Simple Stories

Simple stories, observations, and discoveries.

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And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.
(via aurelle)

(Source: irynka, via sarahjoann)

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the roots of my song "wholly" - poetry courtesy of ramses prashad.

calehaugen:

Before you go on
and tell me how much you love me,

please reconsider
every situation where I could possibly
fail you,
and whether or not you’d still be
willing to allow
the aforementioned trio of syllables 
to dance off your lips.

before you say “I love you” 
please understand 
that those words are warmly embracing, 
not only your perception of who I am today 
but every part of me 
you’ll soon discover.

I’m a multi-layered composition of acrylics 
smeared on canvas 
and the opaqueness of each coat
only serves to hide my true colors; 
the imperfections that lie
caked beneath a hardened exterior. 

I tell you this in advance 
so when you begin to unravel
these bandages wrapped around my chest, 
you don’t find the bruised heart 
and dismal soul housed
within this dilapidated shell of a man, 
repulsive. 

I’m not asking you to love me perfectly 
but to love me graciously. 

So when pain inevitably
seeps through the cracks 
and you begin to look back 
and question my every intention, 
you’ll be reminded of the imago dei 
being redeemed within me.

You’ll be reminded to love me
and see me
as God intended me. 
I’m not looking for a love that’s holy 
but simply for you to love me wholly; 
that your love would take part
in the triune commune that’s reclaiming me. 
I’m not asking you to condone my failures 
but for your love
to be the balm
pressed against my brokenness.

May this beautiful struggle tell of the love that redeemed us.

The soul cry of every person desiring love.

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A response to the Trayvon Martin case

This morning my mind was consumed with thoughts of Trayvon Martin, church, fellowship, of work and family. I live in a bit of a hole apparently because in my small town at the end of the road where I have no television or read newspapers, I tend to get national and political news rather late. Usually, this doesn’t bother me. Most of the time I could care less about what senator rigged what ruling, who is having an affair with their secretary, or what national disaster is wreaking havoc upon what part of the country. This may seem somewhat close-minded to others, but there it is.  I care about the members of my community and seek to be involved with what is happening here and be a part of the things that affect those who live here. I am still learning what that means.  

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Filed under trayvon martin social injustice

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Portraits In Time

I sit on my front porch soaking in the last rays of warm sunshine the day has to offer among an army of flower pots and watch as the wind gusts the blossoms over in waves; like sentinels guarding the last gate between the invading army and the city they withstand each new gust.  The next door neighbor’s son is working on his car listening to “And We Danced” by MACKLEMORE and smoking a cigarette.  The music pulses with the evening.  There is a nervous energy that electrifies the air like a dark storm brewing, even though the sky is clear, and blue as a robin’s egg. The air begins to cool off and my bare feet start to get cold, Bridgette comes to the door and tells me the popcorn is ready so I look up and take one more minute to see the scene set before me and then leave, wondering what horizons have dark clouds rushing together and what sort of storm it will bring.