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A Moment

There are those moments where I lay in silence, waiting for the world to stop. I sit and wait for that moment of quiet, but it never comes. People never stop moving; they never stop going. I often feel like I’m watching them while standing in the street, itching to be heard. To be seen.

I watch as the people zoom past, scrambling to reach their new destination. All while I feel confused and disoriented. Everyone always appears to know where they’re going and how they will get there. I have never reached that postmark, and maybe neither have they. It merely appears as if they know where they are going.

I suppose it’s better that I don’t pretend, so I don’t become lost in the bustle. I guess waiting for that magic moment where everything was clear, was the child in me. Because life doesn’t arise from a collective whole but that of moments put together.

This world may knock me down. This world may be tough at times, and things may never become what I expect them to be. But to stop trying means to falter and end. Today I am a sitter, watcher, listener of the world, and all the people.

There are those moments where I sit silently and wonder what it is to be. The answer may never be clear, but I have this moment, and that’s all I need.

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Shattered Glass

Shards of glass line the floor; broken are the fragmented pieces of someone’s spirit. Each shard unique in shape. Some rectangular while others form prisms, prisms that refract the most elegant of sun rays the most delicate of souls. Souls once lost in the forest gasping for air, shrieking for help.

The house allowed them to lay resting in the very spot they shattered for years out of fear that moving them too quickly could cause further damage. So there they sat while passers-by questioned and pressed. Until one day, it was time for the pieces to become something new somehow. The shattered glass could no longer be a window, but the possibilities endless as to its new use. So the glass was picked up piece by piece and glued on a wall.

The shards of glass that once lined the floor now individually glued together to form an exquisite art piece in the kitchen. The piece depicts a familiar face. The face of a lost girl who once screamed in the woods for guidance. A face once composed of broken parts and a million shattered pieces, now something whole. Passers-by often question, who the girl is that hangs on that wall? And I tell them why that girl is me.

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The Painting

The swirling colors meld jointly to form an unseen picture. The oranges and pinks brushed simultaneously make a seamless sunset. And yet there is something underneath the paint that wrestles and groans, gnawing away at the canvas. The prettiest colors can cover this damaged hide, but alas, the creases will find a way to breakthrough. The paint can only hide so much. Some may dedicate their entire lives to hiding those defects.

I stare at my reflection in the soft, painted canvas. The reflection that was once hideous with all its imperfections. A reflection stood still in quicksand, now something utterly different. Because those once imperfections, those cracks, and cuts, now make the painting more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Imperfections are what make our paintings unique. Without them, all paintings would be the same with their perfect color choices and expert strokes. And who would ever want a thing such as that?

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These Pictures

The pictures that hang on these walls stand frozen in time. Ghosts haunt these frames like that of a thousand confederate soldiers lined for battle. The stories that lie beneath each image is too hard to recall. Because how could a person ever discern someone’s character by just a little picture on the wall?

The pictures remain silent; no person speaks inside them. Yes, it’s impossible, I know, because no photograph can speak of a figure’s past or future. Pictures hung on the wall only capture a moment in time that once was fleeting. A moment that’ll once was stolen and never returned.

The ghosts on the wall remain a mystery to us all, for those people are strangers that could have been kings or queens. But alas forever remain the figures that swirl and dance around in my head because I don’t know them or the things they did in this world. They could have been monsters or saints; I’ll never know because all that remains is a sliver of time, a moment that has come and gone.

And one day, my picture will be unrecognizable to someone on the outside. But until that day, I suppose I’ll continue to fantasize about the pictures that hang on the wall.

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You and Me

The doves, and misty sunrise
will never bring me happiness
as much as someone like you.
No pair of mesmerizing eyes
or set of sunset skies
will ever be as beautiful
as someone like you.
No one from here to the sea,
will ever mean more to me
then someone like you.
For the person like you
saved my life many years ago
from the highest swells and darkness.
And through the light of the clouds.
I can see clearly.
And now I know it was
always destined to be
You and Me

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A Figure

There’s this person I’ve spent my entire life searching to find. I’ve scoured the highest mountain tops and the majestic dark forests—years of my life devoted to meeting this figure. As the answer to my problems, a figure built in my mind, the problems deep-rooted that have grown around me like a twisted vine festering underneath my skin.


I traveled to the deepest of oceans and saw the beauty within the bright orange coral but never found my answer. I went to the driest sandiest of deserts, and no resolution was reached. I flew to the coldest iciest place on earth in hopes that this person resided there. But alas, my travels were futile, and I returned to my home, disappointed.


For years I thought this person was lost at sea that they were an enigma fabricated by my imagination. Until one day, I looked in the mirror as my life experience and travels flashed through my mind, and I realized the person I’ve been searching for was never in those forests. The figure was never in the bottom of the ocean because that person was always closer than I could have ever imagined. After all, I am the mystical figure I’ve devoted to my life to find. You see, I always thought the voice that called to me was out in the world, but recently I’ve discovered that I could never find that person because I was searching in all the wrong places. It turns out the solution to my problems never lied within someone else’s breath or words; it always has remained within me. And this lesson I shall carry with me for the rest of my days, to teach my children, that a mystical figure doesn’t exist that’ll fix any problem because ultimately we have to do that ourselves.

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Talking To The Moon

My thoughts are quiet as I stare into the blackness of night and don’t hear a sound. I can only see the abyss that lies ahead that is illuminated by the moon. Illuminated are my hopes, dreams, and a voice inside that calls to me. Where this path leads, I can’t be sure. It tells me never to give up on myself, and go forward in this life and forge my path to become a stronger woman. It’s a small voice, really, one that is shown only by the moon’s glow. But once it starts to appear, I know that there is nothing in this world that can stop me. Although the path is dark and bumpy at times, at least it’s the path I chose for myself. So, I guess only the future and the moon know what lies ahead. And I’m okay with that because at least I have the moon’s glow to keep me warm and light the way.

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Harsh Words

Criticism is inevitable in this life. It’s something we all must face at one point in our life. It can come in high school when people tease us or from our bosses who don’t think we are performing to our best abilities. Or even sometimes it can come from the people we love most. It’s unavoidable, because no matter how safe you play in this life, no matter how much you try and stand out, or in some cases blend in, someone somewhere may point out a flaw. Of course, no one likes to be told they have an issue with themselves or aren’t good enough to meet someone’s standards. That’s also human nature, to protect ourselves, to protect our egos. The real test is what we do with that criticism. And when I say criticism, I mean constructive, because people cruelly pointing out some flaw they see isn’t constructive. But I digress, do we collapse under other’s harsh words, or do we let those words motivate us to find what we want from life?

If you asked most people what one of their biggest fears was, some would say failure. But my question to them would be, are you terrified of failure, or are you afraid of the criticism you might receive for trying? So many of us, including myself, let our fear of rejection and criticism hold us back. That fear keeps us from pushing ourselves to be better. Playing by the rules doesn’t make history. Hiding under a rock for a lifetime because one is afraid to be seen seems like an injustice. I’ve learned that some people may love you, some will always dislike you, but none of that matters if you don’t like yourself. I’ve learned that those harsh words of criticism don’t matter as much if you know who you are. No one should ever stop someone from being themselves or doing what they love, but ultimately, it’s up to us to decide the actions we take in our lives. Because success isn’t about becoming famous or winning, it’s about staying in the game and being true to ourselves.

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The Veil

The days that pass seem longer than the rest as I walk up and down my street. For years I have seen a distorted figure behind a high window on my street. Behind the glass, a figure used to rest in a sheer lace veil away from the world. The cover that hid them seemed permanent as they sat in their window watching the world below. I bet not one soul on the outside could tell you what used to lay underneath the veil. I heard the being who wore the mask placed it there a long time ago for a particular reason. And that reason was protection. Because the creature lying underneath knew that if no one ever saw the person they were, they couldn’t get hurt. Because if people left them, they could say it was because they didn’t understand the person they indeed were. And it took years for that person in their shear covered veil to realize that the problem wasn’t the world. Instead, the problem was inside themselves. Over time, this person grew tired of hiding away. They never felt seen by anyone around them. And eventually, the day came where they wanted to remove their protection. And they did.

The veil that once hid me from this world now lay on my floor. It’s not in the trash or hidden away but remains a reminder of how important it is for me to live and not be afraid to show who I am underneath. I’ve grown to realize that that veil served me no purpose. Because what’s the point in living if you’re always hidden?

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The Waves

The waves that crash against my feet feel like a thousand butterfly kisses grazing my skin. The waves are so soft and light as they wash onto the shore. I watch as the water ebbs and flows between my toes, and I can’t help but feel grateful for this moment. Thankful to breathe the salty ocean air and feel the breeze on my skin.

I soon stare out at the lightly colored horizon and can’t help but wonder what lies behind. The clouds create shadows and wispy figures that blow in the breeze—swaying back and forth to and fro. I can’t help but notice through the translucent waves I see a pile of rocks buried in the sand. It looks tall and sturdy, but part of me wonders how something under so much pressure can withhold the waves and remain in place. I can’t help but hope that one day I will be that sturdy, that no outside forces of the world disfigure my shape. But until then, I suppose I’ll continue to watch the waves crash against my feet.