Revelation Rose

I plucked the blooming bud
from Grandma’s rosebush, eagerly
admiring waning beauty of
burgundy to delicate blush.
Reaching for another,
she instead held with force, desperate for life,
knowing she would not thrive without
sturdy stem, with roots held deep within ground.
As blood flourished and flowed across my fingertips,
I was sorry for the pain,
her rough thorns tearing innocent skin.
And then,
I realized the rose was me –  
pretty appearance, tough exterior,
fruitful, flawed and fatal;
Both wanting to be loved, but
not knowing how
to trust in
forever.

Roots Not Forgotten

I lived in a town where,
when growing up,
everyone hated to claim it
as their own,
yet, after graduating, finally reaching their
coveted opportunity to leave,
those people never left.
The village of 200 was
small, unattractive, unappealing – 
with
one small gas station,
bank,
post-office,
one-stop shop,
no stop lights,
and now, an abandoned school,
nothing called my name to stay.
And yet,
the heart of the region clings onto my own,
the years of yesterday telling me
that where I came from truly mattered.
I could never give it up,
the town that taught me who I was
and who I wanted to be.
So even as I search for a place to call my own,
the small silver lining of
my existence shall ever be attached
to Stella,
a place with nothing to offer
and every tale to remember.

Alter Anxiety

Carrying no knowledge of time
and waiting for when
my shallow
being fades,
let me grasp that

You

are Him,
 
above all else,
above all of us

unchanging and

unwavering,
 

and  

still
this ever-restless
rebellious
heart.

Parting Not Mine

And he tread toward where I
could not follow,
took a way which
was foreign to me.
While I walk down this
path by my lonesome,
perhaps someday this road
will feel free.
And I do not despair
at his notion;
though this ache in my
soul just won’t leave.
But one day we shall
meet in Your kingdom,
and forever be

loved by Thee.

Surveyor of the Night

(Edit)

She is the surveyor of the night.

Darkness creeps within her bones and

whispers of sorrow slink through icy veins.

With deep hydra eyes obscured

behind chalky, red-rimmed lids,

she keeps her grotesque gaze sealed,

craving peace where none originates,

and in isolation, she laboriously lives in Hell.

The pain of those surrounding her

fills her, enters her aching, irritated soul,

until she no longer knows who she is. 

Her lungs expand with toxic tunes,

the cries and curses of many

mixing together into a cocktail of misery.

She decides to drink it in slowly –

for her, there is never enough – for

as the demon-screams slowly morph into

savory-sweet mutations, her

mind celebrates the suffering,

calling her onward into a nightmarish abyss.

The drunk tragedy that she is remains

forever sheltered away from

shimmering lights and dew-drop mornings,

and a phantom breath escapes her mouth,

permeating angelic air until it changes into

an encompassing atmosphere of death.

Remember her,

tormented in this wretched state,

for she is the surveyor of the night.

She even haunts herself. 

Imprisoned Pain

I have a box
containing you
living under my bed,
and every now and
again you call out
from underneath,
wanting to be let out.

Unlocking the golden latch,
I cautiously open the chest
and try to keep you
from spilling out into
my room,
with no luck.
You speak to me days of
dreaming,
secret plans no more,  
lost in photos and potent poetry.
Tears wind up running down
my cheeks, tethered
ropes of mascara
latching from eyelash to chin,
so my hands place you gently back within.

I keep you locked away for better days.

But tonight was not so.

Love sucks, Mr. Miyagi

I want to
karate-chop
the man
and
woman
holding hands
in front of me
as I walk
behind them
hoping
they
trip and
fall.

Playing Poker-face

Painted softly with
crimson-tipped peonies
and adorning no
silver or gold
she sips slowly on
watered-down whiskey
as thirsty Thursday night
creatures watch with wonder,
waiting.
The slow, steady tapping of
right toe against footrest
hampers hearts
aching for maiden’s
sweet nothings,
if only to somehow
catch soft sliding
notes of intonations
and explanations.
But even with hearty laughter
and cat-calling commotions,
the woman wreathed within
dense drunken air
hears nothing,
for she spends these
loud lonely nights
in her copper-corner world,
waiting
for a day which doesn’t come
and once fabricated fantasy to
call her his home.

dark defense

I thought I was ready
to see your face,
but
something, or someone,
made me angry
again
and I couldn’t come to you as if
the past was fragment-free.

I hear you walk around

wondering why we went wrong
and
I wander the same,
mentally reacting when
someone mentions your name.

But I should be easy to forget,

the simple trial run;
nothing more than
a pair of ears to advise,
a humble mind to contain,
and
if ever I hear
“let’s cuddle”
again
I’ll scream –   
for I was the woman
with lips to kiss              
but never
to confide in.

I made you out of

paper mache promises
and origami dreams,
and you placed me within
finger-painted frames,
arranging my miscellaneous
colors for you yourself
to perceive.
I knew who I was;
you were not yet
what you were to become,
but still you played me
as if you were king
and I was not fit for queen.

And so anticipation paints

future friendships wary and
while I have no answers
to my irritated sighs
I know
neither do you.
If time is intended to heal all wounds,
let that not be for me;
“Forgive and Forget”
shall instead be
“Forgive and Remember”
to keep myself from
falling for you
all over again
and again
and again.  

B Positive

Once you asked

what blood type I was:

“B Positive,” I stated suspiciously.

And you explained, “It means you’re rare.”

But you lied –  

what you meant

by the question and reply was

that we didn’t match,

in more ways than

just blood,

and I still

can’t believe your

comparison then

didn’t reveal to me

how you thought our

relationship would end.

“B Positive.”

Be positive?

Never again.

Creation

Smooth ripple effect

of leaping and lingering

on the page

comes from the

tip of a pen,

so solemn, resting

daintily between

these fingers.

Restless

Forget

     Forge

          Forg

              For

                  Fo

                       F

              …

Remember

            is all I do

when it

comes

to you.  

Arm's Length

On high-rise

tightrope

hovering

506 feet up

in mid-air

you were there,  

balancing

bravely behind me,

and

I kept you at

arm's length

knowing well enough

my faithful feet

could carry me

alone.

Several times your

hand rushed

into mine,

but shoving it aside

I kept you at

arm's length,

and a

sudden jolt

brought me to

a circus clown’s

suicide fall,

leaving you anxious on

shaky twine while peering down

over a disjointed ragdoll’s

resting place.

If only,

oh, if only,

I hadn’t

kept you at

arm's length

for then

I’d still

be there

with

you...

or would I?

Stationary Simmer

Ice cubes clink in condensation-sleeved glasses

as subtle television din crackles

across stagnant space,

and lazy legs propped

on paisley pillow-tops shift

after sharp scolding

where ringing chords collapse

inside sticky

summer scenes,

and ever so,

dry days go by

with no rescue from

monotony. 

sting

what is

to be

does not seem 

free  

and love 

should not come

with

a price

but with

compromise

nonexistent

the choice

is mine 

and control  

            is yours

yet how

could this

be

            life

Fly, My Memorandum

The letter

was draped with words

and drafted into the realm of

postcards and pamphlets.

And so it traveled,

swept across mountains and plains

to find your waiting hands.  

A note of short length

but important weight

was sent on wings

of wind for

your eyes only,  

my simple scratching

created with considerate care.  

So very far away,

on lands of enchanted

sea and sky you are,  

but you;

your heart

is here with me.

I wish to be with you, but I can’t,

so take my words instead. 

Doubt

I’m the one putting words to the page

and

I think you’re reading them

I think you’re craving them

I think

but

I can’t be certain. 

Deep-Sea Cynic

Always so little of faith, the doubter

I am, so incensed

and tired,

and how difficult it is to

live with an

oceanheart,  

tumbling

and

tossing

upon life’s

rocky

shore. 

Desolate

You sit there

with me

on this white patio swing

and I’m waiting

for your

hand

to hold

mine

and as your eyes

look out at the

wheat  

waving their

fingers at us  

in our direction

all I want

is for those

emerald eyes

to look

back to

me.

But even as

I keep sitting

here, reaching out

for you,

I need you

to reach out for me.

If you don’t,

then what’s the point?

The will to love must come from both,

and I can’t keep doing this  

Alone.  

Neglected Love Letter

February 13, 2012

Dearest Early Bird,

A year with you is complete.

I cannot say it wasn’t hard –

you know it was.

Every day a push and pull,

deciding where I could

stand, arguing where you could sit. 

I cannot lie – many days

out of our 12 months there sat

an agonizing weight upon my heart, 

a rage of worries battling

against our growing relationship,

trying to knock down the castle

we were building up for ourselves.

While I am still a girl,

you treat me like a princess,

and I hope I’ve been fair enough

to call you my prince.

I know our love is like no fairytale.

Fairytales are few and only far between,

meant for silly dreamers like me.

But I can only hope that after

two years, or three,

we can agree to keep one another

in a united life of laughs, leaky faucets,

and late night kisses, filling picture frames

with our captured hearts

and silly souls.

So here’s to one more year

and many more. 

May God ever be with us, in us,

and alongside us.

With Love,

Night Owl 

Desire of Division

I want to travel…

away from those  

who I know and love,  

from those who I still

love and who I shouldn’t.

My heart cannot look

on those faces,   

so many  

who think they understand

what I’m going through

but don’t.

How I wish I could

yell

scream

curse

spit  

shriek

at you for causing me such pain.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…

But so have you,

burying into my heart

only to destroy it from the

inside out and

everything, everyone

reminds me of you.

So I’m ready to cut myself

off from all

to become myself again.

Uncertain Surrender

“Sacrifices are necessary,”

I can hear you say

but no.

You mean to change me,

transform me and force me

to metamorphosis into the

Perfect Woman you want me to be, 

like the obedient Cuckoo Clock

on my mother’s blue wall to

chime every hour,

on the hour,

a machine only you yourself

wind up and command.

Control.

It’s what you want

I can tell,

but

you can only strip away

so much of who I am before

there is nothing left,

before I fall apart like  

papier-mâché pieces

tormented and tattered

on this linoleum floor,

wondering

how I got this far.

When comes your sacrifice,

what shall you place upon

the table?

What,

may I ask,

is our middle ground?

For I’m giving up

a part of who I am

for you

but what shall you give up

for me?   

Missing You

I was always cold.

Not in mind,

but in body;

not in spirit,

but in senses.  

You were warm;

a heater keeping my frostbitten form alive.

And your eager hands wrapped  

fleece blankets around me,

tucked me safely within

layers of cloth comfort,

and I secretly hoped to wear

your sweetly scented

sweatshirt

one day.

But you never offered

and I never asked.

Your over-sized hoodie

never adorned my feminine figure,

never confined me in your fragrance, 

never provided me my coveted warmth,   

and I feel as if I was neglected in a time

when girls proudly wear loved ones’ clothing.

My body shakes and shudders

with every breeze that brushes 

across my sensitive skin

for I’m still cold

and I’m left

missing you.

Chrismation

(for someone, not just anyone)

This boy,

clothed with garment

of pure white,

walked away from what

he called his own to

surrender himself into

realm of ancient days.

Colorful assortment of

red, yellow, and white petals

scattered softly

across hardwood floors

welcomed a fellowship of

believers who joined in

parade of delightful exaltation.

With oil anointed on

head, heart, hands and feet,

the Word surrounded him,

passed through him and 

entered within;

And there came the

feeling of peace,

a new walk in

hope and grace.

While nearby hearts remain

wrapped in magic of ordinary days,

his senses pull him ever forward toward

the Way, the Truth, and the Life

where (for some) seeking

God is

easy;

But for him,

this boy once suffered

under pricking and piercing of

dark spirits, dragging him down,

seizing and fixating on his soul.

Yet only until an image

of God astounded him,   

where God saw his pain

and called his name,

did he concede his old self,

and the young man found his

Home.