...I Am Not

And I fall in love everyday with the ones who are good, not because they "have to be"...but because they are. Not because of stained glass or a preacher's pulpit, not because they fear the punishment of a misstep, or their father's furrowed brows, but because the colors of their soul don't allow them to shine
a n y  o t h e r  w a y
I fall in love with wishing
I  w a s  o n e  o f   t h e m

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bottled (The Kid Was Alright #3)

  It was just a glass bottle. There weren’t many like it; yet it was not the only one. Its life was insignificant, the lives of those who held it were not. It was just a glass bottle. In another life, it might have held sugar and carbon, it might have heard laughter from the same mouths that drank from it. In this life, it held water and sea glass, and heard the voice of the boy who had filled it. If it had ears, it heard his footsteps on the shore, and then it heard her voice by the door. Until it heard nothing at all. There weren’t many like it; yet it was not the only one. It was not special, not in the slightest. Not until it was the most special thing on earth, when nothing else was its equal. It became special the moment she saw it; it became special when their eyes beheld the enormity of color within it. The old colors of her dress, background to the new colors of the once ordinary glass bottle, now bursting with the lost pieces of shattered cups, sand, bones, and ...
Read more

You Know

There is an art to the unraveling. Like watching a crimson rug unfold down a dark corridor, quickly at first, until the slow stained corners fall flat just beyond your scope of vision. You know where you’re going, and you know how far the walk is. You know the darkness only makes your spine tingle because you don’t know what lies within it. You know hesitation is only human nature, as is the way your head tricks you into believing you can taste the blood that will never wash out of that damn rug. So that’s where you find yourself, staring unblinking into that black corridor. Caught biting empty air between knowing, and trusting that you know. You trusted the rug to roll the exact same way it has before, but not your feet to carry you to the end. There is an art to the unraveling, and a rhythm to your shaky breaths before that first step. Take it, little one, for the darkness is nothing but time.
Read more