tired {a poem}

I'm so tired of hate
tired of anger
tired of negativity
and instead of joining the rage
I yearn for joy
yearn for peace
yearn for love
and why can't we spread these
instead of insults and fear


autumn comes {a poem}

A crow swoops down from his perch on the wire
to strut in the middle of the road, haughty

in the midst of frolicking squirrels who
dart from one solid trunk to the next with
reckless, zigzagging abandon

as rain softly falls and
verdant boughs begin to drip amber leaves.


hope {a poem}

hope is where love resides
where refuge is found
nestled in a grove sheltered
by a canopy of leaves
hope flits among the branches
singing a reminder of beauty
in a world where
hate reigns
and terror overwhelms
but Love always wins and so
hope sings on

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I am words.

I wrote this in my journal several weeks ago, and although the rough period mentioned was--for the most part--limited to that week, the rest still rings true. Actually, this summer can be most accurately described as a roller coaster. I moved across the country, one of my favorite people in the world (my grandmother) left this world, and this country seems to be falling apart at the seams. But there is beauty everywhere, and I am full of words.


There are words jumbling around inside of me, struggling to pour forth from my fingertips, but I don't know what they are or how to make any sense of them, just that I am full of passion. I drifted awake this morning hating this current chapter in my life and wanting to sleep through the day--as I have felt all week--and suddenly, I was filled with this inexplicable, undeniable longing to do, change, grow, live. I want to make this work. I am here, and it must be for a reason, so I will make the most of it. I am resilient. I am God's instrument, and God can do anything. Anywhere.

So who am I to ignore the world as it cries out in pain, and yet still blooms in beauty? Who am I to ignore God's call? No. I will live. I will pray. I will write. I will let this passion consume me, and then emanate outward in whichever direction it will go, but I have a feeling it will hit paper--and thrive. I will thrive. The world is alive, and so should I be.

I write for myself, yes, because it helps me tangibly process my thoughts, but more importantly, I write because the words need to be on paper. The words flow, tangled, through my mind and then suddenly become frantic--I become frantic, with the need to let them out, to be their scribe, to be their written voice. I don't know if the words come from my own mind, or from God--sometimes I wonder if there's truly a difference--I just know with an unquestionable certainty that I need to write. That the words need to exist outside my head.

Am I still writing? friends and family ask. Yes. I am still writing. I will always write. Mostly because I can't stop. I am words. God formed me with a word, and He fills me with words, and I cannot deny what I am, what God has given me. So I will live, and I will write.


seek {a poem}

I will not be crushed
by the pain of this world
I will not succumb to the depths
of my own sorrow

instead I will seek God, who
holds my soul
holds my purpose
holds my joy

I will seek God
and find myself