Our nature
Woven tapestry
Wedded and stitched into the palms of the
One;
Only by the hands
Of a
Carpenter
Can we be built.
Do you smell the humility
Of the entrance?
Stable is the love, and stable
Is He
Labor pains of the lowly
And the riches meek under light
As dull as the fresh
Placenta
And thick as the cries of
Servants
Yet bright as the wise men’s
Traveling star
The light of wretched nations.
We do not live on bread alone,
But on bread we only ask.
You’ll never see my bones.
Elegant collars, lean limbs, sculpted calves-nothin’ like this size seven, get ‘em in to fives if I’m lucky-don’t breathe, now, honey, get ‘em buttoned-bottom of mine.
Perfect by design
Red, yellow, blue blood pumping through these latin veins; divine.
Child bearing handles (storages of love, I say)
With every swing of hips, curve. Girl, you go on and sway
-why model?-
You’ll never see my bones.
Plump bums and soft thighs
Slapping to the beautiful hum of culture,
raza,
pride.
You’ll never see my bones.
But you’ll see a woman
who no longer kills herself
over whether
or not
you can see
her bones.
We’re beautiful.
I know your hands because they molded me
Architect, almighty
Atomic masterpiece.
I know Your hands because I grasped them in darkness
Clutching with the grip of stolen innocence
Palms outlined with tears.
I know Your hands because they held me together when I broke
and bowed to the glory of rounded fingertips
Wrapped myself and twirled to Your grace.
Fingers traced.
Wrinkly maze.
Never
let
me
go.
A whirling of colors
sensory outlines
transmit my senses and distort my view.
Kaleidoscope wonder of a world;
tilt my head a little further, look from under the fish bowl.
The vibrant purr of sound, piercing while a
whisper.
I want to be a part of all this
Yearn to touch the surface
I want to look from more than just the edge of my spiral edge,
wide ruled-my pen is my sword,
not my shield!
-I’m tired
of wondering at the magnified droplets
and missing
the rain.
I truly believe everyone who is in my life right now has been placed there and kept there for a reason. Every single person in my life (and even those who have left) has served some purpose or revealed a part of me or has given me a lesson or a laugh-the best gift you could give someone, I’d say.
I don’t know how you feel about destiny, but the intricacies of human life, the complex coincidences that occur that turn mistakes and failures into greater successes, every time, overpowers the mediums of theory, law and science. It’d be arrogant to believe there wasn’t some higher power handling the inner workings of this puzzling beauty known as life, that the sole dependency for the wonder of the world lies in the hand of a frail human being. There’s some miracles that you can’t deny yourself the privilege of letting yourself indulge in the quiet calm you feel that makes you wonder about the supernatural, an Almighty.
Miracles aren’t just psychedelic, mystical experiences of walking on water or a baby being the only survivor in a place crash.
They’re the crinkle in your eyes when you force themselves open after you hit the snooze button every morning that tells you you’re still alive.
They’re the shield the protection that surrounds you every time you enter a car, a door, anywhere, every day-when the possibilities for a fatal occurrence is endless.
They’re the fact that the human body is perfectly designed, scientifically beautiful, wondrous in all it’s mechanisms-a perfectly programmed robot, if you will, with such a complex and intricate working of nerves and cells that originate from just a tiny inch of a fetus. Incredible.
You’re a miracle.
When you change the scope of your lenses, life stops looking like the edge of a fish bowl and magnetizes the screaming enchantment that life holds.
Great video I stumbled upon on creativity.
#25-“Stop trying to be someone else’s perfect” is great.
The War of Art
Ni heroes,
Ni hombres,
Ni los que tienen mente de razon,
Solo mujeres
Con manos que salvan el mundo
y risas
que esconden
la dolor.
Salvarla de sí misma.
Lord bless the child who holds his own, and Lord bless the wandering soul, for if the extravagances of life-accomplishments based upon rank, are all that life has to offer, a-wandering I’ll go on my way in search of something better. Keep me humble. Expect me to drift with wide-eyed wonder; I’m a gypsy soul with a widely dispersed, passionate heart. Hold my hand in my blissful darkness, guide me through the obscurity. For if where I go remains a mystery until my arrival, I know I’ll make a heck of an entrance.
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein