Are you Happy?

I have something to tell you,

but I’m not sure how to say it.

Are you happy?

I want you to be happy,

But I’m not sure what to do–

I feel like I’m tiptoeing around broken glass,

Picking up stray pieces,

Wondering where they came from.

I want to tell you something,

But I feel like there are no words for me to say–

For me to fix the broken things.

I don’t know you,

But I want to.

I want to wrap my arms around you,

But instead of touching you,

I want my words to be the arms,

And bring you comfort.

Warmth.

I want to make you laugh,

And see you smile in the corners of your eyes–

I want you to know that I really do care,

And I am a broken person, too,

But my heart still wants the same things–

To love well, and to be loved well.

I don’t expect much,

But I want you to know my heart is here.

It’s beating, and it may sound faint at times,

But it’s here.

I know you can’t save me.

I know I can’t save you.

But all I can say is,

I want you to be happy.

Are you happy?

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Gripping the Edges

The tip of my pencil snapped.

 

My eyes scanned over broken edges of graphite

Like craters containing the dark mysteries no one dared touch—

But I let my fingers collect every grey smudge

And watched them wrap around the edges of my hands

As the texture of my skin stretched and said,

 

Stay

 

Open.

 

Then my mind stepped back as my body felt

The bent plastic of my chair in the space my desk left—

I saw a professor lean forward in his wheelchair and say to me,

“There is no black or white

When you ask the right–

Questions.”

 

So I sharpen my next thought into another image:

 

I start drawing lines into trees and circles into bubbles—

I crash roots into ships and make light bulbs into portals—

I climb mountains and throw rivers where there are no creatures—

I wait for life to grow from the ground like a puzzle

 

But I see a world overcome by shadows in black and white

Too dark to see or too blank to think—

Waiting for an imagination to give them life—

But they missed the best part of living.

 

They lost the color behind their eyes,

And forgot the beauty in the mystery.

 

And when did we stop painting… or drawing… or writing?

 

I feel like there are more blank pages than there are pictures—

And my heart breaks at the thought of someone thinking

They are too old for living

In color

 

In an age where we send more texts than we say words,

And ask social media more questions than we do ourselves,

I am afraid we had missed out on the very things that make us who we are.

 

Have we traded our creation of life and new ideas for

A black and white picture that holds more of the same

And less of who we are?

 

Who are we?

Are we consuming, or are we creating,

And what does any of this mean?

 

I’m not entirely sure, but my heart beats for something.

More than… a fad diet, a smaller waist size, a larger twitter following,

Or a thicker wallet—

 

I want to grip the edges of something different—

Of something resting deep within the caverns of my mind,

Where words live and secrets hide—

Where people stop

And find beauty in their person.

 

I will see past computers and TV screens,

I will toss out self-deprecating magazines,

And color in the black and white paintings they make for me—

 

Because I am still discovering

 

I am always finding new pieces of myself,

And I need no guidance from books labeled “self-help”

Or dark stares telling me I should be someone else—

 

No.

 

I am tired of people deciding for me who I should be.

 

I am going to search through the piles of papers laid out for us

And color over them with our own touch

Of art and the purpose we hold inside our hands—

 

So…

 

Be open to grey mixing up your black and white,

Allow room for questions with no answers–

And Run barefoot at night—

Let your hands paint over your adventures

When you your eyes for those hidden caverns,

Because this life is meant to be lived!!

 

And sometimes it’s good for the edges to give,

Because craters push us into unknown places

And give us reasons to move from our stagnate states,

 

So like the edge of my pencil, broken but working,

I will dig till I find something right.

I will write till I find a piece of my meaning—

That’s my answer to life. 

My Hands

IMG_4912
The pounding in my head says I’m awake!
I’m alive–
But my judgment seems clouded…
I feel around for a door or a light switch 
But my hands won’t open so my body
Closes.

Why do my hands feel so small? 

I hold them up so I can catch puddles in my palms
But they always slip through my fingers
And whisper “good-bye” when they fall beneath the sidewalks–

They leave a ringing in my ear drums
As short rhythms grab hold of my heart
And beat on my skin-covered arms–
But I deafen the noise with chains and locks
To hold my parts
Together.

I don’t want to be alone…

But I don’t want cheap lipstick or masked imperfections either,
I want to smile with wrinkles in the corners of my eyes,
And hide warmth inside me like a patchwork quilt–
My hands will grip all of the memories I want to keep
And the stitches will thread themselves into my body
So my heart can be still

My hands catch pain mixed in with beauty
And sometimes bandages won’t stop the bleeding
But my feet take in warmth from the ground
And remind myself I have the strength to stand

I can make new paths over the roots
Reaching for my ankles
I can climb over old stone walls
And find more than broken handles–

My hands will capture strands of light
And create new colors in my eyes
So I can give a warm touch
And a small bit of encouragement
To someone who feels just as lost as I do.