Giving Away

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Did you ever read The Giving Tree? It’s a children’s classic and written by a fantastic writer.

I truly hated this story.

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Little Black Cloud

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(Yeah, I know. I’ve been writing, or attempting to write, lots of poetry. I have a couple of short stories I want to post, but I’m still working on them. It’s been raining a lot around here and I haven’t been feeling great, so Little Black Cloud was born.)

There’s a girl I know with a round face
And downcast, hazel eyes that stare at the space
Between her red shoes.
All she sees is her little black cloud’s shadow.

The sky can be the brightest blue
Or her green lawn covered in morning dew,
But it doesn’t matter.
Her little black cloud hides it all away.

Her feet drag on the cracked sidewalk;
She tries to ignore those who gawk
At her gloom and downcast eyes.
She despises her little black cloud.

“They don’t get it! I’ve tried to run and hide
But that bit of darkness won’t subside.
The regrets and hurt hit hard.
My little black cloud rains on me.”

She looks around, in vain,
Wanting to see light and color again.
Yet, she is denied those joys
While the little black cloud hovers over her.

“Little black cloud, leave!
Your presence is a torment! Give me a reprieve!
You’ve robbed me of so much.
Little black cloud, just leave me…

…please.”

Ode to My Creative Frustrations

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I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen
And I feel like I’m being mocked.
I grab my vibrant pastels and drawing pad,
but the page remains unmarred.
My guitar is dusty and out of tune,
so I’m typing up my frustrations instead.

I’m emptied of ideas and notions,
And my brain and fingers are uncooperative accomplices.
No inspiration flowing through my being.
It doesn’t help this flesh is unwilling.
Rather than let the unwilling win,
I’m typing up my frustrations instead.

There’s a part of me that feels useless,
that I’m doomed to failure before I start.
A voice often whispers, “What’s the point?
“Why start? It’s going to suck anyway.”
I’m here on my laptop, fighting the best way I know,
by typing up my frustrations instead.

To wait until inspiration strikes is unwise.
Many times, you have to work even if your soul feels dry.
You have to write, draw, or sing even it’s uninspired nonsense,
Even if your whole being fights against you.
At the end, you’ll have something to show for it,
Which is why I’m typing up my frustrations instead.

Lock and Key

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(Fair warning: I talk about vulnerability and God in this post.  If the topic is not to your liking, here’s a link to a video of a bunny eating raspberries.)


 

key heart broken

 

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.” – C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

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