Yay questions 
This makes me excited.
This poem is basically my current Psalm. I've really been going through a lot of traumatic events lately and I've been struggling with bottling everything inside, so instead of staying stuck in the maze of my mind, I decided to reflect on the problems, I decided to let them resurface so that I can start the process of letting them go. Realization is always he first step. So I dove into my journal, some poetry, Psalm 16 & 51, and some Jon Foreman the other night to reflect on the sore thoughts that have been crammed in my mind. It was great to accept how broken I was in a healthy way for the first time in a while. Just pray for me that these songs of hope will increase in a crescendo.
I broke down this poem piece by piece for you, I hope you like it =]
Let moments have a voice alone: What I mean by this is I'm always trying to plan out my actions and reactions before the future even plays out because I want things to go a certain way, so I can stay safe from risk, but the more I try to keep it together the more it'll fall apart.
or it will slip down your throat like sore vodka: I think I chose vodka because it tastes strong but it makes you weak, you feel power in weakness but your not walking in reality. (I don't drink by the way, I just like metaphors. haha
)
Healing has more purpose than patches and destination: This pretty much explains itself, but for me personally I keep thinking if I'm healed then I'm indestructible, I feel like that once I'm healed that's my purpose and I won't ever get hurt again. Not only that, healing isn't safe, it involves risk. My purpose is not my destination.
Offer your swelling left ear, the one that's bloodshot
and spreading bruised sound into your jaw and the veins in your neck.: So as you can see this poem is very personal for me. I said my left ear because I'm losing my hearing in my left ear, but I say I want to offer it because I want to know there is still music through pain, even if I can't hear it clearly.
Life isn't a goal for death.
You weren't born for that satin coffin after your broken watch.: This is the key, I have to keep reminding myself that I don't live for death. I die to live in humility, but I wasn't born for death.
Eyes are like typewriters soaking in fleeting daylight
Gathering risk
and holding its tongue. : So I don't know if you've ever done this, but if you're sitting next to someone in a car and you watch their eyes while they're looking out a window, their eyes shift really fast. So I pictured someone gathering the information around them with their eyes like typewriters. This is what I do everyday, I watch everyone live so I feel like I've lived more than once because I watch them, but I haven't had the strength to live my own story so I hold the tongue of my desire to be free because risk is frightening.
Approval isn't sober,: Approval from other people is fleeting, it's liquid. I struggle with trying to feel approved by everyone. But even though I have friends and people who approve of me, it doesn't mean they'll always approve of what I do, they won't always approve of who I am either. So therefore I shouldn't try to hydrate myself with acceptance of people all the time; I keep making them my idols and it tears me apart. I want to trust in who God is because He is always who He says He is despite my feelings. (Simple but not easy.)
it's a riddle with fish hooks holding your lighthouse home.: Like I said above, approval isn't solid. It's a never ending riddle or maze and penetrates me with emptiness. I chose a lighthouse because I've convinced myself of the lie that acceptance is the only hope out there.
Home? Can such supernatural exist?
Can a soft hand remind damage that love is beyond skin?
Can my hands be pockets for real love?: This is the part of the poem where I asked myself if a real home exists, one that is soft and real. If healing is real. Am I really free to accept unconditional love? I was basically asking God if it's possible to accept such love.
I hide myself because I feel that's the only way to feel wanted.
My self infliction the same.
It breaks away from routine... but becomes one eventually...: So I've always struggled with isolation. I was admitting to myself that I struggle with it because of pride. Isolation for me is like a funeral without dying. I try to hide from people so they will miss me, so that they will actually talk to me and ask how I really am. It's another loophole to find acceptance.
Longfellow and I shook hands through symphony pages,
he sung me peace and said
"Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal." : I was reading the poem "A Psalm Of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and he was talking about how life isn't empty, and how it's worth more than just feelings.
