The Voice Inside Me

These wings, growing from me, and the seeds which I have planted— intention, hope, connection, love, and growth— I water them in the hours of dawn, in moments of breath slowing to sleep. I plant them all around me, in body, mind, and soul, and enrich the magic soil which resides in my heart. I dance with the wind, thinking of all the beauty they will soon bestow. And I admire what has already grown, what has died and needs uprooting, what needs replenishment, what needs to be left to time. I am a sprite in my own lush, a gnome to my own garden, a siren to my own song, and as these things, I thrive.

Never forsaking hope or straying far from the light, with an undying connection to all natural life, attaining powers to heal and bearing it to give, she harvests an abundance of care and protection— her heart devoted to the earth, and in her soul lives its mother— goddess of tillage and cultivation, Ceres, nurturer of the innocent— who could nurture her, bring her the right seeds for the act of cultivation, but herself alone?

Your change is inspired and caused by your decisions. It can inspire others to change, too. When people see you loving yourself, living intentionally, and being free, they realize they can do the same. Use your growth to inspire. Live it loud. Live it proud.

The world is much clearer at three in the morning. You can hear the night, talk to the moon and the stars, and it is quiet, yet everything is heightened. The unknown is louder. The thoughts silenced. The soul on fire.

I want the forests to be magic, for one day the healing to escape the ground and come up over everything, breathing as the wind, coursing and blowing through the leaves. It will dance through rivers and as we drink its waters, we too will heal, and we will remember the magic that once was buried in us, now resurrected.

I wish so much to return to the earth / it is all I can feel most / re-joining dirt / returning to soft sand / opening into sky / falling into ocean / pushed around by its waves / flowing in its current. / I wish to be something quiet / able to pass by in silence / noticed by no one / to know only night and day / waking as the sun rises / merging with sleep as it sets / never feeling humanly alone.

Today I took extra care. I played the keys, the strings. I wiped the dirt and dust off all of the leaves of my plants. I played vinyl. I lit incense. I took a moment to breathe and sat down to read a book. I wiped the mirrors in my bathroom, took out the garbage. Drank a glass of cold water. Took another deep breath. Dried my sheets. Wrote a poem. Played and sang a song. Smiled because of that song. Sat in the sunlight on my porch for a minute. Forgave myself. Remembered I have a heart separate from my thoughts. Quieted my thoughts, listened to my heart. Took a deep breath and felt less heavy. Then I cleared my thoughts except for just one: now, now is alright.

But what do I do with all these feelings? I write them, of course. What other choice do I have in this matter or any matter at all? Though I have been forgetting this for so long because I have been afraid and I have lied to myself that writing was not my first and only love and that it didn’t thrill me, destroy me, even, over and over again, until I was broken but opened myself as something new.

If you try to knock me down it wouldn't matter anymore because people like me eventually learn  how to rise  and stand up on their own and feel content with it all I no longer  feel sorry for you or wish  things were  different or like before it all changed You yelled  I never did  You rolled your eyes  and ran  before  you ever had  to face  an opposition I'll let go  of the hatred  and the lies because admitting  or apologizing for you was like burning  the side of your tongue

I keep on the bar is lowered the nights feel like paper weights and I carry the rain in the clouds while they pour and you hide under umbrellas standing close to the fires you built from rotten wood

carry the gasoline through the fields carry sticks and stones  through the rod iron gates  strike matches bare-breasted coated in glass gazing in glows  of kitchen flames

I reached out my hand, and you knew what it meant. You saw my hurt,  what I struggled with the most,  and you stayed, until you didn't. You knew what kept me up at night,  but you didn't know my dreams,  or what kept me living, and you didn't care to. But a fire still burned in you that kindled in me, and I fought so long,  against you,  to keep it ignited.

Poetry is a life of feeling days  like they're years and years  like they're days  and then knowing  brains and guts  gory and glory pleasure and pain with hands  with arms aching  to hold something  to hold on tightly  to the comfortable  curiosity for  chaos

How you can let someone erase you; Embrace you over and over with an empty heart, hands of paresthesia, skin of numb, to the bone, cold.

But you’re such A stranger now Someone of the past Somewhere A feeling sits Burning a hole In its place

When this feeling comes back I want to shut My brain Off. I want to run Until I can't feel anything But the lungs In my chest. Somewhere Where this feeling doesn’t Exist Is behind the memory Stored in a place I can’t reach Anymore. Anywhere Where this feeling Is not Is a place I need to be. Where did I go? Where was I all that time? How could I do that to myself? How could I be so careless? How could I care so little For myself?

how long does it take to heal from something like that? something that scars you to the bone makes you shiver makes it physically hurt to remember how long does it take to forget? is there any way I can erase this feeling someone please tell me.