Sleep

The hidden stories that lie within the sheaths of our mind, reveal themselves in the depths of the night, leaving footprints on our dusty end tables.
We feel them
Tip
Toe
On the comforters we hold so tight.
Never free from our past demises
We look to the future to put the breaks on our spinning thoughts
Ignoring the present
Forsaking the future
To unstitch what was once sewn so well, with good intentions.

Trying

I am a woman trying. Trying to be more myself. Trying to be balanced. Trying not to lose myself in social and personal roles. Trying to be free, at peace, and whole. While all the time, thinking, "If there is to be any peace it will come through being, not having."

My Mother's handwritting

In the fissures that make the whole of who I am, I feel the insecurities of the person that I once was: a small child with large wisdom: seeing the loss of a land and a life stolen, dreams and deadlines never achieved.
The grocery list lies on the linoleum floor
Twenty years of cobwebs cover my mother's handwritting