Silhouette of a barren tree
Waves to me gently
Against a burning orange sky
As if to say
Yes, this world holds opposites
Tragedy & beauty
And I will bloom again.
Tag: writing
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Swimsuits drying on a porch baluster
Toys strewn about
Chair fabric stained
Feet landing in sticky places on the floor
Board and batten splattered with Nutella
Delicious wool rug pulled from little truck tires
Crumbs collecting in corners
As much as I long
For things to be tidy, beautiful, esthetic
I want more for them to be used up
Overworked
So that my home
Becomes like my favorite sweater
Crumpled, soft, a hug.
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I can’t be who I truly am
No one would understand
They would start to feel
Uncomfortable with this deal
To truly know all my flaws
Peel away niceties, be raw
They couldn’t handle the grit
Of all my pessimistic shit
They enjoy me when I’m clean
Tied up neat and gleam
My mood tempered and mild
When I’m docile as a child
If they only saw my sad days
How I drink too much, forget to pray
Cry until I’m wrung out
Would they think of me differently and doubt?
The depth of my love goes unchanged
No matter my personal derange
So please accept me as I am now
That’s the only way to make this vow.
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A little girl sat between the stretched out legs of her mother, their bodies fitting together like a Matryoshka doll. The waves lolled back and forth, rinsing the sand and grit over their skin with each crash. The little girl didn’t dare stand, as she would easily be knocked over. The mother’s legs kept her daughter wedged securely in place even as each wave rocked them slightly.
“Why do the waves keep coming, Mommy?,” the little girl asked. The mother paused for a moment, considering the question. “They can’t help but to keep coming. No one could ever stop them if they tried,” she replied. The mother pondered on this for a long while, as they sat together.
She realized this concept of ever coming, unceasing waves was so akin to what she had learned about life. There was really no way to prevent the events of life from continuing on, good or bad, no matter how much she tried to control them. The only thing she could do was to know more deeply the Creator of the ocean.
Kacie B. Sharpe 