i was not made to get an education and a job and exist with awareness of this increasingly nightmarish world i was made to be a little sparrow who lives behind a store sign and spends all day foraging for seeds or perhaps bugs
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The Star Market
Marie Howe
The people Jesus loved were shopping at the Star Market yesterday.
An old lead-colored man standing next to me at the checkout
breathed so heavily I had to step back a few steps.
Even after his bags were packed he still stood, breathing hard and
hawking into his hand. The feeble, the lame, I could hardly look at them:
shuffling through the aisles, they smelled of decay, as if the Star Market
had declared a day off for the able-bodied, and I had wandered in
with the rest of them—sour milk, bad meat—
looking for cereal and spring water.
Jesus must have been a saint, I said to myself, looking for my lost car
in the parking lot later, stumbling among the people who would have
been lowered into rooms by ropes, who would have crept
out of caves or crawled from the corners of public baths on their hands
and knees begging for mercy.
If I touch only the hem of his garment, one woman thought,
could I bear the look on his face when he wheels around?
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“Complicated”
Wind: why doesn’t rancher speak about relationship stuff. I know he says it’s complicated. But- like does anyone actually know why?
Warriors: you know, I don’t think any of us truly know.
Time: *staying quiet and sipping his tea*
Sky: you know don’t you? *looking to Time*
Time: hm, if he wants to talk about he will or he won’t. That’s up to him.
Warriors: was it that bad?
Time: *sets his cup down* he said himself. “A princess that was so beautiful, it shattered his heart.” Friends and loved one will always come and go from our lives through time.
Legend: yeah. *sadly looking down as he carves a bird out of wood*
Time: think we all been there in some way or another.
Wind: champion do you know?
Wild: oh me, ah. Well no. But it pains me to see him look so down cast during the hour of twilight.
Twilight: *returns from patrolling* what’s with all the glum faces?
Time: *pats a seat beside him, Which twilight takes* nothing to worry bout pup. Think others are just curious about your statement you made a long while back about a certain princess.
Twilight: oh. *cough* yeah. It’s complicated. Still sorting that all out.
Four: that’s understandable, we don’t mean to pry into something you’re not ready to talk about.
Twi: *softly chuckles and sighs* yeah.
In Times journal he has written from his conversation with Twilight:
Those tears falling down his face, staining his cheeks, preventing his words,
They are not just because he is sad.
No, rather they are full of all his emotions.
The ones the words tells him to bottle up, shove down, hide away.
It’s his confidence
His desperation
His embarrassment.
But most of all-
Those tears are his anger.
He knows what he wants to say, what he wants to shout.
His mouth just will not form the words, no matter how hard he tries.
His tears are full of unspoken phases, evidence of his broken heart and the anger he holds inside.
Ones I know far to well. When someone we love and care about leave. With no return in sight. To be left wondering, “what if” and grieving that loss.
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At the same time
It's an open book
And a filled quill
Yet an empty page stares
How can I even begin to word what I feel
How can I even imagine to word what I feel
For its emptiness
and overbrimming at the same time
For its longing
and knowing boundaries at the same time
For its liberation
and fear at the same
For its anger
And acceptance at the same time
For its a crying heart
And a strict mind at the same time
For its closed throat
And dried eyes at the same time
For its ambition
And carelessness at the same time
For its regret
And hopelessness at the sane time
For its hidden
And obvious at the same time
For its love
and Loss at the same time
Because what if I'm stuck?
In between and nowhere at the same time
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One day, the church decided to open the window
i'm a writer. sometimes i even write things. when they're not very good, i put them on tumblr. read, my children, read.
Is there anything I would not give to have you well, my heart? You think I pile on the praise because I am expecting a reward. Can't you see it? Haven't you ever caught that smile in a mirror? You are here already. Now I only need to keep on being worthy of you. It is so often viewed as a desperate effort. Nothing about loving you is hard. I have been told only the falsity is easy, the surface, the self-gain. I have found you the most yielding thing to hold in a universe of possibilities and I do not think I'm missing anything. Maybe I can't see the hard parts because for me, the joy's in the labor. I am ecstatic to do the work. If you need me to carry you, that's just more time spent with you in my arms. In what world would that be taxing? What version of my heart could ever say no? You are a dear little lamb and with care I lead you away from the slaughter. I don't forbid you glancing back. There's things worth seeing amongst all the rubble and bodies. Love once resided there. Now it has moved. We are walking towards its new house with no hurry in our steps. For all my care, I trust you. You are breakable. I've put you together before. Fragile never meant a thing in need of locking away. Cages are harsh. My hands are soft, around your throat they remain soft, they are warm, they are all you know of the new world. They are all you need to. All love ultimately corrupts, makes you fight against what is palatable, what comforts and what sells the lies. If I love you in a broken world and I'm tired, that does not place a duty on you to start being kissed by the splinters. It is on me to heal the earth, to mold the clay into something that will not wound what I am bored of tending to. Could you trust me if I told you there is more in your heart to attract the butterflies that carry you through this all? Be not afraid. The cocoon is a bed to melt into. The wings weigh air. Metamorphosis only hurts if you kick. Come back for me before you fly off, well-loved dove. Promise me a soft resurrection. Promise me you will not cut yourself on every shard of stained glass. The martyr needs blood, you say. The martyr has plenty of his own. Shed your tears, whether crystal or crimson, on a softer kingdom. I can swear on all kinds of tomorrows. I can swear on one that will not see you afraid. On a hundred that will see you happy. On any and every that will see you loved.
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If I love you and let you go, can you call that love?
Will you come back, or is it the act of you leaving
that is considered love?
How can one love and not be loved
by those they waited for?
Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds
can pass me by while I wait for you.
Sometimes it is a chest full of glass and ice
that reminds me of time gone by.
But sometimes it is a smile or laugh
from a simple stranger that renders me mute
as I realize
I forgot who you were,
yet you still have not come back.
Is it still love if I can not remember your face
while I waited for you?
Can you remember me better than I can you?
I don't remember what your favourite colour was,
nor can I remember the colour of your eyes.
I can not remember the curve of your lips or the crinkle of your nose
when you laughed.
I can not remember you,
but I can remember what you made me feel.
An echo of happiness,
of love.
I let you go and waited for your return,
yet,
I forgot my love for you.
So tell me, is it love to let you go
or is it love to remember you?
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