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.