Shallow Heart

Cold tears rip violently at the throat

Of those who cry

And pray for rain.

You've cried,

With jealousy towards those

Who have blurred sight

The pangs in their chest…

Your shallow thought can’t attain.

Sure you’ve cried.

You were so mad you didn't

Get what you wanted

Your cat died once and you cried…

But never cold tears that

Freeze and crack the heart.

I die inside

A thousand rivers pummeling my chest

Because of deep affection

Never.

No not ever like you.

That's why you hate me and I

Can’t console you…

When you pretend to cry.

Broken Hearts

Somewhere in Texas I broke my heart. The beautiful endless sea of burnt gold land and way too much time to drown in my thoughts was the perfect combination to transport my little soul to a very vulnerable place. I am so raw, and everything I experience has a hightened intensity. I was going to visit my dying grandma. I was going to support my family, going to learn about grief and death, two things I had no understanding of. I had a lot to think of as I gazed at that window towards an envoloping scenery, not only about these things, but about love, and sin, and committment, and innocence.
Here's what I learned.
People are meant to be beautiful, and you can age gracefully, and you can die and be  dying gracefully. This doesn't make it smooth. The body fights with itself, and the mind slowly leaves the body. Your humanity fades out, and become like an infant again, closer to your death, closer to God's loving arms than any other point in your life. But my grandma, she was the sweetest woman I ever knew. She gave so much love and strength to her family, and the astounding example of Christ she exibited influenced all my relatives. They were united by this beautiful woman, and shared in her loving personality, and strength. None of them feared death, they were happy to see this sweet woman reunited with her husband, free of pain.
People are meant to be beautiful, beautiful to eachother. It was a complete epiphany to me. Thats all the realization was. That we are meant to be overflowing with love and beauty.
The best visualization I have for the discovery of this profound truth is what all my relatives would say to my grandma, with their charming Texan accents, as they clasped her veiny feeble hands, "Granny, you always had the softest skin, did you know that?"
I'm completely broken.

Dampened Spirits

He does not hold my hand when I walk through the snow
Nor stand by my side in church
He cannot meet my parents
But they hear him outside my window
Sometimes

Maybe you'll see him around
He doesn't stay far behind
The first time I saw his face
I cried
He always waits for me

Someone once said
You cannot escape love
And believe me. I've tried
to run.
He has this hold over me

In my dreams
In my darkest paths
In my most silent thoughts
Comes my slender man
Stretching his spider arms around my waist

Taking me away
To a place
Where you don't need a soul
Maybe one day you'll understand
Why I pray
For Nightmares.

81

I've written 81 poems in the past two years. I have a green leather bound notebook with a girly, childish flower design on it where I keep these thoughts. My handwriting has changed over the years. I've explored different writing styles, subjects, and ink colors. I've had different muses. And now, I'm almost done. I've shared a few of these poems on this blog, but they are much more dear to my heart than they will ever be to anyone who finds inspiration within them. Writing is an exploration of the soul. Probably one of the lesser mediums of self-expression. I find music, though similar, to be much deeper, and more complete.

Anyways, when I write, it is never contrived. Though I am adamantly against feminist, persuasive essay writers, one mentioned how when she writes, she feels an overwhelming pressure building inside her, and when she wrote, the cathartic release alleviated that pressure, until she needed to write again. That is sort of how writing is for me. My thoughts will be consumed with one idea, and until one day I sit down in front of a computer or with paper and I write until that idea has taken complete form. The cadence and style, the length and symmetry, the language, vocabulary, subject, allusions, everything is my way of verbally depicting that idea that is stuck in my brain.

Writing also comes in spells. I would describe myself as a generally upbeat, friendly, easy-going person, but I will not ignore the deep streak of melancholy that runs in my veins. I am definitely not depressed, but I do enjoy being sad and somber from time to time. I like being able to feel, and every so often I'll be rapt with something sobering, and therefore overcome with emotion and deep thought. It is much easier for me to write when I'm in that mood.

What am I getting at? I don't really know, I just felt like explaining what goes on, and why I've written so many poems. They're really good, to be completely honest. And writing for me, is wildly cathartic. Everyone needs time to themselves, time to reflect, and a way to release what burdens their heart. It doesn't have to be deep, just whatever gives you that cathartic release.

This song is creepy and beautiful, maybe it could put you in that mood. (Thanks Olie, I love the Hush Sounds!!!!) <3

Fake

I sorta really like fake specimen and stuff like that. Nature, when its caged, very still, and within my grasp. Dead nature. But so far, I don't have a lot to my collection. And, I have a new piece of "art".

Bunnies

poor kids. anything can be creepy. and some parents are just sick. 

Refusing Fatality

Fate would have me to believe
It was chance
Pretty lucky I guess
We made it when everyone else
Was dealt a fatal card
I look at the past
How we barely made it out alive
And by clutching onto freedom
Learned to breathe underwater

But listen.

Fate has not won us
We don't await that fatal blow
Because beyond the conviction
Of imminence
Is love.
The marked road we tread
Is completely metaphoric
And I am so convinced
I know not even fate could invervene
You and I were ment to be
Past what fate could percieve.