Different can be the same

They say she can’t influence you because well you aren’t the same.
Different history, different color, different name,
Yet I see a reflection of the darkness of my heart.
The part I try hardest to conceal,
Shoved relentlessly, unequivocally inside
Hidden in my closet behind those ratty, torn shoes,
Dust-covered boxes and old journals filled with youthful musings.

They are pieces of me left abandoned
But somehow you can see my veiled attempts to masquerade
And you are intent on telling the world.
Though you do not even know me,
You speak of me in oddly overt, unspecific terms
I am like you, like everyone else; we are all one in the same
We have a same heart, a same soul, a same need for oxygenated air.

It is clear I have a story just like you
Yet if our pieces were put together not even half of them would mesh
Though some would fall naturally others I would force, berate
The harshness of their clashing tones
Would equate to forks and knives and plates all rubbing together
Underneath the guide of a four-year-old in an upscale restaurant.
Where all the heads would turn and take notice
And the news would probably report it
It’s dramatic. There is discord. This makes good news!


To err is human, and an error it would certainly be
To coerce all our pieces to subsist as cookie-cutter shapes,
Rather let’s leave seeds of dissension behind,
Not to go forever untouched, but considerately set aside for now
Until we can learn to reshape us in lieu of trying to shape each other
Instead let’s find the pieces that sing sweetly together
They are somewhat similar still wonderfully diverse
And when combined they don’t rhyme, they harmonize.
Only one picture, only one image, only one name.
Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Different can be the same.

On writing poetry and other things...

"I am afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it--and that's all I got."
~ Sabrina Ward Harrison

Let Him be your peace

Violent beatings of your heart drive your blood pressure upward. The pace of your breathing increases, and it seems this time you will drown for sure. And then... strange how life jackets are found in the form of empty syrofoam cups and half-submerged crates full of 500 thread-count linen sheets.

Let not your heart be troubled middle-aged one. He will carry you when you are unable to walk, just as he did when you were young.

On sitting in Starbucks looking into Moravian mirrors.

These glass walls seem liberating. They lie. They tease. They show you where you could be if you weren’t currently tied down to this chair, tied to this life. These never ending tasks weigh heavy on you, and you are tired. This constant stream drains the delight from it, squeezing it dry. And this is not what you wanted it to become. But still you rest content to see your hands form something, although not as you imagined, it remains beneficial. And you will always welcome this growth, though it comes slow.

You look constantly forward, waiting for the moment to become more. When will you dare glance in the mirror to see who you are now, and what you have already become? Hide. Go ahead, try. Turn off all the lights. But here it won’t matter. This glass prison lets only light in and forces you to see you. Maybe now you will remove the black cloth. The mourning period is over, it is time to move on, to see what this tragedy has made you.

This is the moment that you knew…

…the moment that left you so completely unsure, that leaves you feeling lost and confused. But these come, and they will go, these feelings of insecurity and non belonging. You will wake up tomorrow and you will feel completely loved.

You wish that you were lighter of heart and mind sometimes, but these thoughts come like water from crying clouds, unable to be stopped, pulled down forcefully by gravity. And you realize you are equally being pulled downward, unable to slow your descent. So you welcome the earth with two arms spread out wide. And for the first time you truly believe beyond yourself.

You say to yourself, “It will never be the same again.”

And it will never be the same again.

Oh Ulysses, how hard you fight reasoning around this inhumanity.

Facing future thoughts with past places in mind

You slip your sunglasses on. The sun washed whiteness that fills your eyes hurts a little, but you can’t turn away. Such a beautiful sight. Beyond the limits of happen-chance until the furthest reaches of perfect planning you find yourself. You can’t go back. You can’t change it, and you wouldn’t for anything.

And though it seems that all could crash around you, that you would remain with nothing left in your hands but your five fingers balled up and tucked under your palm, you face these future thoughts with unbelievable determination. 27 months isn’t that long, you tell yourself. But you remember well that day that seemed to last eternity, dragging out, full of sorrow, full of loss. And that was only 27 hours. But this can’t be the same. It won’t be, you tell yourself. So you face it with a positive outlook, all the while wondering if the ones you love will be here when you return.

This is just one of those times where you have to jump. Jump into the unknown, into the uncertain, into the unending change- one of the only constants in your life until this point. Your heart beats fast, and still you feel peace. Unnerved, you remain calm. He is greater than you will ever have to be. He will go with you. You will be ok. It will be ok.

Love is an impossible thing, impossible to figure out, impossible to be without.

My sister came to visit me today. It left my heart feeling unusually warm. I love that she is my sister, that we are more honest with each other than most people, that she shows me parts of me that others don’t, things that I want and should change that aren’t necessarily up to par.

We ran a lot of errands. That is our thing, hop from store to store buying things that we need that we don’t want to go shopping for by ourselves because it is much more fun going with someone you love. We went to world market and bought two baskets, one for each of our parents, and we filled them up with random things that we thought they would like. From Christmas ornaments to chocolate-y treats and beyond we filled it with things that reminded us of them.

Perhaps we were driven by our morning conversation over coffee. I don’t know how we got on the subject of one day being with out them, or the possibility of one day one of them being without the other and how hard it would be for them. Though sad, you have to think of these things. They spur you forward to a consciousness that everyday is valuable, that nothing should be taken for granted. You never really know how much longer you will have with someone. So if you love them you should tell them. And not just once so that you can check it off of your list of things to do, but everyday, in some way small or big. It doesn’t matter how you say it, but THAT you say it.