Today

I wrote something new

but then ripped it in half,

tried writing again

but I couldn’t go back

to the feeling that lied

on the black and white lies,

the feeling that lied

on my ribcage inside.

 

I wrote something new

but realized it old,

the same words from past years

of rhythm and coldness

and nonsense of

missing and reminiscing

and limbo and fishing

for something new to write.

 

I wrote circles around this,

tried to get past this,

found it awful to carve it down,

carve it outside me.

like dragging old bones

and expecting them to walk,

waiting for time to work

and light to search–

 

And so I stopped writing.

 

To pull away for a moment,

to stop digging and picking

and to let the light grow

was needed.

there was the winter and rest,

the killing snow and rain

for replenishing, healing,

and washing away.

 

So no more empty words,

no more torture of ruminating to

illuminate something in darkness.

there is just today,

with a clean page

and a fresh start

to write with boldness

concerning the truth.

After the 14th

Something inside me broke–

and it’s been a gathering of shards and scraps since.

I’ve been holding the pieces in my arms

asking God for it to be fixed.

But maybe the fragments of glass are just sand

and they’re meant to blow away with the wind.

Perhaps what was broken was intentionally finished

so I may receive what God wants to give.

Sand

The words are what happen

when I’m sliced across the middle

and sand falls out of my body.

 

They swirl and bound

and disperse,

until they settle on the ground,

gentling moving with the wind.

 

Until then, they jump like memories

that pull apart and come back together–

quick– before they disintegrate in your hands

like sand.

 

But to write

is to wring out all the words inside you.

They belong on the ground by the sea.

And if you look up, you realize,

 

you have hollowed out and made room for the stars.

-World Poetry Day 2018