confession: confessions

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Art is the extension
of a human being’s soul.
Colors and paint,
words and ink,
graphite and portraits,
brushes and pens and charcoal
in a clutter, on a desk
or in a corner of the room:
they tell you more
of who a person is
than what they themselves
could.

With that, I have a confession:
in between the lines and verses written
are secrets taken to the grave
memories that have long faded
and tears quietly shed.
That realization is how my vulnerability grew
with the knowledge of others who read what I do.
If you knew where to look,
If you knew what to see,
you could gather all of my weaknesses
and find
the easiest way to break me.

Writing is supposed to be selfish,
and reading is, too.
so I beg you
not to divulge
what you might discover
hidden in between
rhymes and rhythms
and figurative speech.
I beg you –
interpret me selfishly,
shroud my emotions,
fit my words into your world, and
listen to what resonates within;
and not the confessions hidden
in every verse. 
For art is the extension of the soul,
and art is my soul’s absolution.

Mind Over Matter

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I admit, I feel as if I am only deluding myself to think that you would ever read this. After all, you have disappeared without a word nor a trace. Your existence itself remains a mere possibility, and yet I hold onto it like a drowning man would onto his last breath. 
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Macrocosm

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The sky is calling; telling me to find a way
to come and sail to the heavens; to come and belong with the stars.
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

Midnight had fallen; it is in the dark I lay
quiet, still, eyes wide open, mind wide awake –
the sky is calling; telling me to find a way.

“It is within me you belong; it is me you cannot keep at bay,”
the darkness whispers – am I standing on a rail?
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

“Look at you,” it murmurs, and I sway
on my feet, “the galaxies run through your veins.”
The sky is calling, telling me to find a way.

I am suspended in midair, my arms in splay,
like a marionette, caught in the act.
I am of magnificence, of stars, of cosmos, of constellations unfathomed.
The sky is calling me; telling me to find a way.
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

The Thing About Healing Is – 

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I. It’s a process – a slow, dragging one; making you think it isn’t happening in the first place. For a fresh wound to bleed and sting, clot, turn into a scab you literally itch to scratch, and then a scar, to blend onto your skin perfectly, takes hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Sometimes it’s even the most superficial of cuts that take the longest.
Healing isn’t magical. It doesn’t make injuries and lesions instantly disappear. It can only transform what already exists. 

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