Monthly Archives: September 2015

My Cracked Bubble


The glass of my bubble cracks

A single impact that I can trace everything back to

I believe the lie that everything is logical

and I can trace events back to a single reason

I run my finger along the edges of the




Of my

Shattered bubble.

The glass in now stained

It makes pretty colors when the sunlight comes in

I just want to crawl up inside myself and be safe

Hug myself tight and not let go

Bring all that I am inward

I want to feel small and

believe that life is simple

I just my world to be safe

I want to glue the pieces of cracked glass

back into my bubble and make sure they never fall on me

I want to take every precaution

So that I have no reason to worry

Now the glass is tinted

Darked from the outside

Hard to see in

No one can see inside my soul

It churns slowly

Almost in a calming way


I can see everything

I can see everyone on the outside

But I am just rolling around in my bubble

Sometimes upside down

Sometimes right side up

I am comfortable here

This is my space

This is where I am

This is home

It is not my safe place

It is not where I am suppose to always be

It is not my prison

It is where I can freak out

It is where I bang on the glass

But not hard enough to break it

But just hard enough to crack a little more

Glass allows us to see out the window

But when the glass breaks don’t think of it

as the world falling down

But instead the window becomes a door.



Holding White and Red Roses

All the eyes stared at me

like I am their TV and the cameras are truly their popcorn.

Words were spoken with difficultly.

The words were hard to be expressed though the mouth,

but conveyed flawlessly with a look and a soft smile.

Tears bled down his rough cheek.

The whole room felt clammy.

The fake silk lining of my jacket rubbed against me.

Something wet escaped the organs that I see out of.

I was holding roses.

White and red.

They were in vases,

not plastic wrapping from the store.

This took planning.

Planning to make me feel special.

A smile was etched on his face.

A smile was etched on my face.

I do not think I could have taken it down even if I wanted to.

I did not.

This was special.

This moment was special.

I do not really remember the words

he said.

I remember the feeling.

I was glowing.

Glowing and

Crying and

Smiling and

Holding white and red roses.



Not Wasting Time

Isn’t amazing how just one time outside

can make me want to do nothing for the rest of the day?

The sun’s burning kiss on my skin

the eerie florescent lights just do not feel the same.

The wind rustling my hair

the air conditioning vent just is not right.

The uneasy ground beneath my flip-flops

the gum-plastered floor is not quite the same.

The hidden blue sky with a fluffy coding of clouds wisps

the tiled ceiling does not quite make the cut.

The sound of leaves rushling and birds calling

the chorus of sniffles and coughs is not the sound I prefer.

Oh, does a minute or two outside

make me not want to do a day’s work?

I just want to lay on the grass and

stare up at the sky

with no thoughts in my brain

and just be.

I just want to be and

not do.

I want to ponder about nothing

and not think constructively.

I just want to lay here

and write poems in my head

and feel no obligation.

I want my world to be small

and notice the little things.

I want to breath deeply and

enjoy the breathe for what it is.

I am not wasting time

I am just using it.

When I have everything to do,

I want to do nothing.

When I have nothing to do,

the idea of soaking up the moment does not cross my mind.

Oh, the joys of priorities!

Isn’t amazing how just one time outside

can make me want to do nothing for the rest of the day?

It is not amazing.

It is simple.

It is beautiful.

It is just being.



Over Here

I am surrounded by life and energy

It is bursting through the walls

It echos down the halls

The group over there

is chatting and laughing

Talking of things did and done

I do not join in

They are over there

and I am over here

A clear separation

A hard line

A wall, impossible to climb over

But I made this separation

But I drew this hard line

But I built the wall

I am different

I am alone

But there is nothing wrong in that fact

Alone can be good

Alone can make people notice


makes me decide who I am

and what choices I make because of who I am

I do not join in on their type of fun

Because of a lack of a want

I forgo their folly

I am alone

But not quite lonely

Just feeling out of place

Needing someone to guide me

Feeling awkward because people stare

They notice

They see the difference

They see that I am different

I hold to a different standard

Not one of Earth

but of the Heavens

I am alone, yes

But I am alone with God



The Simple Goal

It’s such a simple goal

It’s comes so easy to us

It comes with little thought

but just a small ‘Yay!’

Yes, we might practice on our form

or distance

But nothing like this

Biting down hard on his lip

The look of concentration in his eyes

The force behind the throw

The ball leaves his finger tips

Archs high in the air

. . . and misses











A hundred times over

The sweat dripping down his neck

His hair damp from the effort

His shirt wrinkled

He takes the ball

Gets a firm grip


His wheelchair kicks back against the force

He watches the ball, longingly wishing it would swoosh inside the net

It circles the rim

and falls

on the other side

Another miss

I run across the gym floor for the ball

I put the ball inside his reach

He looks at me

He shakes his head

He wants to give up

He is tired

He knows he’ll never make it

He’s done this so many times

Each time so close

but not close enough

He can’t do it

It’s not possible

“Hey, I know you’re tired.

But keep on trying.

We can do this.

YOU can do this.”

His hands slowly move forward

and takes the ball

He paws his fingers forward

Moves the ball into the position he has done so many times

each time with the ball missing by an inch or two

He throws


I run for the ball

I pray

“Dear God,

This means so much for him.

Please let him do this.


I turn around

His hand is up to his face


his whole body shows it

I move the ball around in the air

trying to get his attention.

I call his name.

“I know you can do this.

You are so close.

All this has been practice

and this time you can make it.

Come on, you can do this!”

He takes the ball

He throws the ball

He misses

I run for the ball across our side of the gym

No one sees his struggle

No one seems to think it matters

They should

They don’t see his smile

when the ball hits him in the face

and he laughs

They don’t see when he is trying

but can’t seem to do ‘good enough’

They don’t see his longing looks at the other kids

to be like them

To move

To use his legs

To carry on a conversation

I am jumping up and down by this point

“You are doing awesome!

This is all on you.

You can do this!”

I emphasize each word with a jump.

I look at the clock

one minute until gym is over

I throw the ball to him.

He catches it awkwardly, like he always does

But he catches it and that makes it beautiful.

He looks at me.

I nod my head vigorously.

He bites down on the left side of his lower lip

Moves the ball into position.

The ball leaves his hands

I hear his wheelchair kick back from the force he puts on the ball.

The ball arches perfectly.

The ball rolls on the rim

. . . and falls in.

The net swooshes.

The ball falls

The ball bounces.

The music is cut

and the coach yells to clean up.

I turn

and see the biggest smile

He starts laughing

I start jumping again

I praise him on what an accomplishment it is.

“I am so proud of you!

You worked so hard

and you made it!”

I look around at all the others in the class

knowing all too well that they could have done this feat so easily

But they aren’t the ones who practiced non stop

But they aren’t the ones who are in a wheelchair

But they aren’t the ones who kept going when they were tired

It’s such a simple goal

It’s comes so easily to us

It comes with little thought

but just a small ‘Yay!’

But life is not fair

Some people struggle to do the simplest things

The simplest tasks can take a great amount of effort

Nothing like the satisfaction in himself he feels when it is done.

He softly whispers,

“We made a basket.”

 Håkan Dahlström / Foter / CC BY

Håkan Dahlström / Foter / CC BY

An Ability

This crazy world of ours

People think they need to be strong and put on a tough face

when they are hurting and worn out

Yes! It shows determination and fighting

But we lose the ability to be vulnerable

To be vulnerable

is an ability

not a characteristic

It’s something you willing do

It’s a mindset

It’s actions

It’s asking for help

It’s admitting that you can’t do it on your own

It’s NOT giving up

It’s giving out

Pouring out your heart

and willing everything to be out there

Being vulnerable is not weak

It’s strong


But it’s so hard

you want to believe you are in control

Being vulnerable is acknowledging that you found out it is a lie

Maybe you are afraid

That someone will stick their finger

in your wound after you tell them everything

Maybe, but people see the trust you put in them and they reciprocate

Possibly, showing weakness is against your nature

Who ever said your nature was right in the first place?

And who ever said vulnerability is weak?

Just try it

Just be vulnerable

It’s an ability that is hard to start

and even harder to master

but the rewards are amazing

Just try it

Just be vulnerable

 symphony of love / Foter / CC BY-SA

symphony of love / Foter / CC BY-SA


Why can we

as a human race

not know what others,

people closest to us

are feeling

or thinking?

Is it because

we don’t observe

close enough?

Or maybe

we have become

such good liars


that no one can?

No one can tell the difference between lies and truths

We’ve got so good at fibbing

not for our own good.

We only show surface level feelings

and not how we are truly doing

On the inside

The insecurities

The fears

The hidden secrets

The things we carry around with us everyday

but mask it


with a smile

or a simple lie in a text


‘Pretty good’ Smiley face!

It’s so easy

to act okay but not truly be

but it is so not worth it.

Create. Be. Enjoy: You

Be You

Be You

What is love?

Over the moon. Fun. Compelling. And More!

The hidden treasure that few

Understand the difference between

Love and Lover’s

Who are you

When you have

The power of two.

Are you yourself?

Or are you what he wants


rediscover why you fell in love with you.

This one only took me two hours and two magazines! I started cutting and the words seemed to choose themselves. This poem is about the relationships that I see in high schoolers or any relationship were one person conforms to what the other expects. Expectations, you can either set the bar low or high and they will met it if you expect them to. Why do people feel like they need to conform to society, to their peers, to their significant other?

People like to feel accepted. That they are one of the group, but are the best part of the group of course! People want to fit in, but stand out just enough to feel important. I get that. I’ve done that. And I am trying to discern when to or not to.

Our society and culture is all about the individual and how they are important. Yes, great! But that individual has to fit into the group of individuals. A group solely made for being singular. All about me in the this great big world of other amazing individuals and their Instagram posts.

But don’t get me wrong social media can be wonderful to spread worthy causes. But a while back remember the water dunking ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, everyone started doing it because celebrities were doing it. It became more about ‘Hey I did that!’ than the cause.

So what I am saying is that, you don’t need to conform to a group or idea or expectation because you think you need to or someone wants you to. Finding who you are and who you are meant to be is one of the hardest things, and you need don’t need a fad to stray you in the wrong direction.

But here is another thought, sometimes you don’t need to find who you are, but create it. You may look around and see everyone else has their niche. Their home, their friends, the echos of laughs at the lunch table. But you don’t. You begin to think, maybe this person that I am creating myself to be is wrong. Maybe I am wrong and they are right. Maybe I am the problem.

No! Sometimes before creating who you are, you need to create what you are. By creating what you are, determines who you are and who you will become.

Did you ever think about who started the groups that everyone always flocks to? Maybe they were the outcast and decided to do something about it and created what they are. The clique had to start somewhere.

Final big thoughts: Be you. Find or create you. Create what you are. Once you find or create that, live that. If people don’t like it, honor their choice. They choose who they are and maybe you don’t fit into that. People make choices that are right for them, not you and how it will make you feel. We don’t ever really think about that. That there is more lives and life choices than ‘me’.

General when we make choices, who do we make them for?

Us. Me. You. Because that is the first person that it will impact. Every time I pray, I pray that I will not only show and be a good witness to Christ, but I hope that my actions will have an impact. A good one I hope. I pray that I will not be self-centered that I miss how I affected someone. I pray that I will see their pain and be able to do something. And if I can’t at least I can show that I acknowledge that I see their pain and they feel noticed.

So to the people who ask other’s to change for them or because they think they have to. Your path, your choice, your life of who you are creating yourself to be, doesn’t fit everyone. People are different. Not everyone likes pineapple on their pizza! (I do).

Okay, I promise last time of me trying to wrap up. People make choices. People make choices for themselves, not you. Honestly, people normally don’t care how their actions affect you. Or they just don’t think about it. So give some people some slack, or more in Bible terms, show mercy, do not give judgement, but discern. You matter, but you don’t matter when people make their life choices for themselves. You matter when you make your life choices. You make you of who you want to be.

God created you to be you. Nothing more or less. God created you to be you and not what society wants you to be. Everything about you is perfect in your perfectly crazy life.

I’ll leave you with some lyrics from my favorite artist Jamie Grace’s Every Bit of Lovely:

Don’t you know that you’re God’s original work of art, yes you are
So don’t ever let them tell you that you’re less than wonderful
Cause you’re a one and only
You’re every little bit, every little bit of lovely
Have you seen a lightning storm?
And have you heard the oceans roar?
Have you seen a newborn baby smile?
Well, the same God who made all that, made you

My Attempt on Found Poetry, Again

So yesterday, with seven magazines and an old book and the time of three hours on a rainy day, I made an attempt on found poetry, again. Found poetry is hard because you just want that one word, but  . . . you can’t have it! It drives a creator crazy! So below are pictures of my attempts and below them are the words. The black-out poetry is from John Jakes novel ‘The Rebels’ on pages, 63, 197, 200, and 255. For the black-out poetry, I have no idea what the poems even mean, but I had fun creating them. Enjoy!


Be Conquers

“You must remember this

As time goes by

This is what unforgettable memories are made of


It starts with you.

The idea

Unique lifestyle

Conquers are different from other winners they spill over with energy

Passion inspires us all to take on the world

Make a difference

The people, the places, the beauty.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before

Winners demand the best







The Violent Blue Lightening

Flurry of courage stifled niceties of conscience. He attacked so rudely. Framed a lighting- glare startled him. He whipped is head around. Clamored to be recognized. He saw a ghostly image. Lank hair. Slack lips. Haunted blue eyes – Trembling, covered his face. He broke out in a cold sweat, nauseous. Leaned close, whispering: “Are you more violent?” Climbed, stumbled, turned an unsympathetic eye. Afraid. No. Nothing. He tried. He slipped. A lightening burst. He sprawled on hands and knees, delirious – And then, slammed up to strike his face. Eventually, familiar, somehow.

Perched on the Edge

Perched on the Edge

“Yes, I’m finally learning something about it. Not without a good deal of struggle, I must confess. I’m afraid I never concerned myself before -” Held back the rest of it. Horror of memory stain her eyes for an instant. Inadvertently trapped. Calm voice, “That’s turned out to be a blessing.” Again he faltered. To conceal, perched on the edge. Another awkward silence. Made a serious error in coming here. Too painful. The sweet torture served no purpose – the silence: impulsively. A shock vibrated through, and quickly.

The Air Had Somehow Invaded

The Air Had Somehow Invaded

Depths didn’t care to plumb – very uncomfortable depths – the hazy gray loomed in his mind. Pathetic state. The image dissolved into another. Had struck much too close to the truth. Whatever the causes, he was poisoned by a frequent, almost wholly uncontrollable desire to defy. To choose one road when knew another was the accepted way? Who was to blame? As if it mattered any longer! Or would change anything. And lost himself. Safe for a while from the reality of the world outside. It wasn’t long before his inner world was similarly deadened and remote. Thunder shook. Burst of lightening glared like infernal fire let up from the bowels of the earth, reverberating through the chamber. The air had somehow invaded.

The Chief Sin Was His

The Chief Sin Was His

These dreadful confrontations took pleasure in tormenting the old man, in revenge for the old man tormenting him. What in the name of God was wrong with him? Faults were mild in comparison, chief sin was his oppressive iniquity. Burned bright: risen like some demonic figure. Watched him. Was afire, venomous. Surely twist, despicable. So much hate from all of them? Understood how outrage continuing friction and violence, grueling, really couldn’t fault the people when the latter were far less desirable.

Part 3 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

The thing that I like about broccoli is that it makes a crunch sound. My broccoli is not cooked, never mushy. No, my broccoli is raw. It makes sound. I try to recall and I do not ever remember a sound that I did not make, that is why I am so surprised when my bed shifts.

My bed is this cushion in the corner of my room. It is built in to the floor. I have tried to move it, pick it up, rip it, nothing works. But now it is shifted. The left side of the bed is slowly moving upward; it  . . . opens.

There is a passage inside the bed. The passage is not numbness. It is the opposite. It is calm. It is mysterious. It is perfect.

What should I call it? What is a name that matches it affects. What is a name that is breathtaking? What is this color? It shrouds everything in questions. Shroud.

Then, out of the Shroud something soft appears. It’s color is more pure than the numbness but nothing like the Shroud. It is so soft, I want to touch it.

I reach, it swerves away. It says something. It makes it’s own sound. The noise I understand. “Oh no Selena, we are not playing that game again today. I am human, not an object you can touch because you think it’s pretty.”

No! This is new. This is exciting. This is something like broccoli. I do not like this Soft Thing. It pushes me away. I reach more. I touch the Soft Thing. It makes noise. The noise is like when I get cauliflower when I want broccoli and I can’t remember what I do.

Then I realize. I reached for the tallest part of the soft thing and that is where the noise comes from. That is where the ooze comes from. That is where the consistency like milk comes from. The soft thing is in . . . pain? Did I cause pain? Pain is when there is no one or nothing to share with. Pain is not good.

I try to touch the Soft Thing again to say that I regret making pain, but it pushes me away. It makes noise, “We do this everyday Selena! Can you just once make it easy on me?!”

Selena? I do not know what this word means. It was like the Soft Thing was directing it at me. What is Selena? Am I Selena?

“I really wish I didn’t have to do this everyday. I can’t imagine what you are thinking each morning.” Something sharp sticks into me. Something that makes me feel like I do when I want to lay on the bed. My mind clouds  . . .

The color of broccoli, it’s the most magical thing I have ever seen, or remember seeing. Its shades changing from one stem to another. The way how it is at first light in shade then slowly, flows darker then blossoms into little buds of beauteous broccoli. The shape and texture of broccoli may be close to that of cauliflower, but the color of broccoli . . . is glorious. Cauliflower is bland, numb, equal. Broccoli is vibrant, contrasting, transitioning shades. Today I have cauliflower. I wish it was broccoli.

I am afraid I’ll forget what I thought about, and just continue thinking the same thing over and over, and each time thinking that it is a new thought. I have all these questions, but I don’t know if I’ll forget them tomorrow. Has tomorrow come? Is today tomorrow? When will tomorrow come? Time is infinite. Here. I don’t know if I’ve spent days here. Maybe weeks. Could even be years. Or maybe all this is between my alarm and my five minute snooze button. Time is all I have. But is time infinite in my five minute snooze?