With the remnants of my meager strength I slowly stand, turning the door handle, one thought guiding my shaking hand: The least I can do is know it all.
Smoke rises around me, steals my breath, and I can’t see. The life I’ve built is caving in; with bleeding lungs I let You in.
Never enough. Never enough. I am glory and disgrace. I’m tripping up at the end of the race. I’m a misspelled card, a hung-up phone. I’m always knowing and never known.
Poetry is written for the quiet ones, the soulful ones, the ones who let thoughts tangle in their throats before they ever get tangled in their hair. Poetry is written for the soft ones, the shy ones, the ones who dance in midnight shadows and sip on moonlight tea.
When people came from a distant land, they saw a light held in her hand, a rock that stood within the sand, that stood for liberty.
If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve known leashes, locks, and ties, you’ve known every filthy fingerprint that’s lined you with its lies. If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve let pretty pretense go, because surely it’s no monster if it’s here to help you grow.
I was built deep and hungry, with a heart that wanted to be filled with so much beauty and emotion and love. I thought that was my gift, my blessing—being able to contain it all.
Tornado winds raged when I was here last. Your fingers ran through my hair and calmed the strands the storm had tangled. I wondered how long before I felt that safety again.
People call her strong, and when she speaks, thunder roars. From her heart flows a downpour that drowns and overwhelms many a landscape. But within the churning clouds hides a gentle flicker of light, each flash and each vein a memory of past hurts and triumphs that must be guarded.
Each mask hides another, veil on tearstained veil. Each tattered page of my heart, inked and stamped and sealed in the shadows of my mind.