Beautiful are the moments
where I remember
you are you,
and I am me.
Perfectly.
Beautiful are the mornings
the sun shines on cobwebby thoughts
and there I see the glimmer of truth.
How beautiful you are.
How beautiful I am.
How beautiful.
To know that different
is not another word for wrong.
I will hold your ache in loving arms.
I will be the faith you have lost in the world.
I will shine a light on your breaking heart,
that you may hand stitch the truth
into the fabric of your soul
and know it is safe
to feel.
I will love you.
All the broken you wish not to see,
I will hold you.
I will hold you, love.
I have lived on this earth with them,
but not apart of them.
It is a story I have not written.
I,
( whoever ‘I’ is )
would not write a story such as this.
I am them and they are me,
and yet there is a silence so loud in the air
that feeds on my soul,
and asks me to learn to be happy
despite of it all.
I love,
and I see they would love
if they would stop
for a moment
and breathe.
There is a beautiful fire in the belly of them.
A pure, raging storm
meant for the rising of their beautiful day.
But they use it to fight.
To stay lost in childhood gone by
and I resist it.
I resist the binds their stories have gathered,
knowing I am not a story of shame, fear, or hate.
I try to hold them, I try to wait.
And yet, perhaps I might try
to fall into the ocean of it all
and understand,
without resistance,
that I am just one of many waves
surging differently to the rest.
Wherever I look,
someone is fighting.
It hurts the softness of me,
this world.
It takes and takes the peace
and I am so afraid to be torn apart
by another day of humanity.
The carnival of dark and dense
dis-ease.
Wherever I look
someone is fighting.
When will enough be enough?
The river I am.
I fall in love with the next creative thing,
and there I stay for a while (but not forever.)
When I create, I flow, I cannot be boxed.
I am sometimes a writer. Sometimes a musician. Sometimes a painter. Sometimes a poet.
But I am never just one thing, not for too long.
I am the river I am.
Always drifting, always changing.
Not neat and tidy (how hard it is for them to understand.)
Just the river I am the river I am.
The river I am.
The darkness of life is a wonderful teacher.
I’ve been there a time or two,
and now I say, ‘no’.
Lovingly,
with fire and ice,
I say no.
No, thank you.
No. Thank you,
no more.
Such a lovely relief,
the roaring breath of certainty.
The trust of a self who deserves better
than they have given.
My worth is here to stay.
My love is mine to give,
not theirs to take, and take
and take.
Let others play in the dark rooms of maddening life.
Let this girl fly,
a darling wonder,
into the sun beyond it all.
Safe.
Loved.
And perfectly capable of asking for love,
respect
and home.
Home.
How beautiful it feels
to finally tell them I am home.
Some days,
I can’t be here for you.
Some days
I need you,
to hold my softness
and let me fall.
It is a beautiful drift of snow
that feathers the earth of me.
A gentle spring breeze
beyond the strength I’ve tried so hard to be.
And I lay me down to feel it all.
I lay me down to feel it all.
If I am not her,
that good and lovely girl in a box,
who am I?
Now that this body is alive
with the energy of all of life,
who am I?
I believe this,
but I believe the opposite of this, too.
I love you desperately,
I hate you just as achingly.
Both can exist within, but how?
But how?
I am bursting fire,
I am calm ocean blue.
I do not understand, and I understand entirely.
For one small me,
these feelings are large.
Too large for me to carry
alone.
How lovely it was
to call the darkness an old friend.
The darkness inside,
the darkness outside.
Did they even know it was both
of which they spoke?
A Neon God was made
so beautifully to shine
light
for all the world to see.
And so the world saw.
And so the world changed
for a moment, just one.
And so the world went on
to lose its voice
over
and over again.
To the darkness.
To the never ending lies
that remain hidden
beneath a grand old rock named
fear.
She is the golden skin
by lamplight.
She is not the beauty
they see
in her face,
her eyes,
her hair.
She is glorious
alone.
Without the eyes of others.
