I understand why you do it.
The lie in which you linger
Is a beautiful one,
Delicate like blown glass
And just as fragile.
We all lie to ourselves at times.
I don’t blame you.
But gilded cages, no matter how ornate,
How pleasing,
Are still cages.
And despite how contentedly
You dwell within,
You cannot find freedom in their bars.
Do not linger too long
And forget what it is to live.
Cold iron words
Black, twisted, and cruel
Writhe in the pits of our stomachs
We spit them out like venom
And their barbs tear our throats as we force them
Up and out
Slinging them at each other
A heedless spray of bullets
Ripping wounds into our gossamer souls
We let them fly with fear in our eyes
Horrified at what we’ve become
Even in the becoming
As we drove along the winding, shadowed street
I gazed at the sky, criss-crossed with branches
Flashing by, blurred by speed and motion
And I said I would write a poem
About the moon, hanging like a golden coin in the dark
You didn’t say much, because the thought
Of poems was painful to you
No golden coins could make up for
The price you paid in the reading of poems
I cannot un-write them, cannot un-feel them
You cannot forget them, though you wish otherwise
And the words hang between us
Like a moon in the sky
Like a curtain of rain
Like a frozen memory
And I ended up lying after all
I didn’t write of a golden moon
But of you
I thought love
would help me not to break
but now I know
that’s my mistake.
I beat myself
against your walls
until I’m battered
close to shattered
I never thought I’d be like this
Said I wouldn’t be this way
But here I am
right in the middle of
who I don’t want to be
Every detail memorized
Played on repeat in my restless mind
Unable to unravel
where I went wrong
again
Always afraid
that tomorrow
will be yesterday
and I’ll never get past it
Never get further
Because tomorrow is yesterday
and I’m defeated before I’ve begun
And yet the sun
will rise, despite me
And I can’t help but
feel a feeble flutter of hope
from this broken-winged bird of a heart
that tomorrow can be different
and so can I
and so can you
I used to love silence.
I used to savor that quiet stillness
because it felt almost holy.
I could be silent on my own
or silent with a friend
and it didn’t bother me.
It was good and full and rich and deep.
It spoke to me of comfort,
of contentment,
of simply being and not striving.
But that’s not our silence, is it?
Our silence is dangerous,
a razor edge.
Our silence is filled with
the crushing weight of words
we cannot find.
It presses down on our shoulders
and leaves us staggered.
It sits on our chests until we cannot breathe.
It grips its fist around our throats
and squeezes. Hard.
This is not the sacred silence
of fellowship or solitude.
This is a silent scream
and we are utterly defeated by its noise.
I sit here begging you to speak,
knowing you have no words,
knowing I am spent and broken,
and wondering how the hell
to reach you
through the paralyzing silence,
so different from the one
I used to love.
Why is it that
Our conversations
Are laced with dynamite?
And we strike matches with our words
And hope they don’t ignite?
What happens to us
In those brittle moments
To make us take up arms
And grit our teeth
And throw ourselves into
A battle we don’t want?
And when we retreat,
Bloodied and bruised,
To lick our wounds,
How is it that I turn to you
And look into your eyes
For some reassurance,
Some glint of forgiveness,
Even so soon?
And how is it possible
That I find what I’m looking for
There in your gaze,
Nestled amidst the hurt and
hesitation?
How do you keep forgiving,
Keep loving,
Keep needing,
Even as we stand there bleeding?
This is our miracle.
This slow lowering of guards,
This tentative trust,
This tenacious hope
That tomorrow we will start again,
And again, and again,
Until we learn that
Words are not weapons
And we are not at odds.
How does a heart break?
Is it a glass falling to the ground?
A scatter of shards and
the irredeemable sound
of fractures, too many to repair?
Is it sudden, complete?
Is one left standing
in the circle of glittering pieces
staring at the refracted light,
trembling hands empty, and empty inside?
How does a heart break?
Is it the slow shifting of a fault-line,
a grinding pressure, a bit at a time?
Does it compress and harden
under all the weight?
Collapse in on itself, until a great
seismic shudder of energy
surges and presses out
and throws everything around
into chaos?
How does a heart break?
Is it a stone in a river,
silent and still?
Letting the persistent waters of grief
wash over it, years upon years,
until the river’s tears
have worn away any definition
and it is smooth and unresisting?
Little by little, day by day,
does it give itself away
so there’s nothing left to take anymore?
So it can’t be robbed
by the constant throb
of pain or loss or longing?
How does a heart break?
Is it a glass, a quake, a stone?
Does your heart feel these things?
I know only my own.
Your pain rolls off you
Like the deep rumble of thunder
Across flat, wind-whipped fields.
As I sit across the table from you,
My own heart feels the reverberations.
And if I’ve ever longed for eloquence-
For my words to act as healing balm-
It is now.
But as I look in your eyes
And see the bleak despair,
The tinge of betrayal,
I am struck dumb, mute.
No words of life.
No comfort.
I wish I could speak what you need,
But it’s not my voice you need to hear.
And until He speaks
Gentle and low into your silence,
No other words will help.
So I sit and listen with you,
And together we can wait
Until we hear… something.
Every day I stumble
On the road to somewhere
My knees are bloodied
My palms scraped raw
But nothing is wasted
Every embarrassment
Every hesitation
Every doubt overcome
Every ounce of pain
And disappointment
It is all transformed
And used for my good
Nothing is wasted
Every day I push myself up
On the road to somewhere
A moment of fortitude
An exertion of will
And nothing is wasted
Every unseen victory
Every unspoken hope
Every secret generosity
Every well-done task
And unrecognized potential
They are all accounted for
And acknowledged by God
And nothing is wasted
Write something good today, I determined.
Something good:
like a sunset bleeding crimson and gold
over gently rolling hills of blue grass
Something good:
trees bending graceful in the wind like dancers,
like a lover bending to his beloved
Something good:
a baby’s first smile, a mother’s fierce pride
that rises so strongly and suddenly that it chokes her up
Something good:
the smell of rain on rich, dark earth
when the plants are just beginning to bloom
Don’t write of sorrow, or loss, or regret
Though those things help us love
all the somethings good
Today, take only the beauty
Only the bliss
Wrap it up in spun-silver words
Pass it on like a gift
And expect nothing in return
Give it with joy and thankfulness
And remember to fight for it
every day of your life
Resist greed and apathy,
Because something good
is worth fighting for,
Even if the battle is never-ending.
Woman With a Pen 