Time to Write

I am told it is time to write

Yet, sometimes, it seems I cannot bring my heart

to speak,

to write.

Like there is a part of me that wants to contain it all.

Maybe, in the hopes that it will go away.

Maybe, in the hopes that it will always be there.

Nonetheless, it seems I cannot bring

pen to paper, fingers to keyboard.

Maybe, it is not the writing I’m fighting.

Maybe, I’m afraid of my own heart.

Afraid of what my heart will say,

Afraid of what my heart will feel,

Afraid of what my heart may reveal.

Because so many days of my life have been spent

simply surviving.

diving into those days, those moments,

when i could not keep my head up.

could not lift my heart off the floor.

scare me.

it’s easier to work, easier to dance,

easier to run, easier to hide

my heart.


A Dream

I dreamt of you

Being in your arms

Surrounded by you

The feel of your breath, your skin, your warmth

Then, I saw other women with you

Even though I longed for you

My heart ached for you

There were other women

It was like I had never known you

Like there never was an us.

Never was a ring you designed for me

Where two bands of metal are united

By a rock.

Like we were never.

It felt as though you were never mine.

Like 11/11/11 never existed.

Like you were a dream, that never came true.

And so I turned away from you.

From sharing you, from losing you.

From knowing you.


I have found there is more power in silence than words. More power in retreat than a fight, more power in retreating into myself rather than reaching out. -Valerie Christine

My Private Winter

I long for the cold icy winters our eastern counterparts dread.

The air that chaps my lips, making them swell.

The amount of snow that shuts down business, leaves families indoor until they catch cabin fever.

Not this warm sunny, a bit on the chilly side winter.

A winter that would make me seem warm on the inside, not hallow, cold, locked inside.

A cold that would justify my retreat from the world.

I long for the winter of my eastern counterparts.

The snow piled up to my waist, the icy wind against my face.

While the rest of me is toasty, maybe too warm from the layers of clothes, scarf, beanie, mittens, gloves.

Where, when I get home, the fire is crackling and warm

As I curl up with my Oprah-recommended novel.

Where there is warm soup on the stove.

No this half assed winter, where the sun shines everyday.

Where I need only a light jacket and where I try to curl up under my blankets, I’m too warm.

Where the roads are clean and I have no excuse to hibernate.

To retreat into my own world.

Where the winter within is much colder.

Where the icy wind I feel is from within.

Where the darkness that would descend early every evening,

descends every day and does not retreat at night.

Where when the rain falls, it is never for long enough…

The rain constantly slides down the glass panels of my soul

Creating a lake of which I will eventually drown.

The glass panels which keep me inside.

Looking out.

Drawing further in, as I draw the shades.

So no one can see my private winter.

My private winter.

Protect Heart

Protection of the heart is an illusion. Whether we hide our vulnerability or not we are still vulnerable.

Changing the channel…

Driving home from work, listening to the radio. Reached over to change the channel only to realize the radio wasn’t on…the car was silent other than the thoughts in my head and I really wanted to change the channel, but instead I got a good laugh.

He said, “I wanna see you again…”

Maybe tomorrow will be better…

Maybe tomorrow will bring what today could not, did not

Do we not all live to have our dreams realized?

Do we not all live to allow our hearts to feel and expand?

To see what we have imagined to come to life?

When it does it is so beautiful.

A beauty that cannot be contained.

A beauty that cannot be compared.