Tuesday, May 26, 2015

At The Horizon

Tuesdays Slice of Life

We once embraced at the horizon.
I was the land. You were the skies.
But your sun set on my desert lands and ocean waters
and your moonlit promises were ethereal lies.

You were a watercolor painting.
The definition of beauty with your blending hues.
Clouds of color so prismatic
no one could have guess the extreme of the hate they could spew.

Then with only a thunder clap to warn me
you unleashed your fury in a malicious storm.
Your lightning scarred my soil and your rains flooded my rivers.
Then you laid down on me a fog thick as chloroform.

When I awoke, I saw the damage your rage inflicted.
And the rainbow you hung to gloat your victory.
But instead of feeling defeated I reveled in the good,
the lush green and the deserts fulfilled and free.

You may hang over me for a lifetime, an eternity;
and I cannot control the rain
but my actions are my own to choose
and I choose to live free of your hateful reign.

(Written 5.26.2015)

Monday, May 25, 2015

The Little Girl Inside

Every step I collide with a memory.
Most leave me aching somewhere deep inside.
Childhood scars and adolescent wounds torn open daily.
Living a life where the street signs make you cry.

Ghostly remembrances, ghastly moments,
dance in my mind's eye.
The little girl inside knows each step by heart.
Each tear drop, each sigh.

I turn to my palette,
a flower field of hues.
I ask my heart and mind to paint me free
but at first, they refuse.

My body, mind, and soul
are chained to the nightmares of the past.
But I am shedding old behaviors.
I'm rebuilding. Molding a spirit to last.

I could live my life
a slave to the pain of past actions
or I can be reborn
in today's reactions.

I will make it my life to stand up
for those that are still too afraid to speak.
I will create outlets and safe havens
to protect and lend strength to those feeling weak.

I will not stand by and watch another generation stumble,
awkwardly navigating the world of mental health.
I will be a listener, an adviser, an ally, and a friend.
I do not do this for money. I crave another type of wealth.

Thursday, May 14, 2015


How can we dare smile today
knowing all the souls being taken away?

Now I know we all must die.
And for some of us no one will be there to cry.

But the pain that seems to replace them
lights a fire. You can't let it erase them.

Some die from violence, some by chance.
Some die fighting disease and circumstance.

Parents outliving their innocent child.
Where can that devastation be filed?

And how can God justify
the baby born who never had a chance to cry...

We are told to always look on the bright side.
But tonight I reach into the darkness and remember those who've died.


My friend shared the painful story of her friend's daughter, Lola Faith, with me today. 
To read it for yourself and view pictures click here.
I can't tell you how much I cried. In all honesty, I am a crier. I cry a lot. Some days it feels as if I have nothing to filter out the world's pain. But I can't imagine how her parents are feeling. Or any of the other parents who have ever lost a child. My prayers are with them. 

Tomorrow, please join us in wearing PINK for Lola Faith, to support her family and shine some light of infant loss. Please tag anything with #PINK4LOLA. If you wish to make a donation to the Palmer family, please click here.

Whatever you do, please keep this family in your prayers.

Thank you. 

Tuesday, May 12, 2015


Tuesdays Slice of Life

A trip,
required work,
took you away.
I feel your absence.

I say,
but my heart,
it aches for you.
The bed is colder.

The silence,
louder, painful,
echoing the miles.

(Written 5.12.15)

No One Is Safe

"And who do you think you are?
Runnin' 'round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold

From the ice inside your soul."
-- Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri

Your smile doesn't reach your eyes
until it sees the tears in another's.
You play with people's hearts
because yours feels nothing for others.

Your laugh is forced
until you see the pain you inflict.
Your eyes as cold as your actions.
One wonders if you'd bleed if pricked.

Your favorite game is love
but you play differently than most.
You swoop in and ravage it
'til nothing is left but its ghost.

You shed tears only as armor
against those who figure you out.
Playing the wounded victim.
Yours is a dangerous pout.

No one is safe from your sword of a tongue.
No heart safe from your vindictive claws.
With a smirk on your lips, you'll cry wolf
and the critics will burst into applause.

(Written 5.12.15)

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Because I Don't Say It Enough


Dear Mamma,
Nothing has changed
even though now
you go by "Busha".

You will always be my mom.

I know there were times
we couldn't stand each other.
Times we didn't understand each other.
But I'm blessed to know
you still loved me. Still do.

Sometimes people forget
Mother is not synonymous with
I'm more keen on remember that now.
Now that I hold the title
(even being that my title is Pika).

Thank you for showing me
how people can grow.
How life doesn't have to be
an endless repeat of 8th grade
(or equally horrific times).

Thank you for loving me
while I learned that I was not
the center of the world
but that I could make a difference.

Thank you for my life,
for everything,
and for not holding it against me
that I don't say it enough.

I love you.

(Written 5.10.15)

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Cry Diamonds

Tuesdays Slice of Life

I could cry diamonds
and still no one would notice my tears.
I could write like the legends
and still no one could decipher my fears.

I was just floating in the wind
when everyone else was playing for keeps.
My body filleted and skinned
in the nightmares awake or asleep.

I can't focus anymore with these thoughts
racing and crashing against my mind.
Sick of the author writing these plots.
Plots where I am the villain designed.

How much longer can I preserve this snow
as it's melting, dripping down my arms.
I wasn't aware this was a game show.
100 points for every day unharmed.

Just one word, seemingly innocuous,
stirs hell's fires that lurk in my veins.
And all my struggle is suddenly worthless,
as the disease adorns its crown, and reigns.

Hopelessness is all too familiar a companion.
It pretends to soothe while instead it riles.
Dressed as a friend, underneath another demon.
Sticking a knife in your back as it smiles.

Even in the ceasefire, I am on watch.
I shall sleep with my eyes open and piercing.
Pray my skin does not receive another notch.
My heart keeps me awake with its aching.

My weapons look frail and fragile against steel.
They are just paper but what a powerful thing!
It transforms into books, paintings, poems, all which feel.
It will bandage my wounds and make me wings.

(Written 5.5.15)