He asked if I would write,

that poet from the night.

Turned to dark what once was bright,

and now i write in fright.

for my life, now seen through tears,

like salty-cloud veneers,

eats itself to death,

and gives way to one final breath.

A boy's father died when he was nine,

And his memories were made of what he could find.  

In his young age, the boy was frantic, 

of looking through the suspicious attic. 

For each night, there were creaks and moans, 

which made him think he wasn't alone. 

Yet confidence arose, at age fourteen, 

 to walk across the attic beams. 

Despite the darkness, he found loads, 

letters, hats, and drawers of clothes. 

Pencils with tips of sharpened led, 

in the corner, a carefully preserved bed. 

A plethora of paintings, nailed to the wall, 

showed his father's most treasured skill of all. 

But the boy looked intently at a corner, 

as fear caused his head to burn warmer. 

For the corner of a painting surely showed, 

That it was only fashioned a day ago. 

#hannelorebrun

Words; Words; Words

“Memorize these words, and hide them in your heart,

And from your soul they shall never depart.

For from these words, justice, love, and wisdom do flow,

And by them, a world of difference, your life, it will show.”

But look at my life, and what has changed?

My heart still wicked, my mind still deranged.

With a covered heart and squinted eyes,

I read these words with compromise.

What does it mean to be able to list them,

If from them I’ve gained neither justice, nor love, nor wisdom?

This is the epitome of religion:

To do what looks right,

But from real change, I run, hide, and fight.

It is one thing to know, but another to believe,

And until that’s understood, I will never receive,

The justice, love, and wisdom I desire,

For it is my heart, not my memory that’s required.

So about these words, it is plain to me,

That it is more valuable to believe them, than commit to memory.