Tag Archives: poetry

An open letter to a person who feels too much

Hello, you.

I know you thought I couldn’t see you back there hiding, but I see you shining like the sun on a cloudless day.
You are not invisible.  You may wish to be.  You may hope to skate by blending in with that wallflower pattern on the fly.
I see you.
I see you when your emotions flood your brain.
I see the lies those fickle demons tell you.
I see all the good you do and hope no one says anything.

I know you think that you are too much.
You feel too much.
You want too much.
You say too much.
You are not.  You are.
You are here.

You love people with the force of a goddamn waterfall.
You hurt like a baseball bat to the mouth.
And on those special days when you let yourself be free, you are Apollo.
Daring to fly close to the Sun.
Taking that orb in your sweet hands and firing the flame that is your soul.

I wish you freedom from your brain, from people, and from expectation.
I wish you freedom to just be.
I wish you adventure in the face of utter terror.

I wish you hope and dreams that are never afraid to say “I want this.”
I wish you the courage to say “no,” instead of making some cock-eyed notion of self is presented to you. You don’t need to be anyone else, anymore.
I wish you a steady hand to drive your fears back to the farm.
And, I wish you matches and lighter fluid to all those nightmares that made you believe you are too much. All those voices in your mind and surrounding you that ask for more than their worth.

I wish you destruction for rebirth.

Because I see you.
You are here.
You are everything you need to be.
No more and no less.

You.

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The Composition

There is often talk of what makes us.
Composition. Composed. Decomposed.
As if our bodies and souls were the same flesh. The same cells.
Isn’t your heart and your mind the same thing?
As if I could tell you that my mind is made of mud and you’d understand.
When you are made of a universe of moments –
the ones before you and the ones make’d, made, construed, destroyed, and mangled during this present.
The quip is “sugar, spice, and everything nice.”
Isn’t it?
Little girls. Women.
Gods.
The woman is not so simply composed.
You are Diana. But, you are also Venus.
Ares exists in their two bellies.  As if Bacchus didn’t make the wine to bind this time.
The stains of pain with Eros shame.
For you are not one thing.
You are an empire made of magic and the ends are always tragic here.
Because there is no end.  You wade through life against the waves of hurt, the moments of serenity, and the bile of expectations to make something that is your own.
You make your soul, because this story isn’t simple.
Life is jumbled and blurry.
It captures you like an ocean – so perfectly silent that it roars.
The rip tide pulls you away.
Away from home. Away from love.  Away from what is safe. Away.
And in that moment, what looks like freedom may only be a mirage.
What is right?
You are not one thing, dear woman.
You walk through this life on jagged rocks and sharp glass.
Your soul bleeds from carrying this weight.
And in the pain, there is clarity.
You are a thousand moments.
A million mistakes.
And yet, you are the world.

 

I feel like rhyming

She’ll never be a waif.
Her mind will never be safe.
She won’t let you save face,
Or bow out with grace.

God forbid, you think she’s a charity case.
In silence, there will be no space.

Waves and waves on days and dies

No forgiveness when she cries.
Only thoughts that conspire,
Ire upon ire.
And tho’ you’ll tire.

Oh, she demurs
The way she purrs
a thought occurs

There’s no life even when she screams “CUR”