it’s a bit like a war
in some small desert land long forgotten
There was life before
innocence and everyday things
lying soft in memory
on the long side of a gaping wound chasm
Now there is pain and the recovery
known in great stories
but it’s not clean or ready for the movies
Breathing is hard, time infinitely relative
Bravery, though, was never shown on
comfortable couches
So I dream of a lion with compassion in his eyes
And the universe awakening in his roar
It’s a bit like a war
in some small garden long misplaced
There will be life after
thankfulness and favorite things
shimmering warm in anticipation
on the long side of a glass no longer dark
Now there is hope that does not disappoint
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
christmas
I don’t like myself
In winter
When angels and sinners sing
Of glory and clean things
I don’t understand
I curse in the silence
At darkness
When ghosts and memories haunt
Of family and bounty offered
I don’t remember
I fight a mercy
During quiet
When holly and ivy intwine
Of garland and home eternal
I can’t help but hope for
In winter
When angels and sinners sing
Of glory and clean things
I don’t understand
I curse in the silence
At darkness
When ghosts and memories haunt
Of family and bounty offered
I don’t remember
I fight a mercy
During quiet
When holly and ivy intwine
Of garland and home eternal
I can’t help but hope for
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Church
I haven’t been really fed or happy at my church for a while now. It’s not bad, it’s not dramatic. There’s impressively little drama; No one did anything; there aren’t changes I need to be happy. It’s just… well, like those relationships that don’t get worked on and paid attention to – they have to change because there comes a point where they just don’t fit anymore.
I live in the South, where we sell fast Christianity like other parts of the country sell fast food. Here Jesus comes in an array of flavors, too. There’s conservatively-minded, socially-aware Jesus, complete with Scripture sprouts and Holy Ghost blessed sprinkles; or next door, super-hip Jesus with precisely mussed hair and hyper-fashionable skinny jeans strumming His guitar and contemplating His fair trade latte. There are as many flavors of Jesus available here as one could ever wish to have, and far, far more than Christopher Hitchens would care to admit exist.
Jesus met me when I was young, and He’s been around long enough that I don’t know what life looks like without Him. We fight (a lot, honestly, and on a pretty regular basis). We really disagree on a few things, but He makes me feel un-broken. And although He lets me hide in Him when I need to, He really pushes me to be in community, too – whether I want to be or not.
What’s a Southern Christian chick to do when she loves her church that doesn’t fit, but she worships a God that promises to keep her safe while she’s horribly uncomfortable?
The first thing I did when I was faced with this question was the same thing I did the last time I was faced with this question: I tried to figure out what the exact opposite of my current church would be like. Taking out any thought of my self or what I would do if I were there, I started asking questions: What would it look like? What would the people be like? Where would it be? Would I have the courage to keep going, even if it wasn’t anything like what I thought it should be?
I knew what I needed, so I went church-shopping. The first church I tried was tragically hip, and devoutly... almost-what-I-needed. The building curved and slithered next to a major highway interchange in town, far from sleepy bedroom towns and their lackadaisical town-views... and cost $95 million to build. I just was not hip enough to go there very often.
Next, I looked for something closer to home. There was a church down the road (or interstate, honestly) that offered New Southern Baptist Jesus. He had coffee, yeah, man, but He was cool - because He had commandments, too! There were lights and U2-inspired worship songs. It was... kinda awesome, but in the way that going to a vampire circus is: it's fun while it lasts, but get out before the house lights come back, because you may not make it out alive... or in one piece.
I was just tired. And drained. I’d rummaged for a few years, thinking there had to be more, not sure what it was or if I really needed it. Then, I found something that over-rushed me, and I knew there was more and I had to find it – except that I’d been over-rushed in Cincinnati, decidedly above the Mason-Dixon. If not for that Sunday with its free coffee and beautiful presence in a former couch warehouse, I’d’ve walked away and just stopped trying.
Coming back home, a friend suggested a church she had read about in the paper. When she mentioned that it was mentioned in both the liberal free paper and the traditional, conservative morning paper, I was in (if only because those two periodicals agree even less than Congress does with the President).
It was like I walked into God’s smile. The people were kind, the church building graceful in its aged stone. Everything was new and challenging, and it was as if God said, this. This is why you were looking. Here.
That first service, I asked about how to join. I wanted to be a part of the people there, to be where I could put down roots and build something solid. I needed friends, but I found family.
I can’t want say what flavor of Jesus this church serves. It’s new and the neighborhood surrounding it will definitely influence it… but whatever it is, it feeds my soul and I really dig the chance to share that.
I live in the South, where we sell fast Christianity like other parts of the country sell fast food. Here Jesus comes in an array of flavors, too. There’s conservatively-minded, socially-aware Jesus, complete with Scripture sprouts and Holy Ghost blessed sprinkles; or next door, super-hip Jesus with precisely mussed hair and hyper-fashionable skinny jeans strumming His guitar and contemplating His fair trade latte. There are as many flavors of Jesus available here as one could ever wish to have, and far, far more than Christopher Hitchens would care to admit exist.
Jesus met me when I was young, and He’s been around long enough that I don’t know what life looks like without Him. We fight (a lot, honestly, and on a pretty regular basis). We really disagree on a few things, but He makes me feel un-broken. And although He lets me hide in Him when I need to, He really pushes me to be in community, too – whether I want to be or not.
What’s a Southern Christian chick to do when she loves her church that doesn’t fit, but she worships a God that promises to keep her safe while she’s horribly uncomfortable?
The first thing I did when I was faced with this question was the same thing I did the last time I was faced with this question: I tried to figure out what the exact opposite of my current church would be like. Taking out any thought of my self or what I would do if I were there, I started asking questions: What would it look like? What would the people be like? Where would it be? Would I have the courage to keep going, even if it wasn’t anything like what I thought it should be?
I knew what I needed, so I went church-shopping. The first church I tried was tragically hip, and devoutly... almost-what-I-needed. The building curved and slithered next to a major highway interchange in town, far from sleepy bedroom towns and their lackadaisical town-views... and cost $95 million to build. I just was not hip enough to go there very often.
Next, I looked for something closer to home. There was a church down the road (or interstate, honestly) that offered New Southern Baptist Jesus. He had coffee, yeah, man, but He was cool - because He had commandments, too! There were lights and U2-inspired worship songs. It was... kinda awesome, but in the way that going to a vampire circus is: it's fun while it lasts, but get out before the house lights come back, because you may not make it out alive... or in one piece.
I was just tired. And drained. I’d rummaged for a few years, thinking there had to be more, not sure what it was or if I really needed it. Then, I found something that over-rushed me, and I knew there was more and I had to find it – except that I’d been over-rushed in Cincinnati, decidedly above the Mason-Dixon. If not for that Sunday with its free coffee and beautiful presence in a former couch warehouse, I’d’ve walked away and just stopped trying.
Coming back home, a friend suggested a church she had read about in the paper. When she mentioned that it was mentioned in both the liberal free paper and the traditional, conservative morning paper, I was in (if only because those two periodicals agree even less than Congress does with the President).
It was like I walked into God’s smile. The people were kind, the church building graceful in its aged stone. Everything was new and challenging, and it was as if God said, this. This is why you were looking. Here.
That first service, I asked about how to join. I wanted to be a part of the people there, to be where I could put down roots and build something solid. I needed friends, but I found family.
I can’t want say what flavor of Jesus this church serves. It’s new and the neighborhood surrounding it will definitely influence it… but whatever it is, it feeds my soul and I really dig the chance to share that.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
People flow out of church
like words flow out of Twitter
I stand, watching
wondering what I have in common
with shiny, happy people
in designer jeans & clean souls
Boy, girl, man woman buy coffee, flirt
Alone I stand, with messy hair & guarded eyes
Yeah, Jesus loves them
But I have made the same decision
and alone I stand, as they twitter past.
like words flow out of Twitter
I stand, watching
wondering what I have in common
with shiny, happy people
in designer jeans & clean souls
Boy, girl, man woman buy coffee, flirt
Alone I stand, with messy hair & guarded eyes
Yeah, Jesus loves them
But I have made the same decision
and alone I stand, as they twitter past.
church
Couples, couples everywhere & not
a welcoming smile among them
do they know what I’ve done? the
sins I’ve committed?
Do the men smell the lust & deviance? the women
think me unclean?
In a third space of not-home
not-work
not-welcome or known
Am I a third wheel always? Well-constructed
and unneeded?
Friends, friends everywhere and
yet I leave alone
a welcoming smile among them
do they know what I’ve done? the
sins I’ve committed?
Do the men smell the lust & deviance? the women
think me unclean?
In a third space of not-home
not-work
not-welcome or known
Am I a third wheel always? Well-constructed
and unneeded?
Friends, friends everywhere and
yet I leave alone
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
My name is Amber
Hi. My name is Amber, and I’m an incest survivor.
That sounds so after-school special, but it’s something that’s kind of been a serious thing most of my life. I hate it. I hate almost everything about it. The only good that’s come of it so far is the strength that all the stuff I hate about it has crystallized in me. Otherwise, I just have a list of things I hate: I hate the isolation, the anger, the feeling like a freak. I hate the long, lonely nights where I just hurt and I can’t express why. I hate the depression, the fact that I can’t be giddy and flippant and silly. I hate that I actually have to work to not flinch around men. I hate that I.. yeah, just hate it.
My dad died in a motorcycle accident earlier this year. I was on the train, on my way to work while my dad was riding a motorcycle into an accident on a major highway in Dallas. It shouldn’t affect me. After all, we haven’t spoken in 16 years, literally half of my entire lifetime… and yet. Here I am, being affected. Logically, the source of my painful childhood and frustrated teenage years is dead, I should want to party. There should be a lightening, life should be easier and prettier and.. just more. Logically, I should be stoked that I’m getting a better car out of the deal and my brother’s taken care of – for life… and I am. Sort of.
What pisses me off beyond belief is not that it happened. Honestly, I thank God that if it had to happen, that it happened to me, that it happened to someone who can talk about it; that he didn’t only have my brother or my mom to pick on all the time. What just seriously chaps my hide is that I can’t seemingly escape it.
Every time I meet anyone new – friend of a friend, at work, anywhere, anyone – I freeze, not sure how to act or behave. Am I too friendly? Not friendly enough? Did I shake too hard? Hold the hand too long? Is my eye contact too intense? Will they see? Will they know? Does it always have to be just so ever-present?!
I hate that. I know they’re lies, and still.. I listen! I run my hands through my hair, feeling like a poor kid at a private school – unkempt, unruly, and too untaught to do anything but soil the carpet I stand on just by standing on it. I want to hide, to lash out, to… just not hurt.
My name is Amber. I am an incest survivor. I start counseling tomorrow.Every time I see a cute guy – and I can actually form the words to speak around him, this insidious voice slyly suggests he’ll hurt me. Or that he’s a freak that’d get off on hurting me. That I’m a freak, and if he knew what happened to me, he’d think me too crazy to want to deal with.Every time I see a father with a daughter, I’m not sure how to respond. My body numbs, my mind searches for something familiar to compare this scene to, and my tongue gets thick. It’s beautiful and natural and… I have no reference for it. I feel stupid and thick, and I somehow bemourn some loss.But my name is Amber, and I am an incest survivor. Life is rarely simple and never easy.
That sounds so after-school special, but it’s something that’s kind of been a serious thing most of my life. I hate it. I hate almost everything about it. The only good that’s come of it so far is the strength that all the stuff I hate about it has crystallized in me. Otherwise, I just have a list of things I hate: I hate the isolation, the anger, the feeling like a freak. I hate the long, lonely nights where I just hurt and I can’t express why. I hate the depression, the fact that I can’t be giddy and flippant and silly. I hate that I actually have to work to not flinch around men. I hate that I.. yeah, just hate it.
My dad died in a motorcycle accident earlier this year. I was on the train, on my way to work while my dad was riding a motorcycle into an accident on a major highway in Dallas. It shouldn’t affect me. After all, we haven’t spoken in 16 years, literally half of my entire lifetime… and yet. Here I am, being affected. Logically, the source of my painful childhood and frustrated teenage years is dead, I should want to party. There should be a lightening, life should be easier and prettier and.. just more. Logically, I should be stoked that I’m getting a better car out of the deal and my brother’s taken care of – for life… and I am. Sort of.
What pisses me off beyond belief is not that it happened. Honestly, I thank God that if it had to happen, that it happened to me, that it happened to someone who can talk about it; that he didn’t only have my brother or my mom to pick on all the time. What just seriously chaps my hide is that I can’t seemingly escape it.
Every time I meet anyone new – friend of a friend, at work, anywhere, anyone – I freeze, not sure how to act or behave. Am I too friendly? Not friendly enough? Did I shake too hard? Hold the hand too long? Is my eye contact too intense? Will they see? Will they know? Does it always have to be just so ever-present?!
I hate that. I know they’re lies, and still.. I listen! I run my hands through my hair, feeling like a poor kid at a private school – unkempt, unruly, and too untaught to do anything but soil the carpet I stand on just by standing on it. I want to hide, to lash out, to… just not hurt.
My name is Amber. I am an incest survivor. I start counseling tomorrow.Every time I see a cute guy – and I can actually form the words to speak around him, this insidious voice slyly suggests he’ll hurt me. Or that he’s a freak that’d get off on hurting me. That I’m a freak, and if he knew what happened to me, he’d think me too crazy to want to deal with.Every time I see a father with a daughter, I’m not sure how to respond. My body numbs, my mind searches for something familiar to compare this scene to, and my tongue gets thick. It’s beautiful and natural and… I have no reference for it. I feel stupid and thick, and I somehow bemourn some loss.But my name is Amber, and I am an incest survivor. Life is rarely simple and never easy.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
it's
it's easier to believe in God
when life isn't quite so constant
when hopes are dashed like clockwork
when humans aren't quite so predictable
it's easier to trust
when He only asks for things that don't matter
when pain's not been a more consistent friend
when hope is flowers & Hallmark cards
- not razor blades in the dark
when I face the terrifying truth that I'm just not that special
it's easier to pretend it's my life
my world
when He's not quite so quietly solid
when I'm not faced with my broken blocks of a life
when He lets me cry and
makes me feel beautiful because of it
when life isn't quite so constant
when hopes are dashed like clockwork
when humans aren't quite so predictable
it's easier to trust
when He only asks for things that don't matter
when pain's not been a more consistent friend
when hope is flowers & Hallmark cards
- not razor blades in the dark
when I face the terrifying truth that I'm just not that special
it's easier to pretend it's my life
my world
when He's not quite so quietly solid
when I'm not faced with my broken blocks of a life
when He lets me cry and
makes me feel beautiful because of it
Sunday
Tomorrow
I will wash my face & shave my legs
I will wear a grey dress that makes me feel smart & hides my scars
My red shoes will gleam
& I will step into an old building with pretty glass
Tomorrow, I will seek God
Tomorrow
I will remember when I was a child & free
I will whisper to my soul's Lover of that night when His presence drenched & healed
My hazel eyes will shimmer
& I will move beyond what I see to what is
Tomorrow, I will give thanks for long-needed soul food
Tomorrow
I will not hide in the shadows, pain-colored & bruise-enhanced
I will shed my oily rags & carefully applied masquerades
My scars will show
& I will not care who sees
Tomorrow, I will show I know God.
I will wash my face & shave my legs
I will wear a grey dress that makes me feel smart & hides my scars
My red shoes will gleam
& I will step into an old building with pretty glass
Tomorrow, I will seek God
Tomorrow
I will remember when I was a child & free
I will whisper to my soul's Lover of that night when His presence drenched & healed
My hazel eyes will shimmer
& I will move beyond what I see to what is
Tomorrow, I will give thanks for long-needed soul food
Tomorrow
I will not hide in the shadows, pain-colored & bruise-enhanced
I will shed my oily rags & carefully applied masquerades
My scars will show
& I will not care who sees
Tomorrow, I will show I know God.
Friday, August 20, 2010
nothing like
I’m scared to write
Scared of what may come out
Insipid white girl, middle class problems
Or worse
nothing
for so long, I’ve wanted to be so dark and scarred
and now… I am
and I have no idea what to do about it
as I find it’s not what I wanted at all
nothing like
So.
Here I am.
Being stupid and worried
All vapid and plastic and redundant
while I have a good job and a decent life
a dog and a hope
a house with pretty floors
and while I sit, safe in my blasé gray cube
alone and unencumbered
I find that life is…
nothing like I thought
but then...
neither am I.
Scared of what may come out
Insipid white girl, middle class problems
Or worse
nothing
for so long, I’ve wanted to be so dark and scarred
and now… I am
and I have no idea what to do about it
as I find it’s not what I wanted at all
nothing like
So.
Here I am.
Being stupid and worried
All vapid and plastic and redundant
while I have a good job and a decent life
a dog and a hope
a house with pretty floors
and while I sit, safe in my blasé gray cube
alone and unencumbered
I find that life is…
nothing like I thought
but then...
neither am I.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Scandalous, Difficult Story
It’s hard for me to write blog posts. It’s just not my thing. Give me a scene and tell me to describe it in as few words as possible – I’m good. Have me tell of how the characters got to that particular scene, or what they said, and you can literally watch my mind blank faster than a dropped Etch 'n' Sketch.
God, with His ironic sense of humor, sees this as a place for me to grow. He’s encouraged me to write more by having a friend tell me about this opportunity Donald Miller put out there to win a free trip to one of his Portland writers’ workshops. He knows I would kill to go to one of those, and here is where, if you quiet intently, you can almost feel the soft, considering gaze of the Divine as I really do try to articulate why I want to go to a city I’ve never visited and can’t locate on a map, to listen to a writer I like (but don't have that much in common with), for days away from a real, grown-up job I love (which is also letting me change the world and do good).
So… to use Donald Miller’s paradigm of a Single Climatic Scene wouldn’t really work here, as much as I would like to shamelessly kiss up. I don’t know what the pinnacle of my story is, or what it’ll look like if I can get to the workshop, how my story will change, the tension morph.
But I can share a scene from the building tension that is the predominant story of my life right now.
I snuck into a conference recently. (I know! Me, typically the good girl!) But I had to. I couldn’t afford the entire conference, and I really only wanted to hear one speaker. The conference didn’t offer single speaker pricing, so I went with the intention of buying a coffee, and listening to the conference from a distance. Any crumb when you’re hungry enough, right?
I walked into Heaven. Everywhere I turned were creative, snarky, artistic people who loved Jesus.
It was as if my soul exhaled just stepping in the doors. New uses of multimedia, merging the idea of story with modern business sensibilities, finding the spirituality, the sense of community in a rock concert and translating that to Sunday morning and age-old hymns; hope reviving the relationship presented in Christianity floated in the air like jeweled dust motes. It was like I could walk inside my best Christmas present ever, like wrapping myself in joy. I wish I could share it with every person on the planet.
Why should Donald Miller, hip Voice of a Generation, consider me for his workshop? Because I have a need? Maybe. Because it’d be a mitzvah? Possibly. God does like those, and it makes a decent story.
Honestly? I don’t have a really great reason why. Yet.
I'll continue to write, to post my poems here, to put one foot in front of the other.
But if I were to voice a hope-laced prayer, it would be that this workshop marks a new scene in the story. Previous scenes have shown passion, need, hurt. The story's moving along, granted, but the tension's crystallizing. Like morning's light breaking on Isengard, hope calls into the stillness. Soon, there will be answer, because faith dictates and time grows full.
All I have is the faith of healing scars that if not this time, then next. God loves me, and together we’re writing a scandalous, difficult story.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
good day
soft sunset
still water
and your hand
stroking my scars
dreamy clouds
sturdy chair
and your eyes
caressing my flaws
cool winds
dark memories
and you...
understanding
Blink
to tell the truth the shadows are safer
No one sees here & no one knows
i can disappear here
all I wanted for so, so many years
to tell the truth
light scares me
No one meets my eyes, so no one
really knows
little lies I repeat here
all I’ve known for so, so many years
to tell the truth
my eyes are slow to adjust
No one can see for me & no one should
Truth burns off the cloying flecks
covering my eyes
all these years
learning how not to blink
No one sees here & no one knows
i can disappear here
all I wanted for so, so many years
to tell the truth
light scares me
No one meets my eyes, so no one
really knows
little lies I repeat here
all I’ve known for so, so many years
to tell the truth
my eyes are slow to adjust
No one can see for me & no one should
Truth burns off the cloying flecks
covering my eyes
all these years
learning how not to blink
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Lovers on a Train
Subtle begging in the tilt
of her head
eager, wanting her lover's kiss
Oblivious to anyone else
to train
or setting sun of peach gold
Lips wet and soft
eyes drift closed, dreamy
and hopeful
beautiful, clinging blush heat cheeks
as fingers reach
stroke
caress
cling, mold
Delicate
strong world
of want and need
of requests anticipated
sleek lips and sweet
comforting love
of her head
eager, wanting her lover's kiss
Oblivious to anyone else
to train
or setting sun of peach gold
Lips wet and soft
eyes drift closed, dreamy
and hopeful
beautiful, clinging blush heat cheeks
as fingers reach
stroke
caress
cling, mold
Delicate
strong world
of want and need
of requests anticipated
sleek lips and sweet
comforting love
baby fat
Someday
my skin will clear
my eyes will be luminous
And I will have worn away
my baby fat
Someday
my thoughts will astound
my Art will be be pristine
and I will have shed
my fears
Someday
i will be graceful
I'll understand
why some die after
undeserved happy lives
why the rest of us bear the scars
Friday, June 18, 2010
bright, secret sunshine
i am clumpy
and dumpy
malformed
and disproportionately balanced
I smile my dimpled Southern comfort
at those who catch my eye
But those who do are
usually few and far
between
And taken
Or broken in a way I can't fix
& don't want to touch
After all, when the sun settles
& the dust forgotten
I am Ok
Alone with my bloated arms & pale skin
Because I know what to expect from me
and I am safe
One day
my eyes find a catch
& my stupid heart tripped
There, in solid frame and velvet jacket
with jeans
was Someone that made
silence seem hollow and
the dumpy, clumpy seem
sinuous
clandestine
Saying things i didn't understand
standing reverently hushed in a marble atrium
full of admirers
while
my tongue grew clunky and lunky,
mouth glued shut
life paused
a moment birthed
and in the mud of my befuddled being
a sunbeam thought
of maybe...
subtly then
and over time
my clumpy will smooth
and dumpy will shift
I will be more
I will be my world to mold
and dumpy
malformed
and disproportionately balanced
I smile my dimpled Southern comfort
at those who catch my eye
But those who do are
usually few and far
between
And taken
Or broken in a way I can't fix
& don't want to touch
After all, when the sun settles
& the dust forgotten
I am Ok
Alone with my bloated arms & pale skin
Because I know what to expect from me
and I am safe
One day
my eyes find a catch
& my stupid heart tripped
There, in solid frame and velvet jacket
with jeans
was Someone that made
silence seem hollow and
the dumpy, clumpy seem
sinuous
clandestine
Saying things i didn't understand
standing reverently hushed in a marble atrium
full of admirers
while
my tongue grew clunky and lunky,
mouth glued shut
life paused
a moment birthed
and in the mud of my befuddled being
a sunbeam thought
of maybe...
subtly then
and over time
my clumpy will smooth
and dumpy will shift
I will be more
I will be my world to mold
Thursday, June 17, 2010
My Two Coins
Talmud says a word is worth one coin,
silence worth two
Different silence lingers here
Untalking strangers on a train waft silence
like humid Southern air
Untalking souls on a street caress silence
like a woman in want of a lover
Zorah says silence is good everywhere
but in connection to Torah
On a train
in a Southern summer
the week my father died
my soul silently screams for God
silence worth two
Different silence lingers here
Untalking strangers on a train waft silence
like humid Southern air
Untalking souls on a street caress silence
like a woman in want of a lover
Zorah says silence is good everywhere
but in connection to Torah
On a train
in a Southern summer
the week my father died
my soul silently screams for God
Monday, May 31, 2010
tealight in warehouse
I tug at my hair
sure the henna's worn off after
a week
& my grey shows
I tug at my skirt
sure all the wrinkles show after
I wore it on the train
& my stupidness unravels
my carefully prepared
I pull at my skin, my lips
sure all I show
resews as a lumpy
imperfect collection
a fat, acny teen in broken heels
and maternity dresses
one lazy eye
and a diseased heart
too stupid to give up
but far far overdue
there's no one to blame
for my tears
and rough edges
no one left to rant or scream at
and my tears are worth more
there is just me
in this quiet, terrifyingly
still place
me
my rough edges
and the fine
fine
hope of healing
sure the henna's worn off after
a week
& my grey shows
I tug at my skirt
sure all the wrinkles show after
I wore it on the train
& my stupidness unravels
my carefully prepared
I pull at my skin, my lips
sure all I show
resews as a lumpy
imperfect collection
a fat, acny teen in broken heels
and maternity dresses
one lazy eye
and a diseased heart
too stupid to give up
but far far overdue
there's no one to blame
for my tears
and rough edges
no one left to rant or scream at
and my tears are worth more
there is just me
in this quiet, terrifyingly
still place
me
my rough edges
and the fine
fine
hope of healing
Monday, April 26, 2010
Things
there are things
dark and quiet
sacred & untold
they make me cry
want more
wish to feel less
because
there are always things
there are things
dark and lurking
profane & clawing
they make me cry
want
wish to hurt less
because
there were always more things
there are things
dark and unknown
mundane & developing
they make me pray
want less
wish to understand more
because I am made up of things
dark and quiet
sacred & untold
they make me cry
want more
wish to feel less
because
there are always things
there are things
dark and lurking
profane & clawing
they make me cry
want
wish to hurt less
because
there were always more things
there are things
dark and unknown
mundane & developing
they make me pray
want less
wish to understand more
because I am made up of things
Monday, February 8, 2010
day 279
my skin itches
a little pain
an easy bliss
just a small something to get me through
to make me straight
no one else would know
and other pretty lies cycle through
there's the cool rush of sweat
the taste of salt
need
just... some small something
night calls
and crawls
as my head swims sluggishly
slowly sinks into cool
enveloping dark
just a small... little pretty
i can cover it with a smile
quick with the Southern drawl
a subtle sin
for my ecclesiastic skin
c'mon, dollfish, gimme what I want
a wanton pain
pagan absolution
pretty, pretty something
just get me through the night
it'll be better in the sun...
but the moon's a bitch
exhale slowly as the walls close in
skin clammy
hands shake
yeah, sure
surrender's easy
recovery's a cinch
a little pain
an easy bliss
just a small something to get me through
to make me straight
no one else would know
and other pretty lies cycle through
there's the cool rush of sweat
the taste of salt
need
just... some small something
night calls
and crawls
as my head swims sluggishly
slowly sinks into cool
enveloping dark
just a small... little pretty
i can cover it with a smile
quick with the Southern drawl
a subtle sin
for my ecclesiastic skin
c'mon, dollfish, gimme what I want
a wanton pain
pagan absolution
pretty, pretty something
just get me through the night
it'll be better in the sun...
but the moon's a bitch
exhale slowly as the walls close in
skin clammy
hands shake
yeah, sure
surrender's easy
recovery's a cinch
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
love me, please
love me roughly & honestly in the way of morning breath & bedhead
with a faithfulness that sees us through
middle age and apathy
be the smile in my eyes as I breathe my last
love me voraciously & purely
in the way of pretty, delicate saints & Romantic sonnets
with a desperate need that sees you through
my flaws & imperfections
be the curve in my lip as I ponder quiet moments
love me simply and… for ever
in the way of past generations and Johnny Cash
with a steadfast gleam that sees you & me through
this life and eternity
be the lover I don’t have the faith to believe in
with a faithfulness that sees us through
middle age and apathy
be the smile in my eyes as I breathe my last
love me voraciously & purely
in the way of pretty, delicate saints & Romantic sonnets
with a desperate need that sees you through
my flaws & imperfections
be the curve in my lip as I ponder quiet moments
love me simply and… for ever
in the way of past generations and Johnny Cash
with a steadfast gleam that sees you & me through
this life and eternity
be the lover I don’t have the faith to believe in
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