I Can Barely Take It Anymore.

DEAR
     Heart:
           I'm sick. Again. Sick of being sick, sick of my physical body, sick of never having any control over the bimonthly colds I get.

       I'm tired. Tired of being worn out, tired of never sleeping, tired of being an insomniac with an overactive imagination, tired of the daily trials of life.

         I'm finished. Finished with the world, finished with doctors, finished with people, finished with those who spread lies about me fabricating my illness.

         I'm broken. My immune system is broken, my mind is broken, my body is broken, my happiness is broken. I can barely take it anymore.

          So I do the only thing I can; I worship. I pray, I give thanks, I lift my hands and feel the music around me and close my eyes. I'm filled with peace. No, it's not coming from me, it's being given to me. And I know that no matter how hard today, tomorrow, and the day after that will be, I will always be able to find something to give my mind and my soul peace.

           Because like the song says, we are broken together.

With Brokenness,

Joélle.

Ranaway

DEAR
     Lovers of the dark:
       On the third day of Poemmas, my blogger gave to me: a really dark stream of imagery. This poem was written about how confusing the depths of an insomniac mind can be, and how reality and dreams mangle together during the night. I hope you enjoy it.

Ranaway

Stumbling away from the haters of joy,

sobbing, spurning– into

darkness hope flailed. Reason, lost, turned to crash

into the inky trees, its headlights smashed.

Limping, blaming, unforgiveness

was bloody, hate spurting; it shook blindly, accusing

the sliver moon as it innocently looked on,

shining sadly, dripping silver night.

Coughing, grabbing, fear

tripped through the underbrush, following

the abandoned wails of unforgiveness. Hidden

behind the forest’s shadow, shivers

caressed hope’s spine, despair freezing her heart.

Losing light, failing, hope peered up

as the silver moon innocently looked on,

shining sadly, dripping bright slivers of night.

Depression’s soiled tendrils, calling, pulled hope

away, as she lay on the shriveled hands of trees,

rotting on the cold earth, gasping, curling into dark.

Dreamy terror slowly emerged; fear

and unforgiveness found hope’s fragile form, aged by

misery. Her shivers ceased, eyes stared;

hope died all alone.

With A Slight Shiver,

Joélle.