Winter Song

Won’t you come for me?

Won’t you fight for me?

Just like the winter winds,

Blowing wildly.

Howling in the night,

Just wanting to be heard,

Won’t you save me from this hurt?

Won’t you come right in?

And share with me Your truth,

I tried believing mine,

It hasn’t seemed to work.

I’m left here in the cold,

Feeling so alone,

So won’t you come?

I follow steps in snow,

In hopes you’d see me down below,

Attempting to search,

For answers.

I can’t seem to find a single reason why,

I got left outside,

Other than,

I walked myself right out the door.

But won’t you come?

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Bloodshot

I used to look into your eyes and feel respect.

Blemishes were small and overlooked,

Now everything is altered.

Now I look and see eyes that have lied and deceived.

We aren’t talking about white ones,

But lies that have manipulated my heart and have hidden parts of who you’ve chosen to become.

No, this isn’t you.

But this is who you want to be.

Forgiveness is sweet in a moment,

But you aren’t warned about the trials that will soon follow.

Paranoia creeps in and I am left in a vicious cycle of what to believe….

Your eyes are so heavy,

And red.

I notice everything,

Even more so than before…

My mistake was not following my gut.

I don’t want to ignore it again,

Because my truth is that you aren’t truly on my side,

And the only one in this house that has my best interest,

Is me.

Twisted

The wrinkle between my two eyes

Didn’t just appear here over night.

It took time.

Time with a knot in the pit of my stomach,

Analyzing and doubting whether the truth was being told,

Or another fable.

A mixture of half told truths has never drove me to brain splitting pain,

Insecurity,

And insanity.

With my clenched jaw,

I long to be able to feel safe.

Feel taken care of.

I drink the cup of hope that seems to never run out,

But freedom of choice is a twisted game.

I play this scenario over and over,

Until my eyes are heavy and achy,

But trusting in man alone is a lesson already been learned.

I remember Your wisdom.

Choice.

“What will you choose?”

You ask.

“Will you choose to stay in this cycle that has left you bitter again and again?”

“Or will you trust the One who knows you?”

This Box

This box wasn’t meant for me,

So I’m getting out.

Yes, I’m getting out…

This box that has been molded by the world.

From their words and perspectives,

Along with opinions and interjections.

From years of criticism,

And disappointments…

From ideas that have been thrown out and put back in,

Over and over.

From self-defeating thoughts that have kept me from looking out.

And all the expectations that held me in,

Because of fears of failing.

So I bothered not to try.

The walls of lies that said I wasn’t good enough to be on the outside.

And kept me hostage from creatively thinking of my own way out.

Beyond the Branches

Clarity seems a little lost,

When insecurities block out the green, block out the light.

She is not the words,

Spoken from the place of loneliness.

She lets her tears fall down gently,

And lets them spread among the seeds,

Into the places that need more nurturing,

Into the space that grows with grace.

Her roots yearn for intimacy,

And the rain that pours is so sweet.

Although, she gets but a taste.

The lingering affection offers healing,

As her hope is restored in a tomorrow,

Hiding beyond the branches.

Porcelain

I am made of porcelain.

Everyone has a breaking point.

Some of us are fortuanate, depending on how you look at it, to experience more than one.

The first time you shattered,

You believed in miracles.

The second time,

Everything gets questioned.

I can’t apologize for not diving into your lake of sorrow,

When I am experiencing a sorrow all of my own.

This sorrow is deep,

And dark…

When death seems merrier than being alive,

I become afraid.

I become distant.

My porcelain skin is now revealed.

The surface can only be stranded together for so long,

And we all know,

When a crack has formed,

It spreads all too quickly.

The Bottoms of My Feet

Ah, love.

It isn’t meant to be perfect.

In fact the messier,

The more real.

Because real love is vulnerability,

Exposure,

And transparancy of doubts,

And flaws and insecurities,

Along with all things good,

Of course…

But messy it is,

Just like the wooden floors

I walk on.

Leaving the bottoms of my feet with grit.

So I sweep it up,

But it won’t be long until the clean floors are dirty once again,

But that’s what we do,

We try to control something,

Uncontrolable.

We think we are fixing when we sweep the filth underneath a rug,

Or worse…

Into a closet that we forbid to be opened.

And then we wonder where it went?