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.

Healing

And when I was sitting at a dinner table

surrounded with family,

and we were holding our sides

we were laughing so hard,

and it was eyes closed and smiling

and leaning over the edge of our seats laughing,

it was then that I knew.

 

I was finally happy.

I was finally new.

-July 2017

This is You

It didn’t show,

but the last time you were here

was like a thunderstorm–

and life was much kinder to you then.

 

But this time, it’s sunshine.

And rocket-ships of joy.

They flood the sky in streams of fireworks and stars,

making all shadows vain.

 

Because how much brighter can the sky get?

And here you are, thriving in it.