Estadounidense, poet, Christian. Let's tell stories together!
Only in you do I find peace, my Redeemer. So many questions drown my reason in screams of agony, as the protestations of a screeching wife drowns the goodwill of the most gracious of husbands.
Hey guys. I'm sorry for being absent. I've got midterms. -.- I'll probably be out for another week... Sorry!.
The weeping, drooping yellow glow Pouring from the light Soaks into my flaking skin; Tinting the faded wallpaper The same color as My suffocating hope.
I came home to find two boxes of chocolates and a Pandora bead. My daddy is the greatest. #daddysgirl.
Without Him, we are Struggling in the darkness, Searching for meaning in a hopeless world, For color in a lifeless body.
Tiny leafy fingertips, Striving towards the light, Climb on arms of progress, Gaining, gaining height.
Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down. ~Robert Frost.
What do you choose for your pallet, O Lord, As you set up your Atlas, your easel. What do you splash on Aurora's skirts While Helios prepares for his ride. Do you borrow from Neptune's endless depths.
After the thousandth plodding line, (That pedantic, graceless curse,) I feel the need to teach a lesson On the basic nature of verse. What is the key to a fluid poem.
I don't quite understand. The poems I love and cherish -- That I've worked on for weeks-- Get nary a like or comment, Despite their brilliant verse.
I've noticed Most of my poems Are about plants. My parents Like to garden So that helps. New metaphors Are probably needed For originality. That would be A serious problem If I cared. Oops.
The soft green buds of knowledge peep up through the dirt - Soft contrast of potential at first sight of the light.
A moment of sun Holds a lifetime of joy If we could be still..
The bleakest canvas before me stretches In great swathes of salt-blue and foaming white -- True silence reigning in secretive wind That breathes salt secrets of long-dead men Past my cheek and up...
The shivering fingers and trembling toes are standing on the edge Stomach dropping in nervous fear seconds stretching beyond ~To anticipate~ The toes curl around the edge as the moment...
I. A poem is a snapshot of the soul; A feeling frozen in time, A memory stuck on flypaper, A window into the garden Stopped between night and morning. II.
I rush about from place to place To find somewhere to hide Screaming my soul's displeasure To those whom I pass by.
A monster sits in my chest and my belly Coiled and waiting to strike. It rips open my newly-torn, nearly-healed scabs Spears my heart on a razor-sharp pike.
"I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: “I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God.” That...
An abuelita came to my register, with bitter, ungrateful returns. Expensive sweatpants from a grown-up daughter and a hand-picked grandson’s sweater.
It all came to a culmination, then. Generations of scheming, of waiting - of subservience and pain had been suffered to come to this moment.
Come, my loves -- Let us sit and sing Of a world without value. How evolved. How loving.
A/N: This is a poetic description of my daily battle with ADHD. Haven't I gotten it wrong. My mind is so full of questions - jockeying for answers that only create more questions.
The concrete man Stares up at the sky Kissing all feet That pass him by..
In vibrant purple, I saw a little girl drinking water out of the corner of my eye.
The west glows golden As the winter chill descends. The lone cicada sings..