Poetry.

I've recently moved here, and I wanted to bring some poetry with me. Hope you don't mind.

Eleven. Twenty-Nine. Thirteen.

I'm made of stars.
Carbon hydrogen and helium
I'm not a scientist, so I couldn't say for certain
But I know about wishes and magic and light
Distance and stories and mystery
I've squeezed my eyes shut many a time
A 'star light, star bright...' wish whispered into a night sky
I'm made of stars.

I'm made of pieces.
Skinned knees and bruised hands
Heart beats resounding hollow trying to hide the mess
Inside clumsily scotch-taped mosaic
Held together by elemers covered fingers
All grown up but really
Five years old trying to hide the cracks
Of a heart that accidentally slipped
Trusted in the hands of someone
Not quite ready to hold it.
I'm made of pieces

I'm made of crumbs.
Christmas eve wishes settling in the bottom of a plateNear a letter and an ice cold glass of milk
Slippered feet illuminated by glowing colors
Lights and ornaments, wreaths and bows
Please, Santa I know I've messed up but I tried...
I'm made of crumbs.

I'm made of bits of poetry.
Words that cut deeper than the surgeon scalpel
When he took out all the bad cells
Stitching me back together in the broken spots
The spots cut open, bleeding, painful
But cut open, deep, to make me better
Make me whole.
I'm made of bits of poetry.

I'm made of eighth notes.
Half notes, quarter, rest
Little beats mixing and twirling
Tutus and ballet slipper feet
Watching the big girls and please please please
Let me dance pretty just like them
Finding my own rhythm to the song
Learning to recognize the song inside my very being.
I'm made of eighth notes.

I'm made of memories.
Flying like birds through department store doors
Their simple way in not so easily reversed
Rattling around inside and finding new places to rest
Causing gasps and sometimes breaks
Other times giggles and 'oh won't this be a story to tell'
Knocking off dust from where it wasn't even noticed
I'm made of memories.

I'm made of prayers.
Words whispered in the good and the bad
Holiday tables surrounded by families
Sunday lunches. Full-churched candle-lit hymns.
Funerals. Hospital beds.
The pleases and the thank yous, the wishes and the wonders.
I'm made of prayers.

I'm made of hope.
The little whisper that says that
When the world lets you down
When you're bruised and heartbroken
When Christmas is over and the magic slips away
When the bad things aren't able to be removed
When the music stops
When the memories fade
When prayers feel like they're sinking into tiles
Hold on.

Because I'm made of rays of sunshine.
Nighttime coming to an end.
New beginning. Another day.
Second chance.
I'm made of sunshine.

Four. Eleven. Thirteen.

Things I hope for you:

Your days are full of sunshine
And when they aren't,
I hope the rain is gentle
I hope you laugh
And when you can't,
I hope you know that things will clear up soon.
They always do.

I hope someone tells you how wonderful you look
With that crooked tooth
And the crinkles beside your eyes
And that one color that you look amazing in.
I hope that your hair grows,
And you have to get it cut again and again.
That's one of life's small joys, you know.
That, and wearing a new outfit.

I hope you take the time to feel the grass between your toes
And really listen to the waterfall.
You let the child run their fingers over your face
And you let the tickles bring belly laughs.

I hope you remember to look up at the stars
Count them until you're lost in the wonder of it all
And then remember that you, too
Are made of stars.

Remember that everyone you are scared of
Is 65% water
And that bumble bees die after they sting
And that every storm runs out of rain
And that nothing is infinite
Not even heartache.

Remember that you'll be okay.
Remember that I'm pulling for you.
Remember that I believe in you.

Three. Fifteen. Thirteen.

Rest.

Hands open, broken, cracked.
I sit here at this table, Your table.
Thank you for saving a seat for me.

My heart is weary; I'm afraid I've worn it out.
Life has been so busy. Always on the move.
Minutes slip through fingers- dew drops in morning sun.

Most are good, though some are not.
There's always somewhere to be.
Someone to see, someplace to visit, some thing to be accomplished.

But I sit here; I sit at your table in this moment.
I take a short reprieve from the bustle of the go, go, go.
I breathe deep; my constricted lungs finally expand.

I lean in, I lay my head on your shoulder.
I close my eyes and I am still.
I listen for the quiet.

You hold me close.
You let me know that it will be okay.
You let me rest.

Thank you.

Three. Seven. Thirteen.

Do you know why
You can never fully repair something that was broken?

Because there are tiny fragments that break off of the whole
They are so small that you do not see them
Mixed in with carpet fibers and wood grain
But they are there
And now they are missing.

You can try your best to put the pieces back together
But they won't fit exactly right
Because there are those parts that you can't get back
The parts that are lost forever
Pieces that have been claimed by another space.

But have you ever tried to fix something
That was, at one time, totally shattered?
Then you know that there are tiny cracks
Little spaces where those pieces are missing
Fault lines that are permanently etched.

But if you've ever tried to fix something
That was, at one time, totally shattered,
Then you also know that those cracks
Those etched-in fault lines
Those missing-piece holes
Are the places where the light comes in.

The same goes for hearts.
So, too, with people.

Two. Twenty-eight. Thirteen.

2am.
This is just a rambling mess.
A jumble of thoughts and consciousness
So please forgive me if I make no sense
Or all the sense in the world
But I just need to talk tonight

Friend of mine, there are things I need to do
Have you ever felt that way?
There is this itching under my skin
This need to do something in the world
To leave fingerprints, memories, ink smudges
To make a difference

You know, I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Who to be, what to say, where to go
But I do know the fire-dipped shades of sunset skies
The deep pink of wind-bitten cheeks
The silver of child-laughter eyes
And the lavender of wishes on stars.
I know the grey of tears down cheeks,
The black of empty arms in empty beds
And I know the green of new, fresh,
starting over, and over, and over again.
This world is a rainbow that always seems
to keep showing up after every storm.
Dew drop on a blade of grass, sud in a sink.
And I'm thankful.

I want to take my frayed edges
My messy hair and uneven eyeliner
I want to take my hoodies and jeans with the torn holes
And take my chipped fingernails and my too-long toes curled in nervous anticipation
And I want to offer them to you.
It isn't much.
It's pennies and broken shells and maybe
even shards from broken hearts
But it's what I am and it's what I have
And I want to give it to you.
I want to offer up these fragments,
These seemingly broken things

Because without the colored pieces mosaics cannot exist.

Friend, I want to leave a piece of me here.
Maybe with you, maybe with petals in the wind
Maybe even on the glint off a feather of a
bird high in the tree tops
Because that's where you'll find me.
You'll find me here, then there, always
Always floating through the world, breathing deep the colors of now, now, now

You'll find me in the words I leave on this paper piece.
Because I am a writer.
This my greatest dream, you see
And it may not always work
And the sentences may not make
And sometimes I Capitalize The Wrong Letters
And... Well... I pause, rather, frequently
And I say the same things over and over
And I repeat myself
And I don't make sense.
My hands are covered in ink and eraser smudges,
Coffee and tear stains.
And still the words don't flow.
The heart is lopsided but beating
And this is the greatest thing I have.
This is what I am.

I am words. A big long string, unending,
Unbroken.
Word after word connected and placed
So that you can know my name.
So that when you hold up your thumb to the sky
You can count four over, three across
You can see my star.
The one that grants wishes and hope
The silver in the black.
This so that you taste the sweet of sunshine and fresh cotton sheets.
The honeysuckle in late June dusk.
Maybe this is my fingerprint.
Maybe my memory.
These my words.
The words I leave here, on this page,
covered in the hue of windowsill cracks
This hour that blurs the lines of the page
The too-late and too-early belonging to days gone and to be
The smell of coffee and toothpaste and chocolate chip cookie.
These words, messy, chopped, scribbled, whispered, placed.
They rest in the outstretched palm
The fingers extended,
Dirty fingernails and all.

Here.
For you.