When does the heart stop longing?

When does the heart stop longing? When it falls in love? But when we fall in love our hearts long more for that special someone, and in some cases grow cold and long for someone else. Does it stop when we find a job, a bonus, a pay raise? Or do we just long for more money, and more jobs, and more time? Does it stop longing when the world becomes a perfect place? Or does it long for pain to make comfort a reality?

Does it stop longing when we fill it with drugs, alcohol, self-injury, and self-harm? Or does it long more, because it cries for a cure?

When does the heart stop longing? When it dies? Or do we long for more time, and more chances?

Why I'm Still Single

I won't slow down.

I'm not afraid of the monster's I've shot down with my arrows;

Their eyes and their words and their wayward hands have no power over me.

Run as fast as you can, and we'll see if you can keep up.

I've seen other girls fall for apples, even golden ones,

But don't expect me to stray for a piece of forbidden fruit.

I've been shot down, I've been rejected,

But I'm not going to stop to fall down and cry.

I've wrestled with ideas and forces people prefer not to think about.

I'm not opposed to romance, or marriage

I'm just opposed to men who can't run fast enough win the race.

Any guy is welcome to try, though he might lose his head in the process.

Not just any guy can win, only those who can keep up, and beat me to the finish line.

So if you love me, try and keep up.

If I like you, I might just give you a head start.

If I don't like you, I'll put on armor even if it slows me down a little.

Either way, I'll probably still win.

My perspective

It's not easy being the woman that all my children have come to hate. They may not think it outright, but I can see it in their eyes, and their clenched jaws. I don't really blame them; I'm part of the reason they're miserable. My mistake and its consequences have continued to echo throughout mortality, in my children and my children's children.

I suppose I should just let it go, I can't do much about it now. That's the thing about guilt though, it seeps into the cracks of my mind and heart and it doesn't let go. It still won't let go of that forbidden fruit I ate, even after it turned to ash in my mouth. Even now, I can still taste it: Death.

I'll still say, long after my physical end, that it wasn't completely my fault. I doubt anyone will believe me to be anything but I wasn't the only one who ate it. God cursed him too, so not all of it comes from me. Sometimes I find it hard to believe I'm cursed for believing a lie, when I knew it wasn't the truth in the first place.

Heading Home

I never could forget those moments

Below the sound of gun fire

And the roar of planes overhead.

Sometimes I wish I could,

So I wouldn't be obligated to share them.

But now my time is drawing near,

And I'm being called home from the battlefield in my mind.

It's time to put down my guns, my gear, and my baggage,

And write the letter my hand would never let me write.

It's time to tell my story, before I become another casualty.

Hearing Things

We all gathered round and stared at the matching sets of wood, fastened together. The pastor talked about their strong, grounded marriage, with love that overflowed. In the outpouring we smelled something sinister, but we didn't dare speak ill of the dead.

Could the dead hear our thoughts, over the wailing and the tears? Could they hear us over the loss, the hum of the reporters next door? Could they hear the whispers of the children, the needy children, the children left alone? Could they hear it through the two caskets lined with velvet? Could they hear the questions, and the scrutiny?

Something told me they couldn't hear a thing. It wasn't the satin lining. It wasn't the white-noised whispers. It wasn't the buzz of the reporters next door. It wasn't even the wood bound firmly together. It was death. The Grim Reaper himself had covered their ears.

Monkey see...

Watch me on TV,

Watch me watch my dreams come alive.

Watch me, as I watched them once

Watched them come alive.

A little bit of pain, a little bit of agony

Is worth the explosion of light for everyone to see,

For everyone to watch, live on tv.

They'll remember me, alright, on Memorial day,

More than they remember the logo, the image I've destroyed.

To Heidi Kline

It didn't matter if I was a

Kitty, a Hippie Chick, in the Mafia (or the card one), or just a 6th grader,

When we rode in a van to the beach,

Probably going a little too fast, and growing a little too fast,

As we blasted surfer rock from the stereo,

And songs about breakfast.

It didn't matter what our moms said about too much candy,

You'd let us eat it all in the backseat, and smile when we got carsick,

Instead of saying "I told you so."

I only knew you as a mentor for 12 months or so,

But those twelve months changed every month after

And taught me to be weird for a smile and a laugh

I guess I wrote these lines, to thank you for being weird for 12 months at least,

And I hope your kid ends up weirder than me.