Please, Don't Run Away

This is part of  a continued series of pieces written during high school.

please  don’t run away

bottle it up inside, honey

never knew you could contain so much pressure, did you?

push back the thoughts, sweetie

or the tears will threaten your composure

stand and face your fears

or run away and let them grow.

stand and face the pain,

you chose it,

now face it

so we can move forward again.

been so vulnerable

the last months bear a common thread

of last stitch efforts to hide your bruisable skin,

mustered up your weapons, gathered your defense:

careless words as hand grenades,

sarcasm as a constant shield,

icy cold shoulders

to keep from getting hurt.

an acid tongue the most blunt sword

but all your efforts failed-

a worn and weathered paper shield

is all you’ve got for sale.

Your heart is much more vulnerable

when you run alone in fear.

I’ve got your back, your front, your side

Once had your heart for a little while

face the pain, it’s not so bad

just please, my love, don’t run again.

This was originally written in 2010.

Tornado

I wrote this some time during high school.

Tell the Storm How Big Your God Is.

So this is what it is when every man [friend] fails you,

when imperfection swarms around you like a tornado,

when your distractions [masters] are close to you,

but have lost their grip

on you and are spinning out of control

around you, in bitter attempt

to keep your eyes from closing,

to keep your ears from tuning out the noise,

and tuning into the music,

or maybe rather,

the silence

of the Heavenlies;

to keep you from trying to remember His face.

The tornado swarms and spins violently,

in last, exhausted, mad attempt

to keep you from your secret hiding place,

but you close your eyes and tune out,

just for a second, to hide away.

You shut yourself in,

and silently,

He slips into the room.

You suddenly gain humility.

And He's looking right at your eyes.

And turning to look at, nothing, really,you try to pretend like He's not

Looking

Right

At

You.

His words come back.

They lap up in waves on the beach of your heart.

Words only he could have said, only he could say.

He speaks to you,

    "I meant what I've said about you."

Heart Issues

I wrote this sometime during high school.

There’s a problem.

                                                              

"Houston, we have a problem,”

But it’s not in our mission.

We have a problem in (the reality of) the hypothetical.

It’s…

*a long pause and radio frequencies*

a heart problem.

“The heart?, but my charts say…”

“It’s not the charts, Martha.”

        *the radio’s humming is drumming on the eardrums*

Martha.

Martha?

A hush signifies understanding throughout.

Suddenly everything needs to stop,

But the world keeps spinning and

Martha is drifting away.

In the midst of reaching for the stars

propelling herself

Working, rushing, a frenzy of action.

-striving

[again.]

gotta do this and that and

and

    and

and

and nothing ever seems to get done.

She’s been pushing herself in all these directions

and it. is. all. failing.

This galaxy-sized accumulation of failures for a single life.

All of this-

is what Martha means.

So she asks. and it is heard over the radio waves.

The pitch is insignificant.

The rhythm is absent.

The calmness has abandoned.

“Why are Your hands the only hands-”

*the radio hums*         

“That can handle

This heart?”

And in a desperate chorus,

the pitch rises, and the intonation dissipates,

and the rhythm is regarded as an old dress-

more appreciated when left in the closet

and-  the repetition is as key as the pauses in between-

“Why are your hands the only hands

That can handle this heart?

And it’s loud. And it’s earnest.

Why are your hands

the only hands

that can handle

this heart?

why are your hands the only hands?

The volume begins to descend,

"why are your hands?

why are you?

why?"

Now its to a whisper, and beautifully, the whisper is heard for every sound wave.

It is received in stillness. and by all.

and the lungs fill,

and the eyelids softly take a break and fall

and sigh.

(She already knew the answer: it is because his hands made her heart)

The heart continues to beat inside its cage,

according to the printouts, that is

and Martha continues drifting in some kind of outer space

wishing a caterpillar could really change to a butterfly.