Something some search for their whole lives,
Something some are gifted right away.
There is a beautiful feeling,
When the person you've hurt forgives you,
But often, it is even harder to give it to yourself.
The hurt has long been forgotten in their mind,
But you still hold on,
Skin growing over the metal cuffs it binds you with,
Appearing to be healed and forgotten to the world,
But you know the truth.
When you so much as brush that area,
The pain explodes,
fresh as if you had just spoken those words,
As if you had just seen their face fall.
I both forgive easily and hold a grudge forever,
To those I love, when they hurt me,
I know they love me,
And I love them,
And so I know that they did not truly mean to hurt me.
But to those who hurt the people I love,
I will hate forever.
They never hurt me directly,
But by seeing their hurts,
They have cut me more deeply than if they had stabbed my heart.
For this, I can and will hate forever.
Faint of heart
Of all the things to be in the world,
I would rather be those than faint of heart.
The heart controls not only the bloodstream,
But the love you can feel.
The way you can see the light in the darkest of people,
Or believe in something so fiercely, that you would fight for it,
Or how you can feel courageous,
Because you know that you are a person of worth and infinite value,
And who are they to tell you that you are insignificant?
Without my heart, I would merely be my brain,
I would be logical, intelligent, factual,
But I could never feel.
Being faint of heart can be physical,
Having weak muscles slowly thump,
Each time a strain,
But still, it beats.
But the worse fate seems to me,
To have a heart so small, so weak,
That you can't love,
Can't take courage,
Can't have a cause to fight for,
Can't believe in something true,
Seems like a fate worse than death.
After all, how can you live if you can't love?
With just a few words,
I am reduced to that little bird again.
Maybe she never left,
I'll never know.
She could never do anything right,
Was always different,
In the not-good way,
Always shamed and embarrassed them.
She was an embarrassment.
She moved away from her old nests,
Where the other birds her age used to stare and gossip about her,
And thought she changed,
And thought she made stable foundations,
But she always was crazy.
Then too soft.
Never able to find the happy medium.
And then she came back,
And the bird's beaks were mostly shut,
She didn't feel close to anyone,
But still talked to people.
But then her own sister whispered up at her,
"You embarrass me. I am ashamed to have people know we are sisters."
And the words echo in her ears.
And she remembered all those times spent apologizing for not knowing better, knowing that the apology would come in the morning.
The apologies came and went, and it was hard to feel better.
She knew it was never meant as harshly as the words came out, but she was young.
And sometimes she was spiteful, Sometimes she was rude,
But the times she didn't know any better,
Or forgot to think,
Those stung the most.
Yawn. The little bird stretches and wakes, and every morning hears a different apology.
Over time, they meant less and less.
And today, she knows an important lesson-- words said in anger hold the truths we'd never set free otherwise.
i am weak i can't do one thing without ruining the other there is no way i can ever appease one demon without enraging the other there is the girl who laughs and laughs and laughs until the world ends in fire and then laughs still because it's too funny; and there is the girl who shrivels up and cries and watches the room spin and spin around the world and then smiles as she smashes all the glass in her beautiful terrible cage and all the emptiness fills with the shards; impossible broken pieces of something that used to be whole. And the two pieces, the two shards, smile in unison, tears running down their faces, from the hilarity, the beauty, the ugliness of it all.
The small boy took a deep breath,
and began to play.
He drew the bow across the strings slowly at first,
Drawing the sound out from within the metal coils,
Notes so high they nearly hurt.
The melody was mournful, and yet not,
Like snow falling in the winter,
Soft and cold.
Harsh and graceful.
They felt the music,
Not just inside their ears,
But inside their eyes, their bones;
Were reminded of memories long past
Or thrown into a scene of dizzying wonder.
With his tiny, nimble fingers,
Their heartstrings were plucked at,
Forcing them to feel,
He pulled the emotion from them,
Spinning it into a whirlpool of colors, thoughts and dreams.
It hurt a little bit,
But great music is supposed to--
It's designed to scrape you raw,
To expose all you are,
And then stitch you up,
Leaving you the better for it.
The boy held the final note out,
Both beautiful and terrible,
And then put down his violin, bowed, and left the small stage.
There is a little girl inside my heart,
With fluffy, curly hair,
Who is always giggling and laughing,
Always smiling, searching for joy.
There is a scowling pessimist, too,
With a glare sharp and cold as ice,
Who protects herself with knife-sharp words,
Always fearing the worst, and overreacting.
And who could forget the sociable one,
With her mouth moving slightly faster than her brain, but confidence to make up for it,
Who is always making friends, trying to be nice,
Always the bubbly extrovert.
But her twin, the insecure introvert, keeps her in check
With her quiet eyes drawing back into herself, like a turtle to its shell,
Who really would rather be reading or writing than be with people,
Always second guessing herself, scared to be who she wants to be.
There's the creative me, too,
The one who can take all of the emotions-- good and bad-- and twist them into words, into a tangible form,
The one who ties all of them together,
The one who demands to be heard, to be felt, all without speaking a single word.
Always dreaming or imagining or writing or believing in something better.
There are so many parts to myself, all with good and bad parts,
So many more than I can list-- dorky me, family me, spiteful me-- all with their own loves and fears,
But I love them all, for giving me strength; confidence; a smile; a dream; hope even when there is none, just because I know that time will help and heal and know that things will get better.
They all make up the person I am today, and help me recognize who and what I am-- a daughter, a sister, a friend, an enemy, a poet, a smiler, beloved, and most of all, a force to be reckoned with.
Spent typing in the dark,
Vibrations streaming to my ears,
Words made of letters and sentences made of words,
Words that I created.
There's power on being a writer--
You can create worlds, people, ideas--
You can build people up, make them feel like they're among the stars,
Or you can tear them down, make them feel six inches tall.
I like to think I use the pen for good,
That I help build others up,
That I create beauty from the same 26 symbols,
And I know just how much those tiny symbols can tear into you,
How they can make you feel alone, and tiny--
And so I like to help people back on their feet.
My friends know the power of words,
And they help too.
If I couldn't write, I wouldn't be me.
I'd smile less,
I'd see only the black and white, not the shades in between,
And I'd never be able to do anything about concepts and questions in my head.
So thank you for the words,
Thank you for the laughter,
Thank you for illuminating my world.
A strip of light I don't want to see.
A smooth surface, broken underneath.
Rolling tears and derisive laughter,
Emptying words; "There's no Happily Ever After".
Red and blue don't always make purple,
"I love yous" can break hearts too.
Empty lines, uniform and strange,
Unspoken words, clamoring for a page.
A misshapen pen, the blue of the sky,
A shattered reminder that some birds never fly.
Accusatory words, with an empty "sorry",
A useless bandage plastered with "it's okay."
Echoing melodies, flat and pale--
Still haunting my head--
They won't let me be,
They can't let me breathe.
I am frozen.
I can't move
Stares penetrate me,
Seeing straight to my soul,
And all the stress comes crashing down around my head.
My hands are shaking,
May teeth gnaw at my lip,
And I stumble over my words as I try to talk.
I look for help, but find none,
And I become colder and colder.
I may seem bright and happy,
But on the inside,
I have shards of ice through my heart.
I am scared of speaking in front of crowds,
Even though I love to talk face-to-face.
I hate to hurt someone,
Even though I act like I don't care, like I am ok.
I don't say the words, not in front of anyone,
But I do think them. Often.
But I am a good person,
At least, I try to be,
I don't know anymore,
I don't know who I am.
But then I turn to you,
And you show me the light inside you,
Which can be inside me,
You comfort me when I am Frozen,
Light a fire in my heart that melts the ice,
And teach me to breathe again.
I love to hear people sing.
Their emotions flowing from their mouths to my waiting ears,
Vocalizing their pain, their joy,
The light and dark melodies.
Writing is like music,
Although I can't sing as well,
I can paint a picture of what I feel,
By using words, words who have always enthralled me.
Like music, you might not like my style,
And that's ok,
But at the heart of my star,
I write for me, not you.
Although if you like what I have to say,
What I sing with my pen,
Then I will embrace you,
And listen to you sing.
They say that I listen to too much music,
And that I need to settle on one type,
But what I like changes every day.
And I see the beauty in all of it.
Beethoven's 14th flows through my fingers like water,
But I still love Panic! and Amy,
Never forgetting to make time for Lorde and for Disney music.
You might not get it, but that's ok.
I personally don't like rap.
Even if we don't speak the same language,
I can still feel the melodies flowing past me,
Beating inside me alongside my heart.
When I entered the world,
Shrieking and wailing,
They told him to talk and calm me down.
He did, and I listened, holding his big finger in all five of my little ones.
A few years later, when I was shrieking and wailing again,
He looked me in the eyes and I grabbed his finger in my five littler ones,
And I calmed down.
He makes me laugh when I am sad,
He brings light into our lives,
He works tirelessly day and night for us,
And without him I would not be the same.
He has carried us all at one point or another,
Sometimes all at once.
And so when I'm scared,
Internally shrieking and wailing,
I reach for his hand,
And grip his finger in my five smaller ones.
I knew his voice,
And I stopped crying,
And the doctors helped me breathe.
He understands me,
Because I am like him,
And so he knows what to say to help me feel better,
Even if it's just the outreach of his open hand,
So that my five tiny fingers could grip his larger one.
I remember, once, long ago,
A little girl was put in trial, by order of The Dictator.
Not a specific one, like Mussolini, or Stalin, just someone who had power, and used it viciously due to their own fears.
I remember being surprised by the refusal to let her tears drop, as she was berated for her crimes by the prosecutor, even though we could all see the shininess of those tears in her big, vulnerable eyes, she clenched her jaw and fisted her hands and kept her pain inside.
The prosecutor ranted and raged, while the jury was afraid to get involved, and jeered along at the court of fools, and the judge was, for all intents and purposes, quite absent, and so the little girl did all she could to stay strong.
The crime was atrocious: caring too much about something her majesty had little regard for, and in doing so, forgetting to dedicate an hour to fetching and carrying for her Grand Highness Supreme.
The defense, a weak man under the face of such extreme pressure, caved, and suggested to the little girl that she should just admit guilty, and take the punishment: telling her greatness how awful a human being this little girl was, for neglecting to do a simple task (A point that, truthfully, the prosecutor had taken her loud, drowning voice and drilled into everyone's brain), and to let her tears show, to show everyone how weak she was.
This little girl was all alone, and clearly feeling humiliated and distraught. But still, even when brought before the court of fools, she did not let a single tear fall.
There's no shame in crying, when one has a reason.
It's ok to cry for another, and for yourself, and for your losses. Sometimes, it's even ok to cry just to cry. But crying from humiliation, would prove weakness, and even the little girl knew that weakness was never an option.
The jeers and laughter of the oily court of fools struck something inside that pigtailed child, and she refused to give in.
"Break that stubbornness, little one, and her majesty may be merciful." Oozed the defendant. "Just give in."
"Never." Was the nonverbal reply, issued in the folding of her arms across her tiny, hollow chest.
I have never forgotten that little girls last look, and I know, even when I become so old I can no longer tell right from left, I will never forget her strength.
How dare you
How freaking dare you
You're supposed to be kind
You're supposed to care about me
And even though we can see right through your fake smile,
Don't dig yourself an even bigger pit
And insult me like that.
You knew what you were doing,
And even if we hadn't been there,
That's still not ever an ok thing to say.
And I freaking love him, okay,
You have no right to go and say that to me.
Because, it wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all.
I was trying to make it easier,
But you had to go and tick me off,
And so now I was angry at you when I should have been thinking of Him.
You're doing your job really well.
A+ for you, sister, A+.
You're checking off all of the boxes, but never seeing the girl underneath.
When I grow old,
And I pass,
I want to be remembered for helping others,
For not being afraid to be alive,
For dancing in the rain.
When my grandchildren gather around my feet,
I want them to know not to hold themselves back from what they love.
I want them to love life, like I do,
I want them to dance in the rain with me.
Some people say that dancing in the rain is weird,
And maybe to them it is,
But it gives me joy,
Just like laughing with friends and family,
Just like reading a great book,
Just like the cool breeze on a burning day.
I wonder what I will look like in decades,
Once I have experienced more of life,
And the one think I know I don't want to lose is my grin,
And the one thing I will not mind gaining are the smile lines around my eyes.
When I am old,
When my joints creak and my bones ache,
I want to remain myself, now and forever.