we call her beautiful.

i once fashioned this innocent game of connect the dots- a silly picture of my life and the way it would be. somehow, plans turned forgotten and every unplan decided to show up and make home within my life. the only flaw within my portrait stemmed from a simple misunderstanding and common misuse of one word followed by another, my life. attaching life to mine was something i never considered or questioned, but in the hardest of ways i have learned life is everything but something to call my own. we cannot plan our births and through unexplainable experience, the death i planned or suddenly decided on did not occur. accepting the idea surrounding my lack of control is still a struggle.

this is hard

sobering

and quite frankly, this fucking sucks.

but every breath we are undeservingly given will be one i try not to take for granted.

in the most beautiful of all ways, i almost missed the simple glory of her wings. somewhere, i was given breath enough to finally see. for this, nothing could replace my thankfulness.

the black velvet bow of time

i found within myself the crevices and reality

feeding swollen veins with unrequited heartache,

embracing the comfort held beneath the dull photographs [i call home]

ticking hands pounded violently between my saddened ears

branding each page of recollection with staggered syllables

tugging and prodding at the deception masked within your name

 

the memories became tangible and frail, i stood at a distance

visiting every instance of unpromise’s rapturous kiss

and watched as his hands united the black velvet bow

the crevices swallowed the loss of heartache’s scars

and plucked the crumbs of a poisoned lover’s foolish mess

 

but,

i cannot bask beneath the rays of instances and photographs

for shadows mask the quiet wings of crevices and letting go

instead, i nestle in the arms of loneliness

finding forever in a day

 

“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.” -Ernest Hemingway

freedoms in the impossible – if only you believe

i write of love and all the pretty things —

things that grow wild and free and maintain no care

for what the atmosphere claims to be of worth.

 

words swish into the wind,

dispersing as a child puffs the dandelion —

floating off

into the big blue sphere that feeds life

into my hungry eyes.

 

wide.

bright.

 

they look past all the painted colors and worn threads.

beyond the flowered hills and silver lakes, where naked [bare]

the truth unfolds.

blooming, vibrant, wild, and free.

 

i unburry the treasure held within truth and taste the freedom on my lips.

freedom downpours, releasing gravity’s hold to where i land.

 

freedoms in the impossible — if only you believe.