give, not receive

Written and submitted by rearrangedletters

met a man on the street yelling & passing out pamphlets full of promises waiting to be fulfilled if i will only give to him. tells me he’s a faith healer. “sounds great to me.”, I tells him. “my faith is nearly dead. but the irony is that it is because of people like you.” he walked away muttering about how i didn’t understand and I gave my last dollar to a homeless man.
day one again

day two in a new city

bursting with faces

& voices unfamiliar.

i screamed myself to sleep

at 4 a.m.

while arguing with a shadow

above this hotel bed

that i swear

looked just like the girl

i left 300 miles behind me.

my head feels like a cavern

people go to die in

and i know the echoes

will not stop soon,

nor will this weary heart

that mocks me

with its off-beat rhythm.

i swim out slowly

through the entrance doors

past the other creatures

staring with their orderly lives

neatly packed

and held tightly.

if that sun above doesn’t burn

itself out soon,

i just know that i will drop

midstep before a crowd

void of a person who calls me

friend or lover.



she dreams

of vivid gardens

with flowers

that speak a language

only she understands.

she longs to sit still

under a blue sky

just breathing deeply

in between words

said and heard.

she aches now

for the life she knows

was hers to take

from the girl she was

staring out windows, daydreaming.

chaos fair

these days

are like a carousel

minus the laughter & fun.

music plays in the background

and I hear it, faintly.

i’m spinning




but i’m getting nowhere.

this repetitive circle i’m traveling

is not what i expected.

the music is ugly, and i’m not amused.


i’m headed out into an open field

going to visit the stars tonight

in my new coat

and new attitude

going to lie on the cold ground

(far away from the piercing lights

and constant noise of this city)

i will dream i am a child

who’s been told the parade is tomorrow.

please rain, visit us another day.


put your shoes back on.

this place isn’t holy

and your soul is safe here.

this ground isn’t sacred.

the dirt is just stained with the blood

of many a man, believing

himself a patriot

because his leaders

told him so,

fought and died

to make you believe

it is worthy of your honor.

those men giving orders

are not counting the bodies

piling up.

they are counting the dollars

these wars drop

into their waiting hands.

freedom is free.

Writing & Appreciation

I’ve had this blog for not quite a month now. I’ve posted 65 things. (Let’s call them poems for now.) I have more drafts than I do posts. I’m holding on to them like children in a busy parking lot. I’m afraid to let go.

Writing isn’t always easy. Even when you finish something, you have to build up the courage to share it. I feel like a child screaming, “Hey, look what I did!” after posting something new.

I’m just rambling about this process. But, my destination is: I really do appreciate each and every one of you who chooses to follow me and/or read anything I write. Thanks!