Categories
Poetry

Empty

I open my heart

and close my eyes.

And I am just me.

Just me

in this silent night.

Let me be empty.

Categories
Poetry

The Stories We Tell

The stories we tell ourselves

about what life

is,

does,

means,

will make our hearts

or break our hearts.

The choice,

I suppose,

is ours.

Make, break

or both, sometimes.

If only the answer were simple.

Then again…

what is simple?

Categories
Poetry

I Have Loved

I only have to give

this love that I have.

I only have to give it,

and cherish the way it feels

to know I have loved.

Categories
Poetry

Rain

Today, there is rain.

And the most beautiful peace.

Categories
Poetry

Sleep

Oh, weary soul.

I barely see you behind those tired eyes.

Let us rest, deeply,

beautifully,

with compassion

for all life has given, harshly.

It is a darling life.

A life to be cherished

with each breath of our aching day.

I sleep, now,

knowing morning matters

only when it greets me.

I sleep, now.

I sleep, now.

Categories
Poetry

Wildflowers

I must remind myself:

the wildflowers will wait.

Categories
Poetry

Sensible

Shall I be sensible

a moment?

Oh, dying to live,

dear dreary day.

Let you find me

twisted beautifully

among the berry vines.

Let you be the one

to be sensible.

Categories
Poetry

Lonely

But I am the wind.

And my soul is alone

as it blows through the jars

of neat and tidy life.

Oh, the aching.

For, home floats free;

I will never be bound.

Can you not see?

I will never be bound.

And my heart cries,

lonely.

My heart cries.

Lonely.

Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

All My Softness

I am home when the beautiful song of my heart is at peace.

There is nothing loud, here, nothing beyond the birds and the rippling pools of shadow on brick.

I am just me, in all of my softness.

Me, in this beautiful place, home.

I have loved tenderly, here.

I will always love tenderly.

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Happy One

There is a tear in my soul.

They want me to smile,

all the time, they want me to be fine,

this world.

But I am not

(though I am.)

There is a weeping tear.

A wound unhealed and breaking

ever deeper,

every day.

I will tell you this:

I am fine.

And I am,

six colours of the rainbow, fine.

The seventh colour.

It is a golden tar.

An aching soul,

searching.

An aching child

within the hardened walls

of a happy one.

Photo by Khoa Vu00f5 on Pexels.com