I thought about you,
I wrote about you
as though we were characters in a story,
and now that the words are written and saved
I can let you go
a bit easier.
Tag: paper
accidents can be beautiful
An accidental, yet dramatic, spill
of water across the floor, the couch,
most of the living room, really,
included pages of notebooks.
Faint stains of pink and purple
enhancing the flavor of tap water
paint over the blank canvases of pages
seemingly waiting, longing, for color.
Pages adorn new textures from the places
wet, then dried.
A crunching sound with every flip
refusing to lay flat,
forever changed.
Does a blank page even exist?
Gift an accident the opportunity to be beautiful.
write for as long as you need
Bring your focus to one thing, one task.
Put the phone down,
turn off the TV,
find peace in the silence.
Place a pen upon a sheet of paper
and write.
Write until your eyes see clearly.
Write until your head stops spinning.
Write until your chest relaxes.
Write for as long as you need.
could this be the beginning of something?
Digging out the key from the depths of my pocket
and opening wide the little metal door
I receive a sign, a symbol,
that something greater waits for me,
something so great it could not live within
this little metal box.
Hand-delivered to me is a cardboard box.
I recognize it instantly.
My heart leaps beyond my rib cage,
my mouth explodes into a smile
and my skin turns hot and clammy
as I take the box in my hands.
A corner is missing, exposing a corner of pages
within: pages I know, and love, and made.
You’re here.
I tear open the box,
gently extracting the stack of papers,
including four new ones written by someone else.
I feel everything.
I feel tears spring from my eyes
at the compliments,
I feel my head nod and mind expand
at the critiques,
I feel a deep exhale escape my mouth
at the suggested path forward,
I feel my heart race and palms sweat
at the positive encouragement.
I feel safe, and calm, and reunited.
I squeeze the stack of papers
close to my chest, just like she did.
This is coming home to myself.
out of the current
When I wrote about you
I hardly had to think at all.
Words appeared on the paper
as if from nowhere,
or a power higher and stronger than myself.
Flowing like a river downstream
I had no choice but to follow it,
with words to describe you, us,
in hundreds of ways
sweeping me with the current.
I am out of the current now.
There may be peace in calm, cool water
but also discomfort.
I wish not to write of you any longer,
but I cannot find words for anything else.
the tidal wave
I have stayed away,
kept my distance,
for fear that if I came too close
and opened the door
the tidal wave would erupt,
tearing down the door and the frame
with nothing to stop the water
until it slowed down to a stream.
I thought I needed time,
more lumber and nails,
to build the frame stronger
to make it withstand the force
building. I could feel it building
against the back of my eyes
within the cage of my chest
around the bones in my hands.
To wait just a while longer
would allow the wave to rescind
and I could open the door just a crack,
letting out the water I wanted,
under my control.
Believed this, I did.
Now, here I stand,
with the door open wide
and only a trickle of water passing
around and over my feet.
The anticipated wave is gone,
and only a small, calm pond lies
in the distance.
I was ready for the wave.
I expected and wanted it.
Still it has not come
leaving my dry skin uncomfortable
like a garden yearning to grow
with the promise of rain
that never delivers.
The wave will come again I know
to not be denied past my door.
I can only guess when or where
but I will be there
armed with paper and a pen.
my past self
I turn around,
take a look back at my past self,
read old journals
relive near-forgotten memories
and I think of her.
I yearn for her,
the young girl who thought
she had it all figured out,
a naive romantic
a dreamer.
What would it be like
to step back into those worn out Adidas shoes
and take in again her optimistic hopes
of the future, of the world beyond?
I ache for her pain,
revel in her happiness.
Some parts of her remain
in me
and other parts
I wish to recover from the buried sand.
little bit farther
Watching the needle
dip down, down,
closer to the bottom
and yet,
I keep on going
wondering how far I can go
before the last drop is used up.
Just a little bit farther.
The light comes on.
Just a little bit farther.
inner me
Between me
and my inner self
what is there left to do
but fight for her,
the inner me?
I need to set her free.
Every day
Riding through the waves of the day
from high to low
and only a short while on the even.
From good to bad
and mediocre
several trips per day
makes for an aching vessel
when the finish line arrives.
Every day
the map fuzzy, unclear,
uncertainty
of sharp corners and rolling hills
remains a certainty.
Every day.
Dawning Words 