"Perfection is not attainable. But if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence." ~Vince Lombardi

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Shut up heart.

It's sorta funny, when people tell me to listen to my heart. 
I try to, but my brain just says "shut up and think first"
I overthink everything and I'm never satisfied. 
It's basically a curse. 
Whyyyyy is it so difficult for me? 
I'm consumed by-no I'm controlled by fear. 
Fear of failure, fear if disappointment, fear of making a fool of myself. 
I can’t hear what my heart thinks because my brain won't be quiet for one short minute. 
Except maybe it's a good thing...not listening to what my heart might have to say. 
Cuz it might be setting me up.
Trying to hurt me.  
I've heard enough stories from people whose heart has been broken to the point of no return. 
I don't want that. 
It's like an iPhone. 
Once you break it, it's super difficult to fix. 
And even once you fix it.. it's never the same as it was when you first took it out of the box. 
So how about you shut up, Heart. I don't care what you have to say.  
For now I’d rather be safe than sorry. 

It's for your own good.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Mirrors.




One step, two step
with no resonating click. 
 No walls in my solitude
and no being beside me.
Yet, thousands surround me 
while I stand alone.

 
With smudged muck between every figure.
All one, of one complexion.


The glass wall, shielding me from forever
stands laughing as I stare.

And the single faint light from above
flickers from its final thread.

 



Yet a shout from that infinity
stops the beating heart for a moment.


The light has been outlived and shatters 
Showering darkness around the forgotten room.

But the floor quivers.
The voice from without grows louder. 
 

And the walls tremble, 
                 then fall in tinkling bliss.
The eternity is open, and the cheer emerges.


One step, two step.
The world is found.

Flowers in the fall





Flowers in the fall,

Shine brightly before their end,

Last breathes until frost.




The winds in the fields,

Moaning the wanderer’s tune,

A cheerless lover.



The red and orange leaves,

Covers the lamenting tree,

As new times approach.