The only thing outweighing rage
Is the pity I feel for you.
No, wait…I take it back.
That part’s not really true.

Sorrow’s reserved for those who knelt
Before your lap, as you dealt
The slap that left a bruise unseen
Delivered by a two-faced fiend.

My concern for you is only this:
For those you robbed of innocence,
Who trembled under weighty kiss
Heavy with self-righteousness.

I’m done with you.
This part’s for them:
Far better things are at the end.
He might have used you as a toy,
But he cannot steal your joy.


remote control

turn it off:
the sound and the fury
of upraised fists,
words spoken in hurry
without a thought for how they cut,
or tear and bruise and even maim.
change the channel
to a gentle response,
of kindness repaid for insult given.
turn it off:
the static of rage
that glows in the heart
when passion ignites;
bingeing on fear
and vomiting hate.
turn it off,
before it’s too late.

The Lost Butterfly

(alternate title  “I’m in a bad mood so, Eff You Butterfly”)

With painted wings of colors bold, dyed in purple, blue and gold.
Transparent petals, light as air
I hardly noticed you were there.

You came to rest upon my hand that morning as I sat to read.
Vexed, I shooed you on your way!
And wanted you back the very same day.

Impulsiveness caused you to fly. I could not find you, though I tried.
And you were lost among the leaves,
And left me on my own to grieve.

originally written on Friday, August 5, 2011 at 2:32am

The Pictures in My Head

Many writers say they write because they have to. I always rolled my eyes and felt that it was a terribly clichéd thing to say.

I don’t roll my eyes anymore.

I write because I have to.

When I was little I had aspirations to be an artist. I loved to draw. I drew all the time and carried a sketch pad with me everywhere. But I was a terrible artist. I would get so frustrated, because I had a picture in my head about what I felt, and I wanted to show everyone else. I had no way to accomplish it. I had no way to put down on paper, or in clay, or on canvas the things I saw in my head. So the pictures stayed locked away for almost 20 years.

A few years ago I was having a terribly hard time. Things at my job had been going downhill for about a year and a half. It was a slow and steady boiling of the water, and much like the frog, I was being scalded. I had been in the soup for a while before I realized I was being cooked. The situation deteriorated quickly and after months of manipulation and dodging, the decision was made to close our branch. Within a one week period of time I turned 30, was downsized from my job, said goodbye to my grandpa (he made it to 92 God bless him) and was dumped twice by text message. By the same doofus.

I also have underlying issues of clinical depression and anxiety. And a host of things in my life that, at the time, I was refusing to acknowledge. I was hurting. I was sad. I was lost about what I should do and where I should go. It was a bad time, and I have no wish to relive it, but looking back over those terrible weeks which stretched into terrible months, I can honestly see God’s mercy. Sounds naive. Sounds mad. Sounds…cliched. But it’s true. I am a master procrastinator (some slam poetry right there…booyah) and I had decades worth of garbage that I was pushing deep, deep, deep down. I hoarded everything, although somehow it was only the bad, grimy pieces I kept and not the bright shiny ones.

I began to see a therapist who happened to be a Christian. I’d seen therapists before, so this wasn’t a new process for me. However, most of my experience was with therapists who were condescending or openly hostile towards my beliefs; and the few who were sympathetic where only interested in pushing medication (side-note, I am all for medication if it helps you, and I reject the stigma in some Christian circles that depression is simply an issue of sin…but that’s a post for another day). Bob was my first  therapist who wanted to know about me. He wanted to know about my heart. He asked me questions about my motivations and aspirations. And he was not afraid to hand me my own ass if the situation required it.

I was having a really difficult time even focusing on a coherent thought, let alone praying. It’s kind of hard to pray to God when you’re angry with Him. Bob suggested writing out my prayers. It would force me to acknowledge the bad feelings rather than pushing them down while putting on the brave Christian face. It would force me to take my time, to realize why I was mad, or sad, or even happy. His other suggestion was to model them after the Psalms. I had never noticed it before, but King David was pretty pissed in some of those Psalms. He’s mad and sad. But he usually ends happy, choosing to put his faith in his Maker.

You see, my brain is full of junk, piles of old newspapers stacked to the ceiling and garbage littering the floor. But it’s also full of treasures. I have pictures in my head. Words are the only medium I have found to get them out.

That’s why I write.

I Walk Away.

I opened up myself
More than I should dare
But you forgot to mention
That you really do not care.
I made the cut so deep
It opened to the bone.
I’m writing now in anger.
Do not misread my tone.
You hide behind all others
And let them speak for you.
Your greatest tool’s duplicity
In what you choose to do.
I opened up myself to you
More than I could bear.
If only I had had the sense
To know you do not care.
I’m lacking understanding for
These games you like to play.
But I have reached the end of it.
And now I walk away.

originally written on Monday, August 22, 2011 at 3:28pm

Hazel Eyes

I’d really like to know
where it is you go
when trapped in thought
behind those hazel eyes.
Anger first. And now surprise.
Sometimes joy. And then there’s fear.
Who’s voices do you hear?
Smilelight and firelight flicker o’er your face,
Soon replaced by stormy clouds of rage.
Iris green and ringed with blue,
Speckled with an amber hue,
Lost in thought behind those hazel eyes.



Self control is a tedious thing,
When all I want is to yell and scream,
And ball up my fists until I shake,
Throw a tantrum right in your face.
For many years we’ve danced this dance
You’re always asking for one more chance.
You accuse me of lacking mercy or grace.
You like to get all up in my face
And twist what you do to be my crime.
I am done with it this time.
My grasp on constraint is weak at best.
Who is the greater fool you ask?
I finally see after all this time.
The foolishness is mine.
So let me be. I’ll forgive in time.
But I am not your’s and you are not mine.


A bite that is worse than its bark.
Festers and simmers rather than talks.
Bottled up neatly inside;
Not letting the smallest slight slide.
Tucked away under the covers.
Matter of time til it boils over.

Fangs will stay hidden for only so long.
Poisonous words drip from forked tongue
Rabid rage and claws you will feel.
The venom will seep, resistant to heal.
Lord, knock out my teeth and chop off the tail
Of this rattlesnake heart. Make me brand new.


Low down in my heart it rumbles;
Starts off small as tiny grumbles.
Picking at the things you do
And slowly losing trust in you.
I can’t discern if you are true
Or if you’re someone else…

I look for trickery and shrewdness.
I jump on any sign of lewdness.
Always searching for your worst,
I’m at the ready to be hurt.
I can’t just take you at your word,
In case you’re someone else…

I will put down this rabid dog,
Who lurks in slowly with the fog.
I’ll try to see your faithfulness,
And coax my heart to deference
So I can still be called your friend.
For you might be true of heart.