poetry to save your life

Sometimes life comes down to deciding between being yourself and being someone’s friend. How do you decide? The way I see it is if being someone’s friend makes you more proud to be yourself, then by all means stretch, grow, find that yes, you can touch your emotional toes if you breathe into the exercise. If being someone’s friend means ignoring yourself, stifling your soul in a way that produces retching echoes inside your ribcage, then recognize that being something ‘meaningful’ to someone else means nothing if you find yourself hollow. And that sometimes, people get titles in our lives, like friend, lover, even best friend, that they might not have actually earned. No one deserves you more than you do, no one needs you more than you need you.

you told me once I saved your life by being who I am. by loving things so deeply, unabashedly, even when it hurts my hands to dig my fingers into everything I could see.

but you should know that I love you too, and I’ve got my aloed hands beside me whenever you need them. even when I am a fantastic wreck, breaking everything around me. even when I’m broken and cut open by boxcutter boys and gift-return girls. even when we don’t agree. even when it hurts.

because that’s the best part about being vulnerable. I can find ways to trust people even after they’ve taken knives to my skin and have tried to pry the stars out. I have all the doors to my heart open wide, without locks or keys. I don’t keep anyone out. everyone seeps in. everyone’s stories are a part of me. I learn from everyone. I love from everyone.

and I want you to know that I will never, ever keep you out. you could break my bones and steal my shoes and I will still hold your hand when you’re crossing the street. because that’s what being vulnerable is. it’s loving when it hurts and forgiving when there’s only hate given back. I still love the boy with the boxcutter hands and I forgive the girl who stole my sanity.

but you will never be them. you will never break my bones. you will never steal my shoes. you will never hurt my heart. and you can tell me not to love you, you can tell me not to trust you, but I will.

but I will.

—  vulnerability is the best gift I was given and so are you, by windy sharpe
To the ordinary work experience.
To The timing and the control.
We become machines of labor.
Clock in, clock out.
Hour after hour.
All we have to look forward to
Is a check and the weekend,
Day after day.
And they both do not know how to stay.
They are both lovers,
coming and going continuously.
After that there is not much to live for.
We Fall in love, then we raise a family.
More clocking in and out.
It is almost a suicide.
This makes dying sound too easy.
But the art. The poetry.
Now that can save your life.
And the films and the music.
Sometimes that is all we have,
It is all we need.
Art is the savior.
Take it in as often as possible.
It is, possibly, the only
form of beauty left
In humanity.
—  R. M. Drake

Give faith, give flight, take time to watch the wanderings of words across the sky. Art is just a reflection of me next to you, the scripture of life gone by ornamented by the precipitations of futures yet conceived. Let your words take to the sky, let your heart follow in proper time, worry not about your wings, but the arc of your body pressed against the clouds.

Worry not of your reflection, but of your profiled portrait against the sun.

There’s a line down my stomach to prove it, a pseudo-scar that splits my body in two equal parts. Between the protruding parts of my collarbone, between my breasts and all the way down my body there has always been a line. I used to wonder what it’d be like to fold myself in half across that point. To see if my body would come out equal and even. To see if that would make me perfect.