photo from tumblr
Speak peace over me
Dear Poet
Before this day
Carries me away
To an uneven path
Where my feet
Will be tripped up
Until my knees are bloody
And my hands weep
Speak gentleness over me
Sweet poet
So that my heart
Will not break
In the presence of strife
Speak grace over me
Humble poet
That I may know
At least in this moment
That I am alright
To safely be
The Poet
The Mother
The Lover
All of me
Before this day
Threatens to take it away
©Entirety 2016
photo found on Pinterest
Wake to its calling
Its leading
To everything good
It never misconstrues
As it circumvents the pain
Gives perspective
On what was never
A blank page
©Entirety 2016
My last breath
Will contain ink
Of the indelible kind
Spilled from life
Down the length
Of a page
Lamenting
Of grass that withers
And flowers that fade
One that passes
In the light
And one
That will always remain
Both of beauty
Born of love
©Entirety 2016
photo by Mark Mawson
photo by Scott James Prebble
The stories
We tell
By the dance
We do
©Entirety 2016
Off balance
Feeling your world shift left
Then right
Grabbing hold
As you slip
Like a fawn in spring
Unsure of its ability
To even take a step
As the world spins
And as you fall
You see the stars
Scrambling for a spot
To write your name
In this tumultuous sky
That can no longer
Carry you
On its own
©Entirety 2016
X Ambassadors
Glencoe – 2014
Golden valleys tapered
With heather yet to bloom
Anxious to share
Her beauty
But waits
Creating a time lapse
For wanderers
To get lost in the Scottish hills
Spring calls
Sun peeks through
Evidence of what’s yet to come
Engrossed in magnificence
Here a stolen kiss or two
Knowing they were captive
Cradled by a force
And beckoned
By some ancient lovers tune
They held hands
And watched it’s beauty
Then time stood still
©Entirety 2015
photo from tumblr
You feel like a phenomenon
Other days one of a trillion
Some days
You don’t feel anything at all
While others you feel
The weight of the world
Some days
Love and beauty
Have you blown away
While others it seems
It’s disappeared completely
And some days
you’d give anything
To not be tossed and turned
By the waves
Of your heart
While others
You’d be happy
To just drift off
In its wild current
©Entirety 2015
When it was time
He led her
Along a path
Through the garden gate
Then summoned the wind
For her in flight
When she was ready
To carry hope
To spread light
But she turned
Afraid to leave
The safety
Of his arms
Until in awe
She witnessed the wind
Lift him off the ground
Saying
“It’s time to be free
My Beloved
But you
I will never leave
Together
We will go
And birth many souls”
©Entirety 2015
artwork found on Pinterest
Maybe
If I knew
How to play
The game
I’d lose less of me
Win more self respect
And not just
A kick in the ass
For being a pawn
Unworthy
Of holding on to
©Entirety 2016
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
~Yeats
〰〰〰
I had an author tell me a few weeks ago that if you didn’t write exceptionally you were using up oxygen for better artists & debasing true art. He made me see red. Very little makes me this angry… I mean besides my kids. How does one become a writer except to write? How does one become a better writer, except to write more? How does one explore the beauty they feel, if cuffed and tethered? Do I have to have a Pulitzer Prize to be considered a true artist? Do I have to have the eloquence of Tolkien or the melancholia of Poe to be a true writer?
Art is birthed, grown, and nurtured like every living thing. A baby is not born ready to eat a full course meal, first they must learn to master sucking, swallowing and breathing before they move on to steak.
One must learn how to hold a pen, before you can use a pen, and even Tolkien and Poe had to learn how to put immature thoughts to paper. And fuck by doing it often, look at the worlds they created with their minds and pens.
So people. You and I may never create multi million dollar series that get made into movies about vampires and wolves. But God dammit we can tell our stories, and be free to do so, without fear of being not good enough. Because there is only one you, one mind like yours and one being maturing like yours. So don’t be afraid to try, just write. Your heart is worthy to express and be heard, and your lungs are worthy to breathe the same air as the writers who have written epic stories. Create and bask in the pleasure, of birthing your art.
©Entirety 2016
