A letter to the blue poet

In fairytales, lands far away
In dripping clouds and singing skies
are your golden dreams, your promises –
All beginnings, no goodbyes

Here is somewhere, everywhere
you aren’t, where every breath is wrong
Every today is in the past,
every word an unfinished song.

Find me a ship, a thought, a soaring bird
to fly to a land between –
Where I will meet you and you will sing,
Where someday, I’ll be seen.

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Questions: how can I forgive?

A choir I’m in is working on a song that essentially asks what our role is in a bitter and hurtful world. One line in the middle always makes me tear up: “How can we forgive?” I don’t know why it stands out to me that much, but in my journal tonight I played some associations with the phrase. I decided to share this in hopes that anyone who wants to share their personal answers can do so.

When I am weary, downtrodden

How can I forgive?

When I am lonely, forgotten

How can I forgive?

If you have taken all of me

How do I forgive?

When there is nothing left of me

What is there to give?

As we are fighting, you and me

Can we still forgive?

We still keep fighting, them and us

Do we still forgive?

When relentless hurt hits yet again

Why do we forgive?

Where does it stop, where does it end

When do we forgive?

And if the world already hurts

Why then, why not forgive?

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before, after, now, always

we were never like them, you and i.

we never wanted to be.

you said i would one day be president;

you would be my bodyguard.

i said i’d grow up to be a mermaid;

you said you’d guard me anyway.

we dreamed not of kites flying in the sky,

not of birds, or superman;

we dreamed and dreamed;

we saw ourselves flying up, up, up

there was no such thing as gravity;

there was no such thing as coming down.

And now I look up, longing to see us

Longing for even the sight of a Superman

Longing for someone who will come

and pick us back up—

bring us back then.

And you’re not here, you’re there

Wondering how the world keeps spinning

when ours has been turned and ripped and torn apart

We don’t talk of growing up anymore;

They say we’re young, but we’re already there

Maybe we’re just like the adults now

Maybe we never will be

but in my mind sometimes I visit us

I see us laughing on the grass, pointing

I see us fighting and crying until we laugh again


in my mind I am always in the sky.

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Love trumps hate.

Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes;
We fight to live, we fight the fight
And so we keep on, with our daring wishes
And so morning follows each dreadful night.
In the ruins, we rise, we hold fast;
Love will conquer hate; it will overturn the past.

(That first line is a wonderful quote from Ella Wheeler Wilcox.)

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love.

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To the self-proclaimed artist…

You see life in everything – the curling of the wind around an evergreen tree, the crawling of a shadow along a burning pavement, the rhythm of the hail beating against your wind-ridden roof.

You shout in anger at the finger itching to touch your newly painted canvas. You destroy your music; after all, if no one hears it, no one will ever ruin it.

How did you forget that a woman’s body is art too?

You cringe at the slightest scratch on a sculpture left long ago, before someone ever carved you into being.

You forget this each time you turn around, losing yourself, leaving bruises and blood on a living artwork.

You beg people to heed the curves of the leaves, the touch of a raindrop tapping your shoulder, but throw your anger into the curves of a woman’s collarbone.

Who drew a knife across your canvas, silenced your notes, shattered you before your very eyes?

Are you destroying to atone for your destruction?

Artist, what do you fear?

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Journal: a conversation I had with myself the other night

I miss being in love with life.

You still are, perhaps even more so than before. You’re just so in love with life that it hurts sometimes.

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Number One: You uncovered all the places of my soul that were so dear to me that I didn’t even dare to look at, and I let you. You wiped away my tears, and I let you. You became my crutches that I’d never needed before and I let you. You learned everything about me and I let you. Then you used all of it against me, starting with the parts of me that I knew were fragile, forcing your way through my resolve, and finally, tearing through even the pieces that I thought were unshakable… and I let you.

Number Two: You. Everything about you. I needed a change and for you, I changed everything. You tried, and I stopped you. You knocked on my doors and I couldn’t slam them in your face; how can I, when I never even opened them to you? You begged me to trust you and I stopped you. For every “no” I wish I’d said to Number One, I gave you plenty. Too much. You asked to love me and I stopped you. And in the end we just… stopped.

Number Three: You keep making me forget that I’m not meant to be a miracle story. You make me forget that each time I believe I’ve finally learned to fly, I won’t remember until I’m too far gone, halfway down the fall – just high enough to anticipate the impact, but not quite enough for me to save myself again. I forget that I’m running. I forget that I’m too broken to endure another break. I forget that everything haunting me manifests itself in all of our arguments and I forget that you will suffer because of me.


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