Thursday, June 22, 2017


A chokehold,
A 100 pound weight on my chest,
A sudden waterfall pressing on my eyes begging to drip down,
A creeping sensation crawling up and down my spine,
A whisper who has a deafening shout that only I can hear,
A prison.
Why are you there?
No one invited you.
And yet you walk around the room so confident like you own me.
You don't.
My savior Jesus Christ has set me free from you.
So, stop acting like you are a welcomed guest inside of me.
You're not welcomed.
I don't believe your lies.
So, the question remains...

Why are you here?

Monday, June 19, 2017

Bloom, bloom, bloom.

"All I wanted was a reassuring handshake and smile", she said.
But alas, there were no hands to shake and no smiles to give.
For the life she lived was a life of solitude and that is a life spent with a grave face and a dying heart.
It needed to be watered and it needed to bloom but it was left in a room without sunlight and that kept her heart from growing.
Maybe a heart can survive for a day or two without light, but it cannot live forever in darkness and it certainly cannot thrive.

So, dying heart and shaded sunflower, step into the light and shake the hands reaching out to you so ready to embrace and to hold you close with a million of smiles rooted and growing in an everlasting ray of joy.


Sunday, June 18, 2017

Why do I write?

"Why do I write?", I ask myself.

I write because the monsters seem to run away when I do.
I write because the words are a bandage when my heart bleeds.
I write because the colors mix together like skittles instead of fading away like they do when I don't acknowledge that they are there.
I write because I don't feel invisible when I do.
I write because I might (might) just connect with someone else when the words on this page are read.
I write because writing can change the world and it can change me.
It has changed me.
For better or for worse;
I write.
Do you?
Why do you?

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Even if it hurts

You don't know what you do,
but what you do breaks my heart everyday.

And I want you here everyday but I want you to love us and you don't.
And I don't want you here hurting us deeper and deeper,
So there's no answer.
I just want you to feel how we feel about you and I'm not sure that will ever be true.
So, I pray and pray and pray and wait and hope.

But hope- it can hurt.

Yet, I will continue until something changes.

I just don't want you to hurt us anymore.
And I want you to feel love because I'm not sure if you have loved before or are capable of it.
But you're apart of us whether you like it or not.
And we love you,
whether you like it or not.

So you break our hearts everyday because we love you.
And we can't stop doing that.
We won't stop doing that.

So, I pray and I wait and I hope.

And I will continue to do so until something changes.
Even if it hurts.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

" breathing dreams like air " -- F.Scott Fitzgerald

Sometimes I wonder if dreams actually are made of paper because they sure seem to crumble pretty easily.

Yet, I still dare to dream anyways...

Yes, a dreamer I will always be.
A dreamer is rooted deep inside of me.
But sometimes I beg it;
Set it all free.
Let the paper airplane dreams loose,
set it free.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Sometimes there isn't another option...

{Brick weighs more than my heavy heart/
But I'll take photographs and call it art.}

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

If there were words

It's been a year since I've seen you last;
The memory wounds still fresh from the past.

I know I should want to see you,
But secretly I don't want to.

If there were words to make you feel,
If there were words to make you heal,
If there were words (words of change);
But there aren't.
Nothing but a distant and stone cold heart.

I still think about you and always pray,
But I always struggle to find the words to say,
because what is there to say to someone who doesn't listen and doesn't care?
Someone who lives but isn't truly there?

I'm not sure.

But if there were words to make you feel,
If there were words to make you heal,
If there were words (words of change);
But there aren't.
Nothing but my bleeding heart.

So, I'll take it all and turn it into art.

Because I'm a poet and that's what poets do;
I'm just holding on to that someday where we will no longer be colored blue.