Sunday's thoughts

Funny how things can turn around so quickly. Love distracts. Love heals. I'm always looking for love in the wrong places, the empty spaces. Then, like a gentle tap on the shoulder, I turn around and find it. In the unexpected way.

Of course, to be cynical, I must acknowledge too how quickly things shatter. It only takes a second for pieces to fall apart, and fighting despair is a lifetime battle.

Life ebbs and flows. It is a mingling of brokenness and healing. The sweet complexity of clashing flavors and opposing ideas.

This is why I believe so strongly in paradox.

For every day is a collision of bitter and sweet.

Even love, the ultimate striving, is so tainted. A murky water poisoned by selfish intentions. Anything touched by human hands becomes dimmed.

But the impurity of it all, the audacity to keep on loving anyways, becomes its redeemer. Murky waters can still quench the soul's thirst, and the feeblest of loves is still brave to love at all. I choose to believe in the beauty and value of life. Things suck sometimes, and that's okay. It's okay to feel. Okay to cry 'til your eyes run dry. I would rather know the value of love through the accentuation of suffering than live in the bliss of ignorance. And how beautiful it is to be surprised by love when disappointment and loss overtake.

So maybe at the bottom of the cup waits a bitter taste. But I won't let that stop me from savoring every swallow.

broken lines

after the fifth of June

I stopped writing in sentences and started writing in poetry

 

maybe because my soul was too tired to even summon punctuation marks

and life became an endless, unformed thought which did not deserve

the finality of a period or the clarity of prose

 

the agonized ache under my ribs was expressed better in broken lines

and though I will never claim the title of poet and always own up to my mediocrity

 

poetry feels right

at least for now

 

while clouds still hover among patches of happiness

and eyes are darkened by shadow

each morning is a gasp for life

every conversation a question of love

no relationship is certain

and the strength to go on even less sure

 

meanwhile

healing enters through hidden doorways

and maybe I won’t create unfit poetry forever

 

an end and beginning

it's natural to not believe in dawn when twilight
swallows you whole

but peace glistens as day breaks
and hope douses your brow
leaving you surprised

you didn't think you believed in daylight anymore
but it rises even when you resist its existence, presence,
persistence

it never stops nagging you
like a younger sibling whose naivety teaches you more
than you ever expected

you thought you knew it all

you thought life tasted like rinds and old coffee and stale memories
of crying on the scratchy carpet
cheek immune to all touch but the rough fibers scraping
and insides resistant to resilience
morning an impossibility and light an unwelcome taunt

there is an end to your night
even if there are no stars to keep you going

trust me
there is an end

suffocation seizes sharply
nighttime knows nothing
but bitter bawling
from fear found in folds
of hands, headache, hurting hesitant heart

tears taunt
breath breaks
chest chooses chafing chains

but darling, dawn dances in in due days
sometimes sooner so

brace yourself for a smile you did not anticipate
and a mending you swore you would never know

the search for love and failing to invest in the eternal relationship

Here's the scene. I am lying on my bed, lying across rumpled blankets, my feet propped upon my pillow. The baggiest of t-shirts, the messiest of hair, and the tiredest of eyes. And, I confess, a lonely heart.

You know those nights when the day has fled, you get to your room, and all you want to do is call someone up? To be with someone. To hear another's voice. To talk of serious, honest things.

Well, I've got the bug. I have almost called several people, only to pause. Talking would be too hard anyways. I am too tired for that. I just want to be in the presence of another. No words. Just the warmth and life of someone else, someone who loves me.

I have a deep desire for relationship, for community, for love. That is only natural, as a human, but sometimes I think it gets in the way. When channeled incorrectly,

it gets in the way of me and God.

My desire for other people trumps that of my desire for God. Forget talking to God because I won't hear from him audibly like I do from others. I won't feel his arms around me in an embrace. My constant ache for the tangible, the immediate, rules me as I cast aside the one whose presence is like no one else's. For there is one whose presence heals scars that run deeper than rivers. Though my cup is cracked and worn, he pours in satisfaction and abundance until it overflows. His is the voice that creates light, strikes down the nations, raises the dead. His hands stitched the oceans into being and his feet walked on water. No one can compete with this one. No one gets it like he does. No one sees me like he does. No one knows me like he, comforts me like he, rebukes me, holds me, guides me, ravishes me, loves me like him. He finds me in the dark, holds me in the cold, and pursues me in my faithlessness. This is the relationship that will last an eternity.

And yet daily I choose to not invest in it. I choose to not invest in my relationship with the eternal lover of my soul.

That is stupid.

When I get to him, on that final day, when I stand before him on Judgment Day - what will he say?
Will he, despite my protests, say he never knew me?

All because I never took the time to know him, here, now?

my flickering flame

I'm not a writer; I'm just someone with a voice.

Trust me, I have no idea what I am doing. I feel foolish. I do not write often enough, long enough, or well enough to qualify. I barely edit; I have never stuck with a piece by whittling it away and molding it into a nearly new creation with edits and dedication. I feel inadequate. I don't just feel it, I believe it.

How do I dare to dream of reaching others with my words? Where did this dream come from, and where could it possibly go? The audacity. Silly of me. My major is a fluffy, ridiculous dream that will take me no where practical. I'm not even sure if this is right for me. But I don't know what else to choose, what else would maybe fit. Doubts assail. And these doubts may be completely valid. Maybe I should listen to them.

My voice is small.

Then, there are moments where I feel a blossoming confidence in this gift I've been given. An arising flame, bursting to life. Maybe this is right after all.

Just maybe.

This dance continues, day by day. I wonder if the flame will survive.

 

jaded white

These walls will never be white again

I think

As I scrub the stains

Soap suds mingle with howled tears

Gasped fears 

A whisper 

They will never be white again

But I will dye them scarlet 

Til they drip with the pain of love 

White no longer

Bloodied forever

Stricken hearts lying on the countertop

Scuffed, stolen

Jagged, jaded

Broken but beating 

And this home will never be white again

No waxing, wielding, or wanting can cure it 

Again, that voice 

I'll dye it scarlet

Til it reeks of redemption

I don't know if I dare to believe it

a profane faithfulness

blunt pressure
fire licking at the walls
this here foundation is threatened every day

lungs smoked
ache penetrating your back
and now you know what it is like to be tired in your soul

it is true that love is risk
and that family is pain

and, too, that it is worth the injury

as you learn what faithfulness and love truly are
amidst those who understand you in all your profane
     edges
broken bits and foul nature

your hatred is unhidden
but the love rises unbidden to you

every day.


*Please know that I am not condoning abuse,
or saying that family and/or love are always worth the pain.
This poem is merely personal expression as it relates to my life.