Worlds

In my mind I travel to new worlds,
worlds I’ve created, worlds tainted by books
and history, drenched in imagination. I’ve traveled
many times to these imagined worlds,
escaping the world full of
waking and doing and sleeping in endless cycles
to a world where I had a shaping role,
to a world where I saved the day,
to a world where I felt alive.
Somehow alive always meant almost dying
always stabbed or shot in the same place
right below the lowest rib on my right.
I fall into other-consciousness, a deep slumber
from which I must, but dread to awake.

Home

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder,
but maybe its about time: time to consider
what you have; time to see what you do
in the light of day; time to grow into
yourself, the one you always were but could
never find when surrounded by everything you ever needed.

The funny thing about absence and time
is how they work together. I grow fonder and
farther from those I love: fonder in ways I never knew,
farther in ways I never understood.
Leaving home taught me the hardest lesson I ever learned:
How much I treasure Mamma’s listening ears when I have a rough day;
how much I crave the voice of my Baba on days I feel far;
how much I value the wisdom of my sisters;
how much they will always be Home.

When I Grow Up

When I grow up, I’m going to be the first.
It has to be done one day, and I’m the only one
brave enough to do it. Some may want to invent
flying cars or discover life on Mars, but I
want to do something much more practical.
I’ve studied and practiced; I know it’s possible
to do the impossible; it has to be.
I’m sure the first person to charm a snake was
shunned and teased; the first lion tamer
must have almost lost his life a few times, and,
to be sure, the first person to domesticate a dog
almost gave up, but they all succeeded in the end.
Yes, I shall be the first and I will change the world.
Who’s to say a shark cannot be tamed?

Bird of the Bayou

I went home the other day,
walked paths full of memories,
relived in my mind the many nature walks
down this boardwalk: the ripple of the creek,
the wind in oaks, cypress, pine, and vines,
birdsong and squirrel-chatter, the buzzing of dragonflies and bees.
Building in the distance, a rumble of unnatural thunder
slowly makes its way towards me. My eyes dart upwards instantly
towards the clear blue sky eternities above me, searching for the
cause of this beautiful disruption. Before I can see it, I
feel the thunder in my chest reverberating against my ribs,
quickening my heart to keep up with the excitement inside.
Every muscle, bone, and cavity rattles, pushed by the
waves of thunderous sound.
And there, just above the trees I see it, the man-made
bird with his song of thunderous protection,
the bird I missed the most: the bird of the Bayou.

Seaside

I’ve packed my things in a hurry as I
run out the door stuffing items in a bag
mentally running over the list: a towel,
a book, a water bottle, sunscreen (SPF 50),
a change of clothes for the ride home.
Flip flops in hand, jumping on toes, I narrowly
avoid the stickers in the grass. 

The asphalt parking lot burns my bare feet
and the salty wind whips hair into my eyes
as the water bottle drops from my hands.
With a dash to the board walk,
I scamper down the stairs, and sink
as my still bare feet land in the
burning white sand, soft as new snow.

The sand squeaks beneath my feet
and sand flies into my eyes,
squinting as I try to
look at the emerald blue water
with its rolling waves and white foamy crests
and green June Grass floating around
which usually harbor the sting of the jellyfish.

The waves lap my toes and splash my knees with
biting salty water, burning scratches and cuts.
Quickly at first, I move in, until the waves start to
splatter my sensitive stomach, making me
gasp and squeal, tensing. I know the quick
plunge is safest: I inhale, bend my knees, and
submerge my shoulders beneath the icy waves,
held fast in the embrace of the ocean.

The Father Wept

*My first poem!! It's not the best, but it's a start.... As always, I love to hear your thoughts. Merry Christmas!*

In David’s town, that blessed night,

Our humble Saviour was born;

And as his mother cried in pain,

His Father wept for her.

When mothers’ screams rent the air

And babes were slaughtered in sight,

The Father wept to see them ache,

To watch his children moan. 

He knew the suffering would one day end,

Through the life and death of His Perfect Son;

A love so great that he would die,

A love incomprehensible.

Sickness, loss, earthly trials and pains,

The Saviour selflessly endured;

But the Father wept to see His Prince

Serve those he ruled above.

In the Garden waiting to be taken,

The Holy Son poured out his pain;

Though yearning to release his Child,

The Father wept instead.

His agony was great, but love was more;

He loved through suffering;

He loved through pain and misery;

He loved us unto death.

Beaten and mocked, He carried the Cross,

Walking the road to Calvary,

As Silent tears rolled down His face;

The Father wept with Him.

Nails through flesh through wooden cross,

Perfect blood spilled down,

The Father turned his face away,

And wept to loose his Son.

The day had come, the day of triumph;

The day of sorrow and pain;

When love would triumph and give life,

Through undeserved death.

Three days later, the debt was paid,

The promise was fulfilled,

Crying tears of joy this day,

The Father gave new life.

His love had triumphed, the day was won;

His tears not shed in vain;

Through perfect life, through perfect death

Eternal life He won.

The Gift

*Once again, I've used a prompt. This time, though, I am focused more on the technique: the words, the rhythm, the form. I will be doing more technique writing soon, so stay tuned, and please comment! I love getting feedback. What can I improve on? What do you like? Anything helps!*

I found this on Pinterest and the link lead nowhere. It's not mine.

He gave it to me. He, the boy I had dreamed of for years, had dreamt of me too. He, with those beautiful eyes that express so much. He, the brilliant, responsible, respected boy. The one everyone wanted. The one about whom people would always say, “I’d be proud to call him son,” or “The girl he chooses will be one mighty special girl.” When he was younger, his only sister, a twin, died. They were always together. I overheard him say they’d always be together in the spirit. He forgot no one. He never forgot a promise he’d made. Even if the person he gave the promise to had. He was perfect in every way, even in his faults.  Once, he got angry because a boy kept teasing a girl who’s mom just died. He punched the boy. No one blamed him, but he took his punishment anyway. That boy, he gave me his heart.

He gave it to me. Me, a girl no one ever noticed. The girl who found the corners and contentedly watched others, never talking to people, never attracting people, but deep down inside craving attention. Whose greatest fear was loneliness. I held myself higher than everyone else. I told myself that the reason no one liked me was because they felt they weren’t worthy of me. In reality, I was never worthy of anyone; am not worthy of anyone. My pride had gotten in the way of love. But he broke down that wall in me. I flaunted his love. I showed I was not worthy of it. I acted proudly about it. Only when I had loved in return, truly loved without selfish ambition, only then, could I be worthy of the gift. Me, the one who could never deserve him. He gave me his heart.

He gave it to me. A gift for a lifetime. A gift that could not be re-gifted. To give something insinuates it was given willingly, with no pressure, all of his own freewill. But to give a heart, ah! That means so much more! To give a heart means to give life, to give everything. A heart is something that’s only given when the giver deems the recipient worthy. People say they give their heart, but few truly mean it. It is a gift of trust. To truly give a heart away, the giver gives away everything that he is. He is willing to do anything and everything for love. He does it righteously. To give a heart means to love. And he gave it to me.

Current Writing Projects

Currently, I am working on documenting my (amazing) trip to Europe. If you are interested in reading about it, hope on over to my other blog! I'll put the links to the posts here.

Europe 2015

A Dream Come True: Part 1
A Dream Come True: Part 2
A Dream Come True: Part 3
A Dream Come True: Part 4
A Dream Come True: Part 5
A Dream Come True: Part 6
A Dream Come True: Part 7
A Dream Come True: Part 8
A Dream Come True: Part 9
A Dream Come True: Part 10
A Dream Come True: Part 11
A Dream Come True: Part 12
A Dream Come True: Part 13
A Dream Come True: Part 14
A Dream Come True: Part 15
A Dream Come True: Part 16

Summer Reading/Writing Bucket List

Summer Reading Bucket List!

• Read a book you’ve never read before.
• Re-read a favourite book.
• Read a book you’ve always wanted to read, but never have.
• Find your inner child! Read a new children’s book.
• Read a classic.
• Finish a book you’ve started but haven’t gotten around to read.

Summer Writing Bucket List!

• Write a short story.
• Write a poem.
• Dig up an old story and re-vamp it!
• Write 2500 words.
• Keep a regular journal.

Exciting News!!

As you may remember, earlier this year (oh! so long ago.... Where has time gone?!?!), I shared with you a story, Papa's Kind of Love. Well, I was so pleased with it, that I submitted it to a little contest of sorts. The local college I attend for Duel Enrollment has an annual journal featuring student's stories, poems, and essays. I had heard about Blackwater Review and had always been interested in submitting my work to a contest, so I decided to do so. I liked my story, had received good feedback on it so far, and realized there was nothing to lose. Well, after three *long* months, I finally heard back: my story was accepted!! Still, every time I think about my work being published—published—I still can't quite fathom it. Hopefully, this summer I will be able to write a bit more. I say that every year, though, don't I? ;)