Thought of the Week

There is a major difference between giving up and letting go.

Letting go is healthy.

Giving up isn't.

The Tarnished Truth

The Tarnished Truth

Polish me up.

Rinse me off.

Make me up?

But remember

I’m only human.

Imperfection can,

and should,

be beautiful too.

I would prefer

to be untarnished

from my past.

But there is only

So much I can do.

Polish me up.

Rinse me off.

But never

try to make me

something I’m not.

Breathing It In

Breathing It In

This new life is closing in on me.

I turn my face to it like a new friend.

Everything is falling in place

but I feel like I’m falling.

It will be simpler soon

and less daunting.

For now I hold my breath

until I can release it with relief.

Fine Wine and Other Non-Desirables

I wrote this poem last night and found this image and story on http://www.grandmasgraphics.com/boy_cigar.php. I find it interesting how this boy and I have the same reaction to these comparable substances. 

Fine Wine and Other Non-Desirables

What wickedness is this?

It stings my lips.

Is it poison or pleasure?

How is it I am indifferent

when others crave it

and consider it treasure?

Has my lack of desire dulled me?

Am I living life too carefully?

Welcome to the Well

Well. Well. What do we have here? Another blog among many I suppose. This is really going to be more of a personal journal of my own written work. I have made this an open journal for anyone interested in reading it. Although, I doubt anyone would stick around after taking a peek at the odd regurgitation which comes from my mind. *smirks* I welcome anyone and everyone here who is willing to be friendly and courteous to others. Critiques are welcome too. They make me better at writing because they challenge me to open my mind to new possibilities.

To kick this off I will share my current (because honestly who can choose) favorite poem:

This is taken from: http://www.bartleby.com/113/1032.html

Emily Dickinson (1830–86).  Complete Poems.  1924.

HOPE is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

 

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

 

I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.