Your words taste oddly familiar

Like something lost

That my soul has craved ever since

A thirst longing to be suppressed

You curiously rummage through my veins

Unveiling parts of myself that I tend to keep locked away

But now I've handed you the key

And as the blood pours over tired scars there's a sense of relief

Rarely am I ever truly at a loss for words

But something about the way you've managed to dull this once permanent ache

has left me speechless

Your being seems to bear some kind of cure

Your eyes carry hope of restoration

Accepting

I've always been pretty good at keeping it together when times get tough but something about this kind of heartbreak left me at my weakest. Everything was changing. I've always had this idea of what my life was supposed to be like and the what ifs haunted my dreams creating translucent images of ways things could have been different if the simplest events may have been transformed. But on a random day for no particular reason at all, I stopped dreaming. And as I watched that perfectly framed what if shattered by the dull reality of 'sometimes, life just is', every last hopeful expectation abruptly plummeted to my feet. And I just let myself fall apart for a moment.

Accepting 

Freely

Instructions: study, graduate high school, go to college, graduate college, build your career, marry person of opposite sex, have children. It seems that we all come with this same set of instructions. Instructions that society has hand-delivered. Instructions that falsely represent success and happiness. We are taught that failure to follow these instructions will lead us to the land of nowhere. But I wanna know who made up these rules and who gave them the power to tell us that if we do not live the way that we are being told to live that we will cease to succeed. I want to know. Because I do not believe that in order to be successful, you have to go to college. I do not believe that in order to be happy, you have to marry a man if you're a women and women if you're a man. I do not believe that love was meant to be hated. I do not believe that life was meant to be this way. I do not believe that life was intended to come with an instruction manual. I do not believe that this is how we were meant to live. I believe that life was meant to be lived. I believe that all love is the same love. I believe that you define your own success. I believe that life was meant to be lived - to be lived freely.

Life

Life

A four letter word

One syllable

You live it

You’re a part of it

That little word

Life

Such a simple concept

Life can be amazing

Life can be adventurous

Life can be sad

Life can be cruel

But at the end of the day,

Life is what you make it

That may be cliché

But there’s no denying the truth

Life is about singing in the rain

Life is about taking risks

Life is about looking for the good amongst the bad

Life is about pushing through the hard stuff

Such a simple concept

Life

That little word

You’re a part of it

You live it

One syllable

A four letter word

Life

But at the end of the day,

Life isn’t what you make it

Sometimes, despite your best efforts,
Life destroys you

A Room Consumed in Silence

April 16, 2007 - A cool breeze rushes over my cheeks as I walk home from school. Breathing in the aroma of wet grass and tilting daisies. I open the door - all eyes turn toward my younger brother and I. Why are they looking at me like that? Did I do something wrong? Maybe I forgot to pick up my room this morning. Oh no, I hope she's not mad. My grandmother walks over to me, a small white capsule falls into my palm. "What's this?", I asked. "Just take it," she said. "But why doesn't Patrick get one?" "Just take it," she replied once more. She's motioning us to come back to my room. What's going on? I follow her down the narrow hallway leading to my small bedroom. I sit down on my pretty, pink, fluffy bed next to her and my brother. She's silent. Something's wrong. Staring blankly at my walls of innocence, she swallows, "Do you remember a couple of weeks ago?" I knew exactly what she was referring to, "When your papaw passed away?" she asked, rhetorically. I nodded my head, remembering him lying there, motionless in the casket. My stomach dropped. Her voice trembled as she spoke and her eyes could no longer restrain the strength of her tears. She inhaled deeply, her exhale scattered, "Well your daddy..." The room is consumed in silence. I collapse. I hear absolutely nothing but the sound of my own screams. This can't be happening. Not again. No. She's lying. No. He can't be gone. I cry out, "Daddy!" as my heart shatters into a million little pieces. Memories begin to flash through my head. His smile. His laugh. The warmth of his fatherly embrace. My stomach knots up tightly and my chest feels as if there's no release. I can't breathe. My grandmother tries to hold me but as her tears mix with mine, there's no sign of peace. I can't hear her voice, I can hear nothing but the echoes of my thoughts. I begin to pray. "Please, God. Don't take him away. Please, God, don't. I'll be good, I promise. I'll do anything. You can’t have him. Please God, I need my daddy." I close my eyes until my eyelids can't take the pressure anymore, wishing I was only experiencing a terrible nightmare. My eyelids slowly part as I look through a thick wall of water. But this isn't a dream. My grandmother hugs me, "Shhhh, calm down. It'll be okay." But it's not okay and it will never be okay. I clench my fists and scream. I can feel my heart pounding through my chest like it's trying to escape the pain that's strangling it. My muscles release for a moment, surrendering. It begins to sink in - slowly, painfully. As my fingertips dance across my damp cheeks, as my tongue tastes the bitter kiss of a single tear drop in the crease of my lips, as my heart gives its last breath, I whisper, "Daddy." 

Words

It only takes so long for one to begin to believe the negativity spoken over them. Compliments bring warmth to your cheeks for a moment but quickly fade, while insults mock you for a lifetime. If only it were the other way around, our idea of self-worth would blossom - but instead it withers with every indecent slur. Insecurity isn't something we're born with; as children, we can only see the good in life, the good in people, knowing ourselves as nothing but cheerful smiles and colorful dreams until someone feels the need to tell us we're not worthy - of being happy. Words are corrupt, tearing down our self-esteem piece by piece. In time, the phrase "You're worthless" alters as it melts into the fragile mind as "I'm worthless". Words hurt - we've heard it for as long as we can remember but have we ever really taken time to understand the meaning? Slut, skank, bitch, fag, ugly, fat, anorexic, weirdo, loser, whore... Insults cling, attached to the heart like a snag on your favorite sweater. You can pretend that it's not there all you want but it is and it bothers you. One snag turns into two and two turns into five and five turns into ten until your favorite sweater is so torn and matted that it isn't your favorite sweater anymore. Imagine being backed into a corner with nowhere else to go, stones being thrown carelessly at your body. "That's awful, I would never do that to someone," you say. Well then tell me why you pick on that freshmen that sits alone in the hallway before first bell? He may not look beaten and bruised on the outside but each word you scream his way is a stone being thrown full force, abusing him on the inside, completely tearing him apart, making it harder for him to get out of bed each morning, struggling to breathe, broken - all love for himself is lost. Every scurrilous attack on our integrity provides yet another reason for us to no longer love ourselves. The world would be a much better place if all words were kind words - but they're not and this place will always be cruel.

Silence

I’ll never understand why it has to be so hard - so hard to just tell someone how you truly feel. In all reality, what do we really have to lose? We’re already drowning in torment with bottled up emotions. But yet we all find it impossible to reveal our vulnerability. I suppose it’s simply the natural fear of rejection. But whether your status is silent or rejected, the pain still lingers either way. So why not be bold? Why not take a risk? Being rejected hurts but the knife will soon fall out and the wound will heal in time. But the real damage follows silence - sulking in daydreams, always left wanting more, wishing and hoping. The real pain lies in never knowing what could be but only imagining it. Waiting for something and falling for anything. Gripping on dreams and floating on untold promises. Why do we put ourselves through that? Being silent. Living among the sound of your own voice may seem easier but when that voice begins to lie to you and pull apart the seams of your once perfectly mended heart, it’s time - time to be bold. Take a risk. You never know - maybe your fear of rejection was pointless in the first place.