Too late, I’m thinking back on today
when I lied.
I’m uncomfortable with the lie in my mouth.
But you asked what I couldn’t say,
a secret I’m not ready to give.
I’m sorry I lied,
but it’s too late, too late to take it back;
I wouldn’t anyway.
A ghost came to the house last night,
awakened by the full moon’s glow.
Shadows twisted in the curtains
and bones scratched the window.
Floors creaked and rafters moaned and
doors slammed in the halls.
Windows shook and rattled
while shrieks echoed though the walls.
One howl sounded through the night
sending shivers up my spine.
Mother said it was just the wind,
but I know better
because the ghost was mine.
Reason$ to Live
The old feelings return and
my concentrated suffering
could kill every light in the city.
I can’t even trust
the emptiness to stay;
abandons me faster than hope
and leaves me numb.
I can’t even complain
because I’ve been worse.
It’s cheaper to hide than to act; blood flows in green bills,
sucking life from the ones who care.
So I die inside until it grows too strong,
and even then my blood comes out as ink.
I’m writing this late at night which is usually a bad idea, since my thoughts can be so disjointed and my writing tends to get pretty wonky. But I want to say something:
Lately I feel like I’ve been carried out of a really terrible trial, and my heart is slowly opening up to let in the future. The annoying phrases that haunted me so much in depression mean something better, like “today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Instead of ripping me open, these words resonate in me, give me comfort.
Things are still hard, and some days I am empty, and I still hate reading my journal entries and blog posts from last semester because they dissolve my stomach, but that’s part of my life, and maybe your life is like that too. You and I, we deal. We move on. We carry our crosses. We stand together. And even when we feel alone, we’re not.
God is good. Living can be hard. Things are complicated. Hold on, keep keep keep keep keep holding on. Jesus loves you, just the way you are. There is always hope, even if you can’t see it. And I, dear reader, love you too.
Let’s do this life.
The Dreaming Boy
The earth, it speaks of the dreaming boy;
the trees, they echo his name.
The brilliant sun in the summer sky
remembers the day he came.
His steps, they fell on the cobbled path
in a steadily crooked beat,
with a white dove in his outstretched hand
and gold soles beneath his feet.
The dreaming boy, so he called himself,
sat upon his hill of glass.
He watched as his days went rolling by;
he watched, but refused their pass.
The boy with his eyes like living jewels
and his heart with ice-bound seams,
always believed that he had yet
to be woken from his dreams.
So his dove, his soles, and his clear glass hill,
they faded out of his hands,
like the even tide of the ocean shore
dissolves in its golden sands.
And the dreaming boy, though he was no more,
for he saw with a broken heart
that the wasted time wand’ring through his days
had been real from the very start.
The earth, it tells of the dreaming boy;
the trees, they whisper his name.
The silver moon in the diamond sky
breathes soft of the day he came.
Black clouds blanket the sunset
and warm winds tug me home.
My evening walk is followed by thunder,
the smell of rain breezing in
through windows thrown open for airflow.
You see, two scents melt my defenses:
one is rain, the other you.
Rain heals the earth tonight,
battering the rooftops and
spattering our garden and
spritzing me through a window screen.
The sky loves the earth
with a fierce love,
hindering my sleep.
I lie awake and wonder how it would be
to hold you on a night it rained.