The First Draft

"Write drunk; edit sober."



The arms of the one I call home

At the end of the day, all I want is you.

Your touch. Your smile. Your gaze.

All I want is to be in the arms of the one I call home. 


Until you’re mine

How many long walks in the woods,

Take-out dinner dates,

Knowing glances,

Soft, sweet kisses,

Movies and cuddles,

Hands brushing together

Until you’re mine forever?


I feel stuck.

Stuck in faith.

In life.

I feel as though I’m a minor character in my own story book. 

I’m stuck from making a move.

All I can do is stand in the corner and hope I’m called on.

Otherwise I’ll never speak up.

A poem about poetry

How humorous it is to hear the opinions of those who find poetry to be “too moody.”

As if poetry only exists for love and flowers and rainbows and smiles.

It is open to that.

But it also serves as a medium for suffering and pain. Heartache. Depression. Addiction.

It the lowest point you can go, as well as the highest.

It doesn’t discriminate. It welcomes with open arms and provides comfort in all forms.

My reaction after reading an online review for a poetry book that deemed it “too moody.”

Don’t look back 

You can’t stop the world from spinning, love.

One day you’re here, broken down and beaten, and the next you’re across the world thriving.

And nothing seems to have changed, except everything is different.

Time may feel like it’s stopped now. But one by one those minutes turn into years.

And those years don’t look back at the moments in which everything felt like it was crumbling.

There are more important moments ahead.

Before you

Before you, I didn’t know it was possible to feel my heart scream.

For the butterflies in my stomach to fly out my mouth.

To have to stop what I was doing because I was overwhelmed with emotion.

Before you, my pre-night-time-thought-wandering was confined to my past day. Not ten years from now.

I couldn’t be moved to tears by feeling so much love.

Up in the clouds

Life is like the view from an airplane.
Look down, and you see fireworks.

From the ground, everyone around you is euphoric. In awe of the sky and the colors.

From the clouds, the pop of the firecracker is insignificant, a small spark of light. Barely noticeable.
Now look down and see a thunderstorm.

From the ground, you’re drowning in rain drops and flashes of light. Booming thunder engulfs you.

From the clouds, you look to the right and see small, dark spots of storm. To the left, you see the sun on the horizon. 

Everything can change based on your perspective. Choose to live up in the clouds.

Stuck in a bubble

I don’t understand how the rest of the world can continue with their lives as the lives of those around me are crashing down.

How I see people in the streets celebrating and smiling when I hear every day of a new reason to cry.

When the happiest person I know loses faith, and the smile falls from his face, yet others haven’t the slightest clue of his pain. 

And I can’t do anything.

All I can do is live. Or I suppose, pretend to. Go through daily activities​ as a zombie. 

Because I can’t protect the hurt. And I can’t mimic the happy. I can just watch from the outside as though I’m stuck in a bubble. 

Where I once was

For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
      so great is his love for those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
     so far has he removed our transgressions from us.

Psalm 103:11-12

I am not where I once was.

I am reminded of my selfishness. My bitterness. My jealousy.

I am reminded of those that I’ve caused harm.

But I am also reminded of how far I’ve come.

I think twice before I speak.

I put others before myself.

I love with all my little heart can give.

I have found something that has redefined goodness.

I am not where I was once. Nor will I ever be there again.

I am distant from that person. She’s just a memory.

In response to the daily prompt – Distant

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