I Wish I was You

photo credit: Maddy Crone Photography

I wish I was you.

I was that my nose didn’t scrunch up when I laughed,

I wish my eyes held the weight of the world attached.

I wish I was poised

I wish I didn’t make so much noise

I was I was just a tiny bit more like you.

I wish my heart was guarded all of the time

I wish my mind didn’t automatically go to rhyme,

I wish I could stand and capture a crowd

I wish I wasn’t quite so loud

But all my wishing doesn’t change

That I’m myself and strange

But I continue my thoughts and wish I was you.

I wish I had not freckles to mar my nose

I wish that my bottom lip wasn’t wide and rose.

I wish I was neat.

I wish my room was constantly clean,

I wish my hair never missed the beat,

I wish I was you.

I wish I didn’t need medicine to breathe,

I wish my movements were full of grace and ease.

I wish I was short,

My height scaring and bearing down,

I wish I didn’t make my strange sounds.

But all my wishing doesn’t change

That God created me this way,

But my thoughts continue to filter and glitter

Wishing I was you.

Coffee Chats w/Amie (E.2)

*pours coffee and invites you to sit down*

Well, we’re back to have coffee. I wasn’t sure if you’d be free . . . or to be honest if I would be free. But here I am! Alive and well, and about to head off to work.

A lot has been on my mind. In fact, I wrote something in my head the other day, and maybe I’ll add it here:

Dear convict,

Do the last ten months continue to drag on? After a sentence of eighteen years, do the last ten months cling to you, reluctant to let change take it’s place? Are you terrified of life outside of your cell, but you want more than anything to be free and alive. To be something besides the shell of a human you are.

Do the last nine months whisper eternity? After proving to yourself that eighteen years is just a blip in time, do the last nine months roll on like the credits before a movie? Are you tired of counting each hour the clock ticks? Or are you spending each moment capturing the last bits of this reality you now know?

Do the last eight months whine forever in your ear? After eighteen years of silence, does the noise just suddenly appear? Are you worried that the world will be too loud for your brain, or are you happy for once that you’re brain will have competition again?

Do the last seven months burn your soul? After eighteen years of ice are you ready to be whole? Do you shiver when the flame comes close to your skin, or do you reach out a grab it, relishing the burn it begins?

Do the last six months laugh at your misery? After eighteen years of sorrow, they just won’t let you free. Each moment you’re still stuck in their vice like grasp, and you’re wondering if this is a dream or if it will really last.

Do the last five months spring over each other? The hope that began is now forever and ever etched in ever dream that echoes in your heart. Creating something for you to watch fall apart.

Do the last four months snicker at your fears? After eighteen years of hell, what else do you have to fear? All who care about you are waiting to welcome you home, but you’re still dwelling on the action that took you far from them.

Do the last three months tighten your chains? After eighteen years do they continue to drain and drain everything you have left for the life you’re about to live, the world you’re about to meet, the family you’re about to be free for?

Do the last two months echo empty praise, promising relief from the eighteen years that have snuck up towards this day? Is there ever a moment where your breath just stops because for the first time in eighteen years you realize your life will no longer stopped.

What about the last thirty days? Each sunset and sunrise of eighteen years have lead to this day, but you still wonder what you’re going to say. Who will you hug when the bars are gone? Who will you love once your chains are sawed off?

And the last day? Does it feel real? Eighteen years. Twenty four hours. Freedom at last.

It’s taken me almost a month to write this post, lol. It’s 2:18 in the morning as I write now. I’ve been so sick the past week, thanks to allergies, so each day I’ve slept for around 15 hours. It’s like my body was on overdrive just to keep me alive and breathing, so in order to do that, it just had to keep me unconscious.

But tonight I’m awake.

I’ve been thinking a lot about knowing yourself. Can you ever really know yourself? Can you know what is best for the person you have to take responsibility for? Can you actually know you’re strengths and weaknesses, can you see who you are, not the person you want to be taken for?

I don’t know.

I wish I did, because it would make life so much easier. It would make each decision so much nicer. No second guessing because you know. You know what’s best and what won’t help. You know the direction of your life, there’s no need for regret.

I wish that was life. And maybe it can be life. If it can, I’ll try to find it.

But for now, I make coffee and tea for a living, come home and try to write novels and create music when I’m not sleeping or eating.

This summer has been empty of the summer vibes that you long for, but I think I’ll always look back at the summer of 2021 with a smile.

It isn’t the pool/sunscreen/watermelon/gardening days of years past. Instead it’s so much exhaustion you can barely peel your eyes open. It’s laughter as you sing off key with your coworkers. It’s learning, growing, stretching, and smiling.

And that’s a good summer to me.

What about you? How’s your summer?


Is God A Painter?

Is God a painter

Or a royal judge?

Does he frown on our foolishness

Or does he allow his laughter to rung?

Is God an artist

Or is he a lawman?

Is God a creator

Or is he doorman?

Does the artist soul belong to his King

Or does God prefer the judicial scene?

Do the greek muses reflect some of his deity

Or is God silent, refusing rejoicing?

Is God a writer

Winding stories together?

Is God a realist

Forgetting the beauty we claim he created

Or does God bathe in uniqueness

That he himself has dated?

Is God more than we imagine,

A painter, creator,

A battle torn warrior

A writer, a singer

A majestic majesty producer?

Is God a lawyer

His book of order to use

Or is God a painter

Beauty in the world to infuse?

Does God frown as we create

Or does our paintings allow us a view at heaven’s gates?

Good for You

Good for you, you broke my soul

Every moment moving towards your goal

Killing the human squirming inside

All for you inevitable design.

Good for you, you’ve hurt my life

Broken my trust more than twice

Watched me shrivel before your eyes

Yet you’ve never changed your approach.

Good for you, you rule over me

Breaking my spirit for eternity

Drowning every moment when you can’t see

You continue to order what happens inside of me.

Good for you, I can please you

Hiding while I do everything and continue

To die alone behind the scenes

Meeting all of your many needs.

Good for you, spend your hours being holy

Because of you I can barely finish a prayer

My religion shattered before my very eyes

Please tell me this all ends in time.

Good for you, the equation works

Keep tearing others and letting them curse

The actions you make and the decisions you take

Leaving pain in your wake.

Good for you, when are you going to realize

It’s so hard for us to love you?

Good for you, when will you see

The reason each one of us are dying?

Good for you, stay in your little world

The future is yet untold

Let us go and we’ll change

The world to something you can’t recognize

And we’ll just smile and say

Good for you.

We’ll See

Not going to lie to you, adulting is hard.

And it think it’s hardest because I’m not an adult yet. I’m still a child, but I’ve been forced to grow up sooner than anyone else. Legally, I’m a minor. Physically, I’m a child. Mentally, I’ve been an adult since I was ten. And now I’m even living a somewhat adult life.

What defines an adult life?

Waking up and knowing you have to make breakfast. Knowing that your to-do list is longer than you want to believe, and everything on there has someone relying on you.

Blogging took the back burner as I’ve started working way more than I ever have in my life. I’m beyond thankful for the opportunity, and for the people that I work with, but it has been hard. Exhaustion is a real thing, it’s not something that only comes from depression. It actually comes from being happy.

I don’t want to say I’m done with this blog. It would be like forcing closed a chapter that I’m not sure if it’s ready to be closed.

But I do know that blogging isn’t my top priority, or the thing I wake up to in the morning and feel as if it must be done.

So here I am, unsure how to continue.

It’s been so quiet for so long in the comment section, that half of me doesn’t believe anyone reads these posts to begin with. So we’ll see.

We’ll see how often I post, and if I post at all. We’ll see what the Lord puts on my heart and where he asks me to share it.

We’ll just see.


Poetry: The Dead Art

I was sitting at a table with my peers, about to eat my lunch when I realized how far America has fallen.

Perhaps that’s a bit dramatic, but let me explain. I was sitting there, minding my own business and being a fly on the wall, per usual, when one of them brought up the question of teaching poetry in school. Of course, everyone stated their opinion and I was appalled.

At a table of ten teenagers, only one (me!) thought poetry was important.

In fact, the rest of the nine said that poetry is stupid and has absolutely no reason to it.

Now, why does that bother me, besides the fact that I wrote a published a poetry book? Let me take you back just a little bit over 100 years ago to the year 1917. America had just joined WWI, and tons of men were being shipped over the sea to fight.

Do you know what those men did once they came back?

Many of them became poets. An Englishman became one of the best known Christian writers of that century, another created a world with it’s own language.

Why do I bring this up?

Poetry is a way of expression. Emily Dickenson wrote once “This is my letter to the world that never wrote me.” People don’t understand poetry because people don’t understand themselves and others anymore. They don’t understand the emotions that shimmer in the artist’s breasts, because instead we’ve been told that we’ll be given whatever we ask. We’ve been told to admire those who are tasked with feats of strength and valor instead of the artist who pens words that revolve around the mind that belongs to the athlete.

Poetry elevates the soul. Edgar Allen Poe wrote, “To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary.” There is something in poetry that is prestigious, and you have to reach above your comfort to find the elevation of the soul that is necessary for growth.

Poetry is a way to communicate with God. David himself wrote poems as prayers, and we have a whole history of humans who translated their prayers into poems that have become hymns today. Poetry is a communication with another realm, and ability to write things that you feel but can’t say in prose. It’s a minuet minute where you can bare your soul with the protection of not being taken 100% seriously.

Poetry is an art, it’s the art of communicating with the soul, and yet, this day and age we find the soul unimportant and the art as dead. There is no need to touch the soul with poetry, to take the time to read without noise, to hear without our ears, to see with nothing but ink and paper.

I have no good conclusion for this post, it’s more of a ramble from my soul. But what do you think about poetry? Is it dead or lost or is it thriving?


When Spring Comes, Where Does My Sadness Go?

The drip, drip, drip of the rain fills my brain

But the release of the air scatters the rain

The flowers glisten and glossem before they blossom

The bees trace the trails that have been laid before

My heart follows the robin on it’s journey far

But I’m still and I’m still me

The problem is that its spring.

The blue of the sky that is painted

Matches the blue of my serene mood

I spin and I spin taking it in as if it were food

And the silence is noisy in all of it’s glory

But I still have an empty feeling inside.

Though a cotton tailed rabbit chases it away

The laugher of a child and the smile of the wind

Changes my soul from within.

Moments pass, and I look around

Wondering at the crazy sounds

When spring comes in all of it’s glory,

When March brings her flurry,

Where does my sadness go?

No. . .

I’m afraid of no.

I’m afraid of the power it holds over me. It’s a sword to wield, something that glistens when the light hits it. But when it is hidden, it isn’t seen, simply felt. I don’t know how to use it, this powerful word. I don’t understand the impact it has on me, yet not on the rest of the world.

No is a rejection, a refusal, a rebuttal. No is a sucker punch that steals my breath and rams my chest. No is a force that cannot yet be seen. No is something I can’t handle.

I skirt around it’s corners, chasing things but never committing, because all along my fear pins me in place. I am a butterfly on a cork board, a dream stuck in a dream catcher. A spider has woven me a cocoon, and yet it hasn’t protected me from the knife that stabs my ribs.


I try to use this power on others, waving it to and fro, but instead of intimidating, I injure myself in their stead. My enemies smirk when I try to stand and hold. My family simply shakes their heads because I simply cannot say no.

I wound myself in the place of others. My chest tightens and expands, waiting for the word to come. Sometimes it is hidden in a rejection, the words flowery and sweet. Sometimes it is a flat denial, slicing butterfly wings.

Regardless of what form it comes, it always does the same thing. It clutters up my mind and destroys what I want to be.

I’m afraid of no.

Those nasty two letters. I’m afraid of something I can’t control, the words that no one stutters. But I shouldn’t fear the boundaries others put in place. I shouldn’t fear being told there isn’t room on their plate.

The problem is that I don’t understand why when those words come from my mouth, they don’t mean no?

No sometimes is not honored if respect isn’t in place. No isn’t honored, and so I’ve accepted my fate. I pick up a foot and smile at the crowd. But instead my heart drums one single sound.


I’m afraid of no.


Let Me

My heart is heavy as I watch the lights reflect off the road.

My eyes are tired as the moments grow old.

My reflection is a mirage, keeping secrets untold

Minutes flick by on an old radio.

Sickly sweet perfume lick at my feet

People keep talking as I retreat

Leave me now, let me entreat

The words that float towards me in a sea.

Weight on my shoulders pins my head to the ground

Every whisper mounts as the world grows loud

Groaning that tugs at my fragile heartbeat’s beat

Let me fall, let me fail, let me be me.