Thursday, December 19, 2013


We hear the crashing coming from our neighbors’ house
As we rest on chairs and look up at the stars
Though we cannot identify the din we hear
The moon and its men are making themselves clear

Tis so dear to see
When breathing soothes me

We hear the train wheels screeching as we go
But peering out the window there is untrodden snow
I watch the mountain fracture as I walk on it
But my feet love the scree, every single bit

Tis so precious to see 
When existence soothes me

Tuesday, December 17, 2013


Why salt away a sickness?
If it causes a tear that could have been a mend

The bane must be quashed
For it is the source

Subtlety is not the issue
It is within reach

The need is a remedy
A cure

The need is a new perception 

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Mind Battle (The Other Direction)

A coterie becomes a mess
Torn to pieces
Torn to shreds
Because the weight of the world becomes a loss for words
For it is like being stuck inside a fire that cannot be tamed
And someone is looking to ride the smoke rings right out

Brothers and sisters turn cold in the smoke
Inhaling the coals
Releasing the bitterness
Blowing it to the side
It sears the eyes of the people who watch
And they wonder, “When are they coming home?”

Well, what is it?
What repairs the cracks of a broken life?
And what if it was not broken in the first place?
What if riding on the back of the smoke rings is not the answer?
Refusal is preferred
Let minds turn in another direction

It is a danger to obscure genuinity behind a mask
For the price of lies can be inordinate
An insecure mind is yet to be understood
It is still given power
It is still torturous
It can drive some worn soul into a fog

But the Lord did speak beauty
Beauty of more value than many sparrows
The and breaking is done by our own hands
Emptiness is that result
The void can be filled…

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

The Orphaned Role Models

This was, originally, an essay that I wrote for my AP Language class, but I didn't mind writing it.

        Crunch, crunch, crunch. Dirt and dusted rocks crunched under my sandals as my missions team and I traveled through the rugged streets of La Gonave, Haiti. We were headed to the local orphanage to play with the children that lived there. The street we ventured on, was lined with people who stood at tables piled with fruits and vegetables of all kinds. Their white eyes sat on top of their dark skin and stared at the visible white on our arms and legs. For our white skin showed those eyes that we had wealth.  A musty and unidentifiable smell permeated the air as it went into my nose. The buzzing sound of multiple people chattering in a foreign language spun in and out of my ears without any comprehension. It was hot. It was a long walk. It was different.
        As our team rounded the chipped corner of a building, the tall, cement orphanage came into view. Windows blocked off by rusted bars circled the entire building. A small, sweet brown face popped up into view. The little girl put her chin on the cement and grabbed onto the bars with both hands. She beamed at our team with excitement and called her friends over to the window. Slowly more children began to realize that visitors were coming to see them, and slowly more smiling faces appeared in the prison-like windows. As we approached the door a roar of greetings met us with much enthusiasm. “Allo! Bonjou! Allo zanmi'm!” I looked up and saw that on the second floor, the kids were reaching down as far as the bars would let them so they could wave at us.
        When we entered the energetic building, we were given a tour of the place by a long term missionary. First we were taken to the school room. Wooden tables and a blackboard inhabited the room. That was it. I felt pity for the children when I saw their learning environment. Next we were shown the bedrooms. My heart dropped when I saw where those sweet children slept. The bunks were five feet high. They had metal rims on them with a piece of hard moldy wood on top and on bottom. I felt a lump rising in my throat as I thought of the precious children sleeping on those wretched, moldy beds. I was broken for them. I was taken to the second floor, up the dirty and unsanitary stairs, to visit the other orphans. We were told that we could play with the kids and just love on them.
        I sat down on a bench next to a little girl. Her name was hard for me to pronounce, but I did manage to find out that she was eight years old. Her dirty, baggy clothes hung off of her body and gaped open at her chest. She wore no shoes and her hair was tangled and messy. The dark wrists on her skinny arms were small enough for me to close my hand around. The lump in my throat was back again. Her pearly white smile radiated an unfamiliar happiness, to me. A few other girls with sweet brown eyes slowly trickled over to my seat. We laughed, made silly faces and played hand games together. The clapping of my white hands against their small, timid, dark ones was more special to me than any other hand game had ever been before. Even as I let them win at thumb wrestling, I could feel that I was in a moment that would be dear to me for the rest of my life.
        The heat of the air seemed to disappear and so did all of the discomfort. I had completely sunk myself into being with the grieving, abandoned, lonely, sickly, beautiful girls. I stared into their faces in awe of how brave they were. They had little food, no parents, a rotting bed, and hardly any clothes, yet they were laughing and smiling with more joy than I had ever seen in my entire life. Their hearts were not sad, in appearance, but mine was. How can they be so brave? How do they not sit in sadness? How are their faces ringing with happiness? In my head I was thinking that I wanted to be like them. Most of them had witnessed horrific tragedies, but they did not let that stop them from having the most fun they can while they are children.
        Too soon it was time to leave the bare and crowded orphanage. I hugged the girls on my way out of the building and I blew them all kisses as a goodbye. As my team and I marched out of the building, the children, once again, were hanging out of all the barred windows waving with excitement. This time they shouted farewells. “Ba bye! Na we pita! Mwen pase on bel tan!” I waved as we descended the dirty, dusty streets. It was very hard to leave the incredible, sweet, young people. I was astonished by every one of their positive attitudes. As we walked farther and farther away from the cement building, I could not wrap my mind around the concept of how the little girls' were choosing to move on and live out their lives with joy in everyday. 
        Those little girls taught me an important lesson that I will never let go of. They taught me to find joy in everything. They showed me that when tragedy comes, joy can always be found even if you have a small window of hope. It can be found no matter how hungry, sick, or scared you are. As I live in a first world country with my loving family, and as I go to a top rated school with superfluous amounts of supplies, I feel a sense of unappeasable guilt for my unhappiness. There are always easy ways to find happiness in my life. Especially under the circumstances I live in; even if they get rough.  I never thought that I would be able to learn such a huge and important lesson from small, orphaned, Haitian girls, that are half my age. I am proud to say that they are my role models, and I will never forget what they taught me to do. 

Friday, October 18, 2013

Feeling Small

I took this picture somewhere out the middle of no where. It makes me feel small.

"Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows."
~Matthew 10:31

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Modus Operandi

Eye to eye conversations
One too many contemplations
Solitude in the late afternoon
Reflections of faces at the end of a spoon

The tongue's qualm stays for a fortnight
To escape, the shoes walk off the plight
Mental stamina thrives in sheets
Leaving a soul wishing for sleep

Heart, tries to leave the thicket
While determined for a train ticket
Dance, in risk, on a dotted line
And wait to pay a clouded fine

A scratchy pen molds the paper
The hand shakes and tries to filter
Calliope remains a muse
A winnow from the wind removes any ruse

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Wicked Beauty

            I stood silently trapped in hypnotism as the beckoning figure spun round and round on its dainty feet. The girl's lengthy, golden hair leapt out from her slightly timid body and latched onto the biting wind. Her dress, in its false whiteness, sprung out at her pale knees creating a rough circle of folded lines and loose creases. Her bare toes danced on the earth, not disturbing a single blade of grass. Her eyes where icy and cold, yet they were deep. They were deep like an abyss that would take pleasure in drowning anyone who so dared to look far into it. In her pleasant and admirable presence, I felt as though she carried honor, pride, and an odd carelessness. The figure was beauty.
            Closer as I got, the ground on which she spun turned cold. The wind that shot from her hair and skirt, chilled my skin and bones in a gust. I began to realize her ambition when I saw her abyssal eyes lock with mine once more on turn. The figure had managed to torture me with manipulation. I had been fooled. In shame, my feet turned, disturbing the blades of grass below me, and directed my body to leave the false and dangerous site. I left the dancing, wicked beauty alone in her deceit.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Trust the Ocean

The future is not transparency.
Transparency is not the future.
We won't let this drive us into dismal states of emptiness.
We will sink lower into the sea.
We will sink lower into the masked pit we know as life.
Let us dive down farther into the water and trust the ocean.
It will wash off all fruitless worry and pointless doubt.
The ocean will turn our frivolous frustration into jubilee.
It will fuel our unquenchable human desires.
We must cling to the ocean.
For, if we see the world alone,
It is opaque.