writing

Journal Entry 4: Counting Days 

It has taken me 47 days to write this. Mostly two days of writing, many days in between of feeling nothing, other days crying, and a few feeling anxiety at the thought of finishing it, of putting myself through finishing it, of acknowledging my feelings, of sharing them. Sharing my life experiences is how I get through them; writing is how I reflect, learn, grow, move on – sharing it is how I come to peace with my experiences, bond, and reflect more. It is by far my favorite thing to do.

Therefore, I leave you with this disclaimer: This post may hit you hard. I have yet to post anywhere about this matter in my life for the past month and a half because I don’t want or need anyone’s sympathy, pity, attention… but as I said, my writing is my passion, my soul, my strength. And I hope that from my posts, you can feel and connect with something extraordinary.

Here’s the reality: my life is insanely eventful, and not always in a good way.

Reality #2 – Maybe I will never be a good blogger because of it.

Reality #3 – I’m sitting here explaining to you yet again that I am a bad blogger because of my dramatic life, like I have for every journal entry.

Reality #4 (the saddest reality of all) – My hectic life makes for good content. But this post, in particular, took me a lot of courage and anxiety attacks to get to you.

So, per usual, here goes nothing…

Why is it that we designate or expect so much from certain people just because of their titles in our life? “Mom”, “Dad”, “Aunt”, “Uncle”…

Why do we let them give us emotional/personal problems because of their lack of fulfillment within those roles?

Why do we typically look at them as that role and only that, rather than a human being going through whatever it is that they may be experiencing?

Why do we shun them for not being able to fulfill that role without considering their own problems?

I sat for countless hours and I flipped. And flipped and flipped. Two large 5 subject notebooks filled to the brims – 873 people’s names (and counting) scribbled along the lines. I had found my fathers notebooks buried in the bottom of the bookshelf in his room from his time in rehab (while in rehab from drugs/alcohol you go through the 12 steps). 873 people, 322 pages, one mans entire life spilled and separated into sections of analytical reconciliation. These were his deepest feelings, his fears, his anger, regrets. I was getting inside his head.

15 years.
It has been 15 years since my dad had gotten into a motorcycle accident and sat in a coma, soon to wake up with minor brain damage, but still able to once again live a high functioning life.
“Rhode Motorcycle & Bike,” he wrote, in one of his lists (in one of the steps, you write about the places & things you did, and the negative actions you took)…
“No helmet. No pads.”
“Accident,” he wrote…
“Lost house, job, fiance, money, relationships, hope, faith, God.”
“Another motorcycle,” he wrote…
“Made people worry about me.”

47 days.
It has been 47 days since my dad tossed his leg around his motorcycle for the first time in years and decided to take it for a spin.
47 days since that night when he pulled it into a bar parking lot to meet a friend.

47 days now that my dad has been in a coma.
47 days of tubes. Of nothingness. Of sleep. Of stability with no signs of change. Of sadness. Of confusion. Of numbness.

9 days I sat there next to him in the hospital wondering where he was. A body there but a soul wandering. Some days sitting there watching him I felt so alone. He wasn’t with me. Other days I could see his lids flickering, his fingers twitching and lips rumbling. I wanted to believe then that he was there with me, somehow.

I was always embarrassed of my father. Writing that sentence alone hurts my soul. I was embarrassed. Cheer competitions, graduations, even out to dinner – I was embarrassed to be with him, because I knew (the sum) of his past, his life, his mistakes. I knew about the drugs and the alcohol. I didn’t want to be in pictures with him or let him take pictures of me in fear he would post them online.
13 years since I’ve owned my own camera. 13 years with the ability to take my own pictures. 13 years of memories piled in boxes in my bedroom – none with my dad.

But since I’ve become a young adult, I started calling him 3 times a week and speaking to him for hours on end about life, about mine, about his, my relationships, his, his jobs (or lack-thereof), his substance abuse.
I called him when I was upset and I would cry.
I called him when I was in one of my depressive funks and he would make me laugh.
I called him when I needed help and he was always surprisingly there. When I was stranded at a gas station alone in the middle of a snow storm somewhere in Maryland. When I needed a car. When I needed a phone, even though the bill wasn’t always paid. The first time my ex and I broke up and I needed a flight home. The second time, too. When I called him crying and needed a flight to California.

He always wanted to give to me, even when he didn’t have much for himself.

It took me a long time to learn about and understand substance abuse.
It took me a long time to learn who my dad really was.
It took me a long time to grow the courage to look past the addict and see the human, to stop hurting when he fell back into it again, to stop trying to be his reason for change and to simply just enjoy him when I had him sober. For so long I wanted to be his reason to not pick up the bottle. I thought that maybe I could change him, but I couldn’t. No one could.

Rarely, even after my love for him grew, did I have the courage to admit that to anyone – that he was human, that I cared about him even though he couldn’t always care about me, that I wasn’t enough for him to change. It was my kept secret because I was embarrassed. I didn’t want the judgement or ridicule for caring so much about someone who could only care about me while they were sober – who could care more about his addictions than me. And I know that that’s not true; being an abuser is a mental illness, but that’s how it felt. The only way that I can understand it is by comparing it to depression – sometimes, when suffering from depression, one is horrifically sad for no reason at all, or for reasons that are no longer relevant to their daily life just because their brain is making them sad, telling them to be sad – so sad that they think that life isn’t worth living and that they should die. Imagine that? Wanting to die? Your brain is tricking you into thinking that your life should end, and for some, it does. When I think about addiction I think the same thing – your brain is tricking you into thinking you need that bottle, that puff.
My dad suffered from depression. He wanted to die multiple times and even tried to kill himself. Growing up he was bulimic and had severe insecurity issues and still did till this year.
I’m not making excuses for him. He chose to get on that bike and ride it to a bar. He chose to leave his last rehab (and countless ones before that).
Really, the point I’m trying to make is going back to what I was saying at the beginning of all of this… Do we ever really see the human, or just the title?

I suppose we see the title because we, as their children, are supposed to be that exception – us, the mini blobs of them that they chose to bring into this world. Keyword: chose.

But even then, still, I question it.
I’m not saying that any mistakes are okay just because someone might be going through something personally that they can’t get control of – but overall, in any relationship we have with someone in our life, all I can say is think about them, too. Think about if it was you. And for those dealing with loved ones with addiction: that it’s okay.
It’s okay to give up, to not be strong enough to deal with their issues, to think about yourself and your feelings first.
It’s okay to bury your hurt and their issues just to keep a relationship with them when they’re sober.
It’s okay to hurt and then not hurt at all.
It’s okay to be too forgiving – you are not weak.
But it’s okay to not always stay strong.
It’s okay to hurt for them and still not be able to help.
It’s okay to still love and care even after they may have hurt you for the drugs and alcohol.
And that it has nothing to do with you – you are enough.
And being there at all can mean the world to someone in need, even if they aren’t showing you or you can’t give them what it is they’re needing.

Stay loving.
Stay compassionate.
It’s all okay.

-alex

Advertisements

Journal Entry One: You Gave Me A Sense of Purpose

I have been using my second blog, Deeper Than Words, to post my creative writing; poems, short stories, lifestyle and journal entry posts. I figured that from now on I will put more of them here. After all, no blogger is just one specific genre behind a computer – they are human, and you should see the human side of me too. So, I’m going to post a series of journal entries – meaning, posts where I reflect on situations I find myself in in life; posts about those moments when I take a step back from the situation and think about it more as a whole. These posts can get pretty personal and sometimes very deep, but hey, that’s a part of being a writer. You can’t really be a good one unless you lay it all out there on the table. So, here it goes. Journal Entry One…

____________________________________________________________________________________

You gave me a sense of purpose.

You gave me a sense of purpose.

You gave me a sense of purpose.

The words continued to replay over and over in my head. “I… you know…” he stumbled, “It’s just when you were here you gave me a sense of purpose. I could have helped you. Or, well, I could have tried to. And now you’re not here and it’s just that I don’t have the incentive, the reminder, the bond with you that we have when you are around to remind me that I could have a purpose, that I could be good for something. It’s just hard. It’s hard.”

It hit me like one of those giant, unexpected waves I’ve almost drowned in on the shores of the Hamptons. The taller-than-you waves that curl over your body, that you might actually in reality expect but aren’t seriously prepared for even though you think there’s some way that you will indeed be able to handle its strength. I hated the waves. I hate the ocean but at the same time it’s my favorite thing. I’m afraid of it, and there aren’t many things that I am actually afraid of. It reminds me so much of this moment because this, too, this deep moment of honesty that had been stored for at a minimum of 4 years since I had been living away from my dad had been built up and then released over me. It hit me hard, and I tried to handle its strength but it brought me down anyway, and I was drowning in it.

I finally reached the top and felt the sun on my face. Gasping for air, I rubbed the salt out of my eyes, found my feet and buried them deep and hard into the sand below me and calmed myself. Sweet relief, sweet gratification, purity.

He knew it and I knew it too, that with the truth comes more truth. Before I could even speak he had filled in my words, “But I want you to live your life. That’s where you want to be and what you want to do and that’s what I want for you too, your happiness and to make your own choices.” I had my life to live and couldn’t change my destination or course to be what someone else needed rather than what I did. He understood me, and all at once I understood him too. I think I always did – I always knew this unspoken truth – it was just one that I wanted to stay under the water. I didn’t want to feel it, drowning me, yet it still did. And with the relief of it, I still felt the grains of salt burying themselves into my skin. They soon too will wash away, but I couldn’t help but think how unfair it was that they took me under in the first place. It hit me exactly how he didn’t want it to but needed it to all at the same time.

It felt unfair for him to throw that upon me. I am here and he is there and I wish every day for him to be better. I have tried with my kindest strength to be an incentive for his sobriety – calls every other day if not daily, understanding, loving tones, genuine love, kindness, motivating words. I thought that was enough but it never was and so I gave up.

Those moments, underneath, seeing glances of the sun shine through into the darkness as I searched my way to the top, the salt burning my eyes, are panic mode. Honesty is my favorite action yet the most unpredictable and breathtaking, for good and bad reasons of course, and instantly sweeps you off your feet and into panic. You see, that suffocating moment led me to a deeper understanding.

Maybe sometimes it is the healthiest decision to relieve yourself of your deepest feelings, but for others that relief can leave a burden. But then again, maybe sometimes that burden on us can be turned into less of a burden and more into a deeper understanding and perspective into that persons thoughts and your relationship with them. I’ve come to learn that the truth will, at one time or another, be revealed whether it’s from the person themselves or through some other revealing that might not be as pleasant – and that’s in a emotional and literal way. But regardless, the truth conquers all. Maintaining a healthy relationship is all about communication – honesty, perspective, understanding. All of these things my dad and I had together, and whether the truth did drown me for that moment or not, it was the gentle rawness of his feelings, the truth of it all, that I appreciated more than anything.

I think that’s something we all can (or more so need to) understand and appreciate – that sometimes the pain of drowning for a moment brings us the utter beauty and appreciation of the fresh air pulling deep into our lungs, and the sun shining on our skin.

 

P.S. – Yes, the header picture is me on the shore of the beach (known as ‘The End of the World’) in the Hamptons, NY. I was on vacation with my family there. We stayed in a tiny, old little hotel that legitimately rested on the ocean shore. The 6 of us would step out of our one bedroom shack at sunset and listen to the waves pouring onto our doorstep. It was magical. And yes, I almost drowned. True story (but then again, I can be a bit dramatic). XO

 

Staying True To You – The Blue Hair Dilemma…

“I can’t agree, it’s too much… I would never.”

“Anything but that… Don’t do that.”

“I don’t want to wake up in the morning next to that.”
I heard it all. It was as if the world was ending just from merely mentioning the idea of adding any type of color to my hair that wasn’t the typical. I was so sure I wanted this too, and for so long! It had been nearly over a year and I never stepped up to the plate, which for me is odd, as I typically tend to do spontaneous things that are out of norm. But the words were replaying in my head and eating me alive, and the panic had set in. I found myself starring in the mirror at my hair for longer than what was normal and thinking about how much I loved it the way it was, which was something I never felt before. And then, cracking under pressure, I told myself I wouldn’t do it… ‘how could I do it? I look great!’ and I soon found myself searching online for “safer” options.
 –
Then I gave myself a good smack in the face –> THIS IS NOT ME. “Safer options”?? That’s just not my style. I’m the artsy type; The spontaneous type; The ‘I like ugly things’ type! Why was I negotiating myself out of my true character because of the opinions of others who were nothing like me!? I was frustrated with myself. I felt at that moment that I didn’t even know me. Was I who everyone wanted me to be, or was I who I wanted to be? Was I going to let everyone else tell me what to do? Was I really going to let others opinions of me sway my own opinions and decisions for myself? I thought I was going to vomit – and I know that sounds so dramatic, but I felt nauseous at an abnormal degree. That’s exactly the type of person I have never wanted to be – scared to do out of the box things because of others opinions. Who even cares if anyone likes it if I like it? And it’s just hair… It grows back, can be dyed over again, can even be cut off!
 –
I escaped to my friend’s apartment for the weekend and it was then that I realized it. As she encouraged me to do it, talked about her hair-goals herself, and bounced around the room with me to our favorite tunes, I really realized it. There are going to be tons of people in your life that are nothing like you, and you’re going to love them for that – but you can’t let their opinions of what you like persuade you, nor can you let anyone’s, really. Therefore, I don’t say this lightly, it’s great to have friends of all types, but never forget to surround yourself with people that are very much like you, and not just people, but your environment. Find that place, somewhere out there in this world that you automatically feel in love with even for the first time. It’s those people and those places that will bring out your truest, you-est you, and we all need that. We become who we are because of the people and places we surround ourselves with. How does one enhance their creative soul and be creative to the best of their ability in a non-creative environment? For instance, all of my poetry is usually about love, and my best writing and deepest emotions about love all come out when it’s written in bed, my comfort zone, next to the person I love… it makes sense, right?
 –
So don’t settle. Don’t have friends who you don’t click with right away. Even if they aren’t anything like you, if you click with them they will bring out amazing sides of you, some that you didn’t even know you had, and don’t live somewhere that doesn’t describe who you are. Move. It’s more simple than people make it out to be. And always do what you want to initially. Your gut and instincts are your truest self talking to you. Don’t ever let anyone, or the status quo, influence your style, your choices in friends, hobbies, etc. What makes you special is being you and no one else, and not catering to other peoples desires or opinions. If they love you, they will still continue to do so anyway, for the you inside, not your blue hair.
xo, Al.
p.s., they all loved it (;
 OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

It’s Okay to Have Half-Assed Friends…

It wasn’t until this past weekend visiting home that I realized and understood what a good friend really is. I was dreading the thought of it – being home without a car, staying at my Grandmothers depressing house, having nowhere to even go! I knew the general routine – I spent time with my family and that was that. Rarely did I go home and spend any time with friends from home. It had gotten to the point that they have gone on with their lives without me. Yeah, we still kept in touch and were the same good pals we always were when we did hang out, but my effort was the only one that was present. Relentless texts and calls, to the point my brother snapped, “Are you kidding me? No, do not text her again. Why do you even try,” with a sassy ‘ugh’ and an eye roll. I realized then that I was just making a fool of myself. So, this weekend in particular, I made it clear in advanced that I would be home for the weekend. I wasn’t expecting them to drop their plans at my beck and call because I just so happened to be in town. Yet as predicted, they never called. But it was this visit home in particular that I truly felt I needed them, their comfort, the distraction. And still, nothing.

I had arranged a ride from the airport from a very close family friend who I have known for years, mainly for being best friends with my older brother, but had grown closer to me in the past year or so. She was there to get me, and how grateful I felt. I was intent on expressing my gratitude and desire to spend the day together after I got in, and we did just that. We had spoken briefly of spending some time the next day together as well, but I knew how that went. People have lives, they’re not always there to spend time with me when I need to. Life doesn’t stop for me, nor did I expect it to. It was destined to not happen. And yet it did. She was my mediator for an awkward brunch, my reliable driver and laughter for long car rides to visit my brother, my puppy cuddling, relationship gossiper for the rainy afternoon and she even chose dinner with me over it with her boyfriend. It was all so nonchalant, so natural, so easy. I went away, back to my second home, content and looking happily on the weekends visit – something I didn’t think I would feel. It was then that I realized good friends do exist, and after twenty-one years, I finally had one.

I’m a hopeless romantic, which means I’m an over-emotional, over-caring love giver in all types of relationships I get myself into, and it has always been hard to remember that not everyone is as caring and loving as I am. I would drop anything and everything for someone I care about, and never felt like anyone ever did the same in return, but that’s just who I am. Through much stress and frustration, it is not till this very day that for the first time I’m really starting to understand friendships, on a level I never thought possible, which is why I share this with you…

IT’S OKAY TO HAVE HALF-ASS FRIENDS. Lots of people half-ass their entire lives. Yeah, no, this is no excuse and doesn’t mean it’s okay to have bad friends, but it takes a lot of understanding to realize that even some of the half-ass ones are good friends.

A good friend is a different definition for everyone, but we all know the basic rules and that it takes caring and loving. It takes being there for that person when it really counts; maybe not for all of the weekend visits or random phone calls but when when they miss your birthday two times in a row, thats a deal breaker. When you need a shoulder and they’re never there, deal breaker. When you’re the one waiting all day to spend time with them and cancel all other plans and they go hang with other friends instead, deal breaker (yup, I’ve had to learn the hard way). These are pretty understandable things, but its tough realizing that not all people are going to be as caring as some, and they really just can’t. For many, it’s not in their genes. Not everyone is equal amounts of caring or giving or appreciative or reliable. And it’s not true, that ‘if they’re a real friend, if you really connect and bond and are soul mates, they will be the most caring and loving no matter what’ (this goes for relationships too). Its not like the movies for every person. It’s not all thoughtfulness and love and caring. they may not go to extremes for you like what you would do for them. It’s not taking it personally and understanding that that’s just who they are. It doesn’t mean that they’re not good friends, they may love you unconditionally, be there for you when it counts, and love you just as much as you love them, but don’t have the same level of understanding and ideals in terms of commitment and care that you do. But what makes people best friends are the ones who connects with you because you share the same level of understanding and desire in terms of being a good friend; they would do the same for you that you would do for them.

I’ve had a lot of half-assed friends. They most likely don’t see it as being half-assed, but i do just because I’m the type of person who gives it my everything, and it took my a long time to understand that IT’S OKAY, they’re still GOOD FRIENDS, they’re just not the same type of person I am. Any type of relationship requires balance and having needs fulfilled to make them flourish, but some people will never meet your needs and you either have to accept that they aren’t that type of person and love them anyway, or move on. Maybe you’re not the type to give it you’re all and wear your heart on your sleeve but you need a friend who is, and vice versa. It’s understanding the type of person you are, understanding the type of people you’re dealing with and what will come from the relationship, realizing what you need and accepting what you can’t have and loving them anyway. Man, life’s complicated, as are you and everyone else, and we’re all just trying to figure each other out, one step at a time. We’re all unique in our own way and it’s understanding peoples individualities that make it all so interesting. Therefore, always remember, everyone’s different, and it’s okay.

Falling in Love…

I do this really awful thing, called falling in love…

And I don’t do it casually. I do it madly, deeply, to an extreme; to the point my heart is spilled out on the floor and I’m dragging it wherever I go.

You see, I do this really awful thing, called falling in love… I engulf myself into the lives of others and make it mine, because why would they not love me more that way, involved in what they love? Why would I not love what they love, solely because such a beautiful person loves it? I get lost in the swirling sea of their life.

You see, I do this really awful thing, called falling in love… Their single glance, their tone, their actions towards me dictate my emotions and drowns my days. I take my dragging heart through woods, puddles, let it get stomped on by boots, and yet it still holds on and loves just the same. Maybe stronger because it was so weak.

And that’s why it’s such an awful thing, falling in love. I let my heart fall so brutally to the floor and leave a hole in my chest, with none left for me. It falls so quickly that it has no time to breathe, decide, realize…

Maybe one day, I’ll be a little wiser, softer, lovelier… Maybe one day, it won’t be such an awful thing, falling in love…

 

StoryChick…

Hi everyone! My blog has been lacking a bit lately… I’ve been extremely busy, between work, class, spending time working out and writing, I’ve been non-stop. Although I haven’t posted frequently lately, I have been writing tons and hopefully I can get some work up soon! Speaking of writing… I am officially a blogger for StoryChick Magazine! It’s an online magazine that caters to mainly woman, and covers all topics you can imagine; from body, mind, soul, lifestyle, fashion, celebrities to news beauty and so much more, they really have it all! As well as a great set of bloggers! (; So far, two of my articles have been posted. I will be sharing many of them with you on here, as well as exclusively writing pieces just for this blog and the same for the magazine. Check out their page, and my two posts below, and follow them on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook to see their articles in your feed!

http://www.StoryChick.com

Facebook, Twitter, Instagram

My first two articles…

What to do When Your Heart is Hurting

The Key to Being a Chic Traveler: Airport Style

Enjoy xx

Creatively Being You Through Style…

It’s beautiful to see kids in their creative, imaginative state of mind, as they throw themselves around the floor pretending to be mermaids and superheroes. It’s just a carpet and a couch, but to them it’s another world and I instantly have flashbacks of how I played just the same as a child. I remember it being so real. I’d flap my mermaid tail in the pool and in those moments it would actually look like the ocean and the sharks would be coming for me; I could feel their pressure and the fear building up inside my chest. How amazingly is the imagination? It’s the magical getaway that I can now as an adult only experience when I go to sleep at night. Luckily for me, I dream nearly every single night and they’re always widely vivid and interesting, but to remember how as a kid you could transform your entire world into a faraway land and actually believe it and see it, is something I wish I could hold onto forever.

Of course it’s the imaginative types that are always claimed to be weird and strange as teens and adults. Like my old neighbor, who’s 16 and runs around his yard alone fighting Jedi’s with his light saber. Don’t get me wrong it can be a bit comical and strange, especially to other high-schoolers who leave their imaginations to gather dust in boxes in their attics; Yet he has so much more than many of us with his ability to use his imagination so vividly. Those are the creators. Unfortunately, at that age it’s all about being what’s “cool” and “popular”, not quirky and different.

I would sit in boring classes in high school and try to force myself to daydream. I wanted to feel the escape of a magical place with magical people and transport myself to my own fairy tale. But as I said, force. Sometimes out of the blue it would just happen, but when it disappeared I always wanted it back and could never reach it. I wanted that imaginative escape. Like those moments in the early mornings where you’re consciously asleep and can control the avenues of your dreams, those are beautiful, extraordinary moments.  I wanted the feeling of creativity.

I bring this up because creativity and the imagination has a lot to do with personal style, and overall being your own unique person. A creative mind has creative style. Style is how you express yourself. And if you’re just buying what everyone else has then are you expressing you?

In high school I wanted my creative genius to flow but it disappeared with tight pencil skirts and Victoria’s Secret sweatpants. I wanted me but I wanted to be “cool”, and I feel as though this is a mass consensus for high schoolers. Fortunately for me I am a creative person, even though many times in the past I have dampened it down. I found creativity in changing my hairstyle. It was an expressive freedom for me; there was no “cool” hairstyle. I love change and experimenting and I always did that with bold drastic cuts that got me called names like “alien space invader” and “helmet head”. Teenagers are always the prime suspects of criticism from their peers, and that’s the exact struggle with expressing yourself and growing into who you really are. Everyone always has something to say about everyone who’s just a little bit different.

I will always remember the best (back handed) compliment I ever received and of course it was in high school, “you wear the ugliest clothes but they look so good on you!” That’s exactly what I’ve always wanted and everything I believed, and still do, about my sense of style. And even now, because of my strange taste, I often don’t follow my first instinct. I care what my boyfriend will think of it, or what my family would say etc. Then I later regret not following my true desires and letting myself care what everyone else will think.

We grow up being pressured for approval and learn that acceptance should be the goal and therefore we try to be like everyone else, to act and dress like the media tells us to (just look at the mid length Kim K bodycon phase!). Even now with a fashion blog, the Instagram pictures I post that are the most basic and cliché, like a cup of Starbucks, get the most attention. I’m stuck somewhere in between wanting to have what’s popular style and wanting that that’s my own and I think that’s the same for many of us growing up in today’s culture. But that’s okay and it’s okay for you too, for everything you’re stuck between choosing and deciding to be in life. Always remember to choose what you want, not what everyone else wants or likes or is telling you to get. And don’t let the opinion of them sway you if they don’t like it. Maybe reevaluate what their opinion is before letting it affect your choice. Your choices, creativity, imagination, and desires are what make you you. Never neglect it.

 

Deeper Than Words Blog…

After some long thought, I have decided to make another blog! This one in particular is just for my writing. Poetry, creative writing, short stories, photography and inspiration from other writers, it will all be there. The title The Style Studies just didn’t suit my creative writing style 😛 so therefore, I’m introducing Deeper Than Words.  

Check it out and if you like what you see, follow subscribe & share! 

xo 

Lovely Words: Rebeka Anne

I haven’t done one of these LW posts in awhile, but have been drooling over Rebeka Anne’s poetry these past few weeks. She gets to the depths of the soul and really expresses love in a beautiful way! Im such a sucker for poetry, and she has by far became one of the best poets I’ve came across. I discovered her on tumblr. You can visit her tumblr page @AnneIsRestless and see more of her poetry here… Now here are a few of my favourite pieces by her… Enjoy!

soul mates

“I’m leaving you. After months of
waking up loving you just as much
if not more than the night before,
I’ve realized you’re the one. My
soul mate. So I’m leaving you
because as it is, this will never
work. I saw the light at the end
of the tunnel in you – heaven in
the palm of your hand – and I
knew I wasn’t ready. We’re not
ready. My insides are still too
twisted, you haven’t ticked
enough boxes on your bucket
list and I’m not willing to lose
you over bad timing. I’m leaving
you, and I hope you never delete
my number from your phone,
and I hope one day when I call
you will be waiting.”

morning

“Dear lover. Dear songbird. Dear
sweet sign that something good
is coming, I’m writing to tell you
that nothing has felt as warm as
you smiling at me. I’m writing 
to tell you that sometimes you
hear the birds before you can 
see the sun rising and that my
night has been so long. Long and
deep. Deep and dark. Dear 
morning, I’m writing to tell you
I heard you and I’m running to 
you and I don’t know what’s coming but it’s good.” 

I’d still choose your cold over anything else

“I could be writing a poem
about hurt, about how it’s
disappointing to open the
windows on a sunny day and
have it be cold. All I can say
is that you are daylight and
that it’s always enough, even
if the bitterness stings.”

the crazy things we do

“So instead of saying I love you
just to hear you say it back, I tie
myself up on a railroad. I lock
myself up in a tower, I fall
asleep and promise you there
is no way to wake me other
than to push your stubborn
mouth against mine. And you
do. A thousand times, and then
a thousand times more after
that and you wonder why I
can’t ever seem to save myself.
And I wonder why you can’t
just tell me you love me so I can
stop making excuses for you to
show it.”

XO,

A

p.s. don’t forget to check out her page please…. there’s so much more beauty to see….

Lovely Words: Shingles…

I do not know if I am the roof, warn and rusted and broken

in more places than I am whole, and you are the light,

shining through and making those gaps seem beautiful…

or, If I am the light, and you are the roof that is too scared to

toss aside the shingles, cast away the nails, and be bathed in

my warmth until you forget you were ever broken at all.

I do not know, and I do not know if I ever will. 

poems from the typewriter series, Tyler Knott Gregson

Poem & Picture Source: Tyler Knott

xo,

A