We try our hardest to be free,
Free from expectations,
Free of the chains of time,
Free of the things that weigh us down,
From the things that make us, human,
Even the bodies we are locked in.
We do everything we can to tell ourselves we are,
Because nothing can convince us,
Though we won’t admit it.
We can’t comprehend the idea that we are already free,
Because to so so we would have to admit
To full surrender.
I scream at the mountains
Receiving nothing in reply,
I cry to the river
And it passes without comfort,
I shout to the stars
And they are silent to my plea,
I sit with the flowers
But their petals offer no advice,
I whisper His name
And He’s already there.
When did I forget
All the things you’ve done for me?
When did the numbness
decide to kick in,
Without me even realizing?
When did I start thinking
That the drug I needed
Was just the one that made me feel,
And not the one
that actually let me live?
No time to put on shoes,
from the kitchen with a handful of glasses to catch the rain,
back and forth she went,
till the cupboard was emptied of everything of use,
and the driveway was scattered with glasses half full,
tears came down her face
as she watched the raindrops hit the ground,
trying to smile she looked up at the sky,
begging it not to cry,
she couldn’t understand what had made it so upset.
“Honey, what’s the matter?”
“The sky is crying mommy, and I couldn’t catch it’s tears.”
“But that’s what the ground is for,
it catches all the tears that the clouds cry,
and it grows flowers to make the sky happy again.”
Just a little story for a rainy day…take of it what you will, hopefully it made you smile a little.
Photo Credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/92146676@N04/32130454131/”>SoePhotos</a> Flickr via <a href=”http://compfight.com”>Compfight</a> <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/help/general/#147″>cc</a>
There are words,
And then there are hidden words,
Words within the silence,
Words within the whites of pages,
Words where there are none,
And words where there are too many words,
Words on faces,
Words kept safe within the mundane,
Screaming out with only few to hear them,
But words don’t always mean what you think they mean,
Words can be so little,
And yet say so much,
Without even being said at all,
It all just depends on how you look at them.
If that made any sense?
My heart likes to live quietly, keeping to itself (not really, because then what would be the point?), though it’s never quiet, it’s rather loud actually, I’ll just rarely let you know it. It likes to think too much, beating itself up, for every little thing, though it’s not to blame, it’s not my hearts fault it got stuck in a body that refuses to do what it wants.
She kept her secrets hidden,
Deep beneath the colors
painted on her canvas,
If you looked closely,
sometimes you could see,
fleeting traces of subtle whispers,
fading in with the bigger picture,
And out of inattentive sight. -t.r.p.
As children we fight over the number we’ve counted, telling each story every time we move our fingers, every one more tragic than the next. But as we get older we spread magic creams over the spots to remove the shame, so people won’t see, or find our moments of so much weakness. What we’re too grown up to realize is how hauntingly beautiful they really are. They’re our body’s only way of showing depth on the outside without ever revealing what’s tangled up inside. They are proof that you not only lived, but you survived. That when life tried to kill you, all it left was that tiny, beautiful, imperfect scar. And if that’s not amazing, I’m not sure what is.