They wept tears of weariness
but their eyes were crisp and dry.
There were desperate cries of tribulation
but of their mouth, there was no sound.
I observed them carefully,
stories I'm watching unfold.
The injustice condoned for righteousness,
the abhorrence explicitly told.
For the love of this world is power,
and of this too many beseech.
We struggle daily with ourselves,
and struggle seems to be what we teach.
While dreams are quickly shedding skin
and lives being cast away,
what exactly are we doing
to ease another's pain?
Our tongues are twisted weapons
and deadly do they slay.
After all, we see what we want, and when we don't
we turn and walk away.
But where is thy kind hearted spirit,
raking hope from here to there.
Not telling one what cannot be done,
but takes the hand and shows one where.
I watched them led unto a place,
I've too familiar known.
And said dear child,
"Don't give up hope."
Your chapter isn't done.

Sunshine

 

I'm holding sunshine in my hands

it's warm and inviting

it burns a little

yet, I hold it still

it smells like joy and happiness

so sweet, so precious, so familiar

I can see the sunbeams of hope

I squint my eyes at the brightness

Do you hear it?

it sounds like peace and laughter

it's loud but quiet, quiet but loud

But here comes darkness

it passes by

it stops to demand my attention

but I can't grasp it

my hands are filled

I've got sunshine in my hands



Lost

I’m running.
Running faster and faster
I tear through the branches of heartache
They scratch my face, my arms, my legs
I keep running
Blinded by the darkness
I hear noises
They scream at me.  They call for me.
I’m afraid
I can’t drown them out
What is it? Who is it?
Running, running, Stumbling, falling
I get back up.  Run again
Past the fear, Past the doubt
I can’t.  I won’t.  I shouldn’t.  I don’t.
Run?
I run. I ran. I stop.
Stopping.
Stopping to face fear.
Stopping to face the unknown.
To stare it in the eye
To tell it here I am
I turn slowly, Oh so slowly
I stare blankly staring
Staring at what is
Staring at what was
Confronting  the face of challenge
The very thing I was running from
In the darkness,
I found me.

 

The Wrtier Within

The writer within me is trying to get out.  She’s screaming.  She’s pleading.  She’s fighting.   In search of the voice she knew she had, she’s begging to be heard.  But I had buried her.   The shrill sounds of her voice were cast deep within a well of the unknown, of the fear, of the forgotten.  I didn’t know how to bring her back to life.  I didn’t know if I could.  So I went on living.  No.  Not living.  Un-living, because without her I couldn’t be me.  I tried to suppress her but she kept coming out.  Her words.  On the backs of receipts, scribbled on envelopes, jotted down on any and everything within grasp.  They bombarded my head.  All these thoughts, all these words and I didn’t know where to put them.  Because I was afraid of her.  Her voice was so much bigger than my own.  She was bolder than I was.  She had no fear, no shame, just ambition.  Her words spoke, they stung, they soared.  I didn’t know if I could keep up.   I didn’t know if I could fly or if I wanted to.  But time and time again, she keeps rising up reminding me that she’s still there.  The reason I stare off into no particular place for no particular amount of time.  The reason I’m there and not there all at once.   I’m lost without her.  Her words.  They’re always knocking.   Banging on the outskirts of the once upon a time.  Screaming.  Pleading.  Fighting. …. And I’ve decided to let her out. 

Miranda Evans