#writercreed

the weapon that Cain wielded -

it has to be around here somewhere, right?

It’s only ever then

that we swallow the stain -

it must be a form of prayer, bright.

When the soil asks for my salt,

I don’t know if it wants my sweat or my tears.

I don’t know if it wants resentment or resilience;

bitterness, or brilliance but

I know it wants the focus of my fears.

The canyons call for carbon,

hoping for a husk to harden -

what could grow in its garden?

The hills howl for hydrogen -

aching for an amen again and again

but whacked the wheels of when.

When the atmosphere asks for my asylum,

I don’t know if it wants my armor or my anthem.

I don’t know if it wants my vulnerability or my value;

my tempest or true but

I walk through the spaces we once shared, and the world seems dimmer, the colors muted. The laughter that once filled the air is now a distant memory, a ghostly whisper that lingers at the edge of my consciousness. The scent of your presence still haunts the rooms, a lingering trace that clings to the corners, refusing to be forgotten.

The days stretch long and empty, each moment a reminder of your absence. The sun rises and sets, casting long shadows that stretch across the floor, mimicking the void within me. The stars at night seem dimmer, their light no longer enough to chase away the darkness that has settled in my heart.

I find myself searching for you in the little things: in the way the wind rustles the leaves, in the quiet moments of dawn, in the fleeting smiles of strangers. Each reminder a bittersweet pang, a reminder of what was and what is no longer.

Your absence is a melody that plays softly in the background of my life, a tune that I cannot escape. It is the silence that follows a symphony, the quiet that lingers after the music has stopped. It is a weight that I carry with me, a part of me that is missing, a piece of my soul that is incomplete.

There are different kinds of crazy in my world.

There's the head crazy, the heart crazy, and the soul crazy.

The head crazy ticks and murmurs and rings.

The heart crazy is a longing, an ache of fluttering wings.

The soul crazy, well, she howls and dreams and sings.

And, from tIme to time, I am at least one of these things.

HOME SHAPED HEART

I am making a home,

Within myself.

And it is tough.

As I grow older

And winters become rough.

I worry if the foundation,

Is strong enough 

To hold up

All versions of 

me, from all pasts 

If my walls should  be 

stark and high.

Or have 

More windows

To look at the stars

The night casts.

If i will be able to

Withstand impending rain.

Now that I know,

Joy is a momentary flash flood,

Upon a barren desert of pain.

I acknowledge the worry

Hold it close

And tell it to rest.

I want my home

Within me

To be a sanctuary.

A place to rest

When I return

From adventures of life.

I want to walk from room to room

And in the vaults of my heart

With a song upon my lips

For the beauty 

That I may find.

I want to welcome

Reluctant love,

Enough,

To feel, finally at home.

I need to clear out spaces

For gardens with butterflies.

I want a waterfall of giggles

To wash away all grime.

I want a heart shaped home

With bricks, of gratitude

And a roof, of everything enough.

I will put soft warm lights

Outside the door.

The kind that make,

The lonely feel safe

From harshness of glare.

I will build my home

Inside the vales of gentleness,

Where the breeze,

On a warm summer afternoon 

Will be much needed

Respite for my friends.

I have to be gone for long.

Into the  frightening silent,

wilderness of self.

To pick out pieces of beauty

From dangerous woods.

To gather and to rake.

To draw out a map

And a plan for

My home shaped heart,

To house all my goods.

I have the strength,

I have to remind myself 

As I pave the path back

To myself.

I will make my home

Within myself, 

From silver curtains 

Of full moon nights.

And the quietning that comes

From a dawn about to break in love.

Even if takes all my will and

The  milk of my bones.

It is the hardest thing 

To make,

I know,

Because I have to do it alone.

.

.

.

La felicidad es una ocasión especial que no reconoce credos ni razas nunca margina a nadie, incluso ni a ella misma al sentirse ignorada, al entregarsé. De modo que nunca será tardé para recibirla como una visita intempestiva ni aún porque llegará tarde. "Nunca cierres la puerta a la felicidad."