one-hundred-fifty-seven.

is it still “giving up”
if the choice is made
with good intention?

Advertisements

one-hundred-fifty-six.

hands clasped in prayer,
right at the heart.
innocence and religious,
hoping something greater is listening,
somewhere above us,
hidden in the pink-grey clouds
at golden hour.

holding an opal crystal,
tracing a bracelet,
repeating an affirmation,
talking to the one you lost too soon.

whether organized or personalized,
hope is defined by the hopeful,
dreams by the dreamer
and wishes by the wishful.

alive, dead or in-between.

one-hundred-fifty-five.

how do you become confident in a name?
one you were assigned at birth?
how do you allow it to roll off your tongue.
without the fear of how others
will automatically perceive you?

tell me.
i don’t know what that’s like.

one-hundred-forty-two.

spending money and time
on a white gold never-ending circle,
a symbol of everlasting eternity,
wrapped around the finger
most connected to the heart,
should not be a one-sided
purchase or decision,
regardless of how big the diamond.

one-hundred-thirty-six.

sometimes, familial love is like:
that dying plant on your desk.
you keep pricking off browned leaves,
re-potting it, nurturing it with new soil;
hoping it will eventually flourish,
like those picture-perfect greens,
like those picture-perfect scenes.

one-hundred-thirty-five.

there are the smells of cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom.
there are the lights at night, twinkling brightly.
there are the snowflakes, sticking to rooftops,
’tis the season for coconut-chocolate and fried dough.

there too are the to-do lists and gift lists and naughty lists.
there too are the credit card bills and dinners you’d rather avoid.
there too are the busier streets and louder sounds.
’tis the season for questioning how and why we sprout,
energy levels low, no patience (no doubt).