Purple, Yellow, Rotting, Bruised

For as long as I could remember, the apples never looked very appetizing. I'm not sure they were ever really fit to eat. Maybe when the tree was young, maybe then my grandma would go outside and gather up the apples for a pie or something. I never asked her, though, so I'm not sure.
But for as long as I've been around, they have been rotten. Even the new ones still on the tree. I pick up a fallen apple and turn it over and over in my hands. Its skin is yellow and pale. And bruised. Painfully bruised. Some spots are soft and mushy, and others are compact as if there is a small rock underneath. The surface is broken in a few places, and its begun to dry out.
I look around and see that the other fallen apples are the same way. Tossing the apple aside, I sit under the shade of the tree in the lush, green grass. We don't have grass like this in my yard, or in any yards in our neighborhood for that matter. Leaning against the tree, I look around me. I see purple, yellow, rotting, bruised apples nestled in a carpet of green. I see my legs stretched out in front of me, craddled in the carpet of green next to purple, yellow, rotting, bruised apples.

I pull my legs in to my chest and begin to cry.

Skeletons Are Icky

Hey hey hey. It's late. I'm sleepy. But I had a lightening strike of inspiration for a free form poem and had to get it out, unedited, before I changed my mind. Let me preface this by saying, for those of you that know me personally, I wrote this to help clean my closet a bit. There are some skeletons that I need to get rid of because a) skeletons are icky and b) I'm making steps rid myself of emotional baggage I hoard because I don't know what else to do with it, but I don't want to carry it with me to this next phase of my life. Especially because I'm traveling with another :] But here it goes:

We had our go
until you decided it was time
to see other people.
It would have been nice
If you had told me so
Before you set your sights
On another.

But we were so young.
One can hardly be blamed
For childish mistakes.

A year later,
Your eyes were back on me,
And I was skeptical,
Yet a hopeless romantic
Who wanted to change you.
Seventeen Magazine said
I could change you.
One night you followed me home,
Got out of your car,
And kissed me
long and hard
without a word,
then left,
My mind replayed it over and over
And my mind cast you as the leading role
Of my thoughts.
But sometime between then
And the next time we saw each other
Your mind retreated.

Maybe you were afraid of commitment,
But I was sure you were just afraid
Of being seen with me.
I was a good idea,
But I didn't quite sparkle
Like a trophy should.

I would like to say
That all of this is not intended
To bring you down
Or make you look like the bad guy,
But I'm a woman of integrity.

Now you say you consider me
A close friend
And that I'm fun to be around.
I grin and say thanks.

You say you're lonely these days
Even though you are surrounded by friends.
I say that's too bad
And that I'm praying for you.
I'm a woman of my word.

I'm praying that you get your act together,
but not before you realize
You can't fix everything with charm.

That's a horrible thing to wish someone
especially one you consider a friend,
But I can't find it in me
To consider you anything but a regret.

But one day,
Some day soon I'm sure,
I'll think of you with warm regards
While I sit in the warmth of my new love's arms.

Sky, Park, Air

Another free form written in church. What a heathen.


The sky hovers like spilled ink
Over the park.
His fingers tease her hand
And she grins.
They sit on the bench for hours,
Talking, planning, laughing,
Until he hears a voice
From behind a tree that whispers
Too low for her ears.
Contrite, he lowers his head
And walks away.
The air tonight numbs and pricks,
but she has nowhere else to go.

The sky burns red like licking flames
Against the park.
Another finds her standing alone
Under the magnolia tree.
Without saying a word
He kisses her long and hard
And she counts herself lucky.
They sit on the bench
For a minute or two when he says,
"Thank God for a girl like you
To make me feel happy,"
But even dogs tire of playthings;
Ennui smolders his passion.
He walks away.
The air this evening is thick
And sticks to her arms and legs,
but she has nowhere else to go.

The sky melts gray with ripe clouds
Against the park.
She clasps her hands together,
Looks out to the river
That cuts through the park,
And lets her eyes trace a single wave.
The air today swallows everything
In a dense fog,
But she has nowhere else to go.

She falls asleep on an iron bench
And wakes to find herself
Warmed by a fleece coat spread
Over her body.
She looks up at humble eyes
That match her curiousity with benevolence.
She knows him.
He sits down next to her
On the bench and says,
"Thank God for a girl of God.
Use me to show her Your love
And her worth."
She rests her head on his chest.
The air this morning is ubiquitous as always,
But she'd never know it.

Dry-Eyed Rehab

This one is a working progress... You are at a disadvantage because you are out of my crazy thought process. Forgive me if it doesn't make sense. But definately let me know either way. Thanks!

______________
Lie down right there on the green leather sofa.
So, I hear you think you've forgotten how to cry
Or that your tears are all dried up.
I'm going to show you some images that will cure you
And release those tears that cry, "Hold, hold!"

See, the woman weeps for her only child
Whose dim-lit eyes stare past her to glory.

Or the birth a a healthy boy
Who wasnt expected to breathe longer than a few minutes.

Or this one, your friend,
Whose mother unleashes her anger that leaves physical scars.

Or here, the friend who unleashes
Her own anger, guilt, shame upon her self in the form
Of physical scars.

And this (Don't turn your head, look back this way),
of the love promised for you that he lavishes her with.


And yet, your eyes remain parched?
-[aside]This disease... is far beyond my practice.
Have the strings of her heart untied, or the stream of her tears
forgotten how to flow?-
Miss, you're bleeding There, just above your left eye.
Looks like a scratch or a paper cut...
Let me fetch you a bandage--
It's widenening-- Oh! Hold this over your head...

_______

That's a nice looking gash you got there.
-[to nurse]She's losing blood fast-
A wound from years ago? You don't say.
How did it reopen, Dear? Come now, think hard.
Hold still, this might sting a bit.
-Cauterize the edges-
What a brave young woman you are!
You haven't shed a tear.
What's that? Don't be silly.
You can't forget how to cry.
-The skin around her eyes is too dry.
The wound will never heal itself-
Just one more thing...
-Cover it with sillicon skin-
See there, no one will ever know
that the wound was there.

She writes in third person and daydreams

She has so much fun writing about herself in third person. When people are written about in third person, as in a story, it usually indicates that something extraordinary is going to happen to that person.

______________________________

Secretly, she wonders if she will ever be able to put up with a guy's flaws long enough to date him, marry him, and grow old with him.

She thinks, perhaps, she should just get a dog.

______________________________

She knows the guy she is going to marry.

She doesn't know what he looks like or where he lives. Or how old he is or what kind of job he has. But she knows about him. He's respectful, friendly, and personable. Confident, not arrogant. When a stranger talks to him, he talks back instead of awkwardly avoiding conversation. People like to be around him. He isn't clingy, but he enjoys every second he is with her.

Above all, he loves God more than anyone or anything on earth, even her. He prays for her, and she prays for him.

She can't wait to meet him.

She sits in the bookstore

She sits in the bookstore at a table with only a journal and a pencil to keep her company. She secretly wishes a stranger would ask her what she is writing. Why she is alone.
She would tell the stranger about how she is meeting someone here in an hour, but until then she is scribbling random anecdotes in hopes of capturing a brilliant line or two. These she would store away for that novel she's always wanted to write.
Instead, no one talks to her. In fact, she is fairly certain no one is even looking at her. Which is perfect since she plans to people-watch in a few minutes.
Suddenly she begins to judge herself.
She is insane.
She is insane and creepy and secretive.

Just like a writer.
Mission accomplished.

________________________________

More to come from her. Don't know when she will decide to publicly share more anecdotes, though. She is kind of self-conscious about some of them. I'll try to persuade her to post more sometime.

Wants

I want to live and never be tamed
I want to dance and never be shamed
I want to sing and never know silence
I want a storm without the violence
I want a love without pain
I want crazy but not insane
I want to dance to my own song
I want a river to run along
I want peace
I want grace
I want hope
I want second chances
I want serenity
I want forgiveness
acceptance
life
freedom
joy.

The Marbles I So Carefully Placed

Written in a dark time. It's not random, I swear. It has meaning, but the meaning isn't going to jump out at you and slap you in the face. If it does, I apologize.

The marbles I so carefully placed in a row
have scattered.
They fall to the floor, then split to pieces.
A shard rips through my bare foot
Opening a wound from a time
When color drained from leaves.
I looked to the leaves full of hope,
Believing they would cling to the branch longer,
Until the last one fell.
I cursed the pallid sky
And resisted the frigid air,
But a wind swept me from my bed
And tossed me to a place I'd been before.
A place of fear
A place of rejection
A place I once called home.
Now the fields are green once again;
The forests teeming with life.
Still, a wind takes me to that place of desolation
Now and again,
And I wait until the tide pulls me in, drowns me,
And I'm spit back onto dry land.
My spirit is chaffed and worn from repetition.
How many times must I die to
Convince myself to accept life?

Poetry, by yours truly

Happiness is a loose term
For loose lips,
Spoken by the mind
And not by the heart.
For if the heart could describe its state,
One word would be spoken in vain.
Rather, a song of sorrow,
a song of praise,
thankfulness, faith, strife of its days.

Happiness is the dust on the ground,
carried away by the wind;
Here today, nowhere to be found tomorrow.
To strive for happiness is to chase after a dream long gone.
When its gone there's nothing to show.
No one would know
That there was a time when you felt alive.
There's a happiness as defined by the wise
that is a cup of the sweetest drink
that never runs dry.
Every sip contains, and retains, love.
It's the light-hearted emotion branded on your life;
Contentment because, for once,you won't be abandoned.
Not again.

May I never be happy,
but the glass is still half-full.
For happiness is false,
but His love is Life.