to be innocent
or let anyone else
take care of her.

If I could

If I could hold on to
what I never had
I am sure everything
would be so different

If I could clutch
the memories of
a sweet, happy family
and spread them over all the
burnt broken parts
like butter on bread

If I could grasp
a photo with a real smile
from so many years ago
one that wasn't forced
but delighted with life
I'd tape it over today

If I could fill
all the empty times
with something...
some feeling or sense
to know that
even when I never felt it
or knew it
or wanted it
or cared.

He loved me.

Beauty

Some find beauty
in the clothing upon
their back.

What would
happen if beauty
was found

not in the fine,
delicate items of life
but in

the oil floating
on the dirty puddle in
the gutter.

Does Anything Change?

Walking by the fence
of a cemetery today
I saw the cars streaming in,
the tear-streaked faces
the minister
and I wondered
would it be any different
if I knew who died,
or would I just keep going?
Either way, I’m certain
the earth would still turn;
my heart still beat steady.
The dandilions would still
be as bright yellow