Just another Cinderella

She's waiting for a second chance,
doesn't want it to pass in the blink of an eye.
She feels invisible, maybe he just didn't see her,
one day as he walked on by.
What if to him she's still just Cinders,
he hasn't noticed the glass slipper yet?
Is there any hope for her fairy-tale ending?
Or should she just go back to bed,
trying to drown out her sobs from the world,
as they laugh her down to the floor.
Why did she ever think there was hope?
Happy endings are only folk-lore.
Sure, the romances, adventures, and mysteries
will lead you on a merry chase,
but in the end it's only another tale,
made up from someone else's fantasy--
no matter how real it looks.
She's stuck in the unfair fate
of the left-behind and unwanted.
Was it her fault Mr. wrong played her
then shoved her to the back of the shelf?
Will her knight in shining armor ever show up?
Or did he just loose his directions?
She kneels down, trying to ignore the voices,
shoving the confusing murmurs aside.
She knows her true knight,
not the kind in medieval history,
has already rescued her.
He wasn't Mr. wrong--
he treats her with respect.
He didn't get lost,
he's with her yet.
She doesn't need a second chance,
he kept her on the first.
She's his most precious possession,
he gives her worth.

Sweet and Sour

Dripping down your throat,
nostalgia--
so sweet, so sour.
The pleasant memories
serenading your senses
until the motorcycle
jumps the fence,
breaking whatever semblance
of peace and harmony
your heart harbored before.
The stories we could write
if reality was fiction--
the friendships we had--
the enemies we've made--
we daydream our lives
back into order--
a facade that brings us
a wisp of comfort
until the reality breaks into
our dream of disillusion--
the bitterness, the love,
the agony, the ecstasy,
the deceit, the reality--
all wound up into one
tight ball of reminiscence.

In His Hands

Everything is intertwined--
every lie has some truth smeared in the center--
yet not all things are equal.
An ant is not divine,
and yet is created with mastery.
Who can produce something with identical intricacy?
Everything is connected,
yet everything is separate and unique.
Each grain of sand, shaped differently than the others--
each blade of grass--
every star in the sky--
each has its own name.
Each has been called,
is known in whole by One,
voiced in love and perfect wisdom.
Only He knows their true name--
they know his voice.
Others try to imitate it,
but his tones are recorded in their minds.
No one can copy Him to perfection.
No false voice can draw them astray--
He holds them in his hand--
closely, but not with a death grip--
protective, but not confining--
so that He never loses them.

The Ultimate Romance

The ultimate romance--
he sweeps me off my feet,
his love so tangible I can feel it pour through me,
reaching into the depths of my soul,
warming every single part of my being.
I shake with joy and excitement
as I see him or sense his presence nearing mine.
He showers me with gifts at every chance,
completely undeserved.
He cherishes me with every breath,
longing to spend every second with me.
In every action he's gentle,
always understanding, and wanting the best for me.
Yet he's jealous of my heart,
yearning to possess it in its whole.
He would never try to take it from me,
but waits patiently for me to present it of my own accord.
He is always ready to forgive when I make selfish choices
that hurt him,
never letting them ruin our relationship,
forgetting without fail every mistake I make.
He watches every sunset and sunrise with me,
taking joy in my delight.
We point out the stars together--
he's a master--he can tell me all their names.
Best of all, he loves me for who I am.
He knows I can be better than I am,
but loves me where I'm at.
Yes, I believe in true love.

The Council of Mousse

Once upon a moose was a Carina. One fine day she was strolling through the woods, with Freddy the frog at her side, of course, when they happened upon a moose. Now Carina didn't know that meese hate frogs because they can't understand anything the little guys say. So as Freddy the frog sat there innocently by her side, the moose kept getting madder and madder. Carina couldn't understand why and became alarmed at the sight of the moose's red antlers. Suddenly, the moose charged without warning and swallowed both Carina and Freddy with one huge gulp! However, Carina wasn't one to let a moose intimidate her. She yelled at the moose from inside his belly, "I'm a black belt, you know! If you don't let me out in 3 seconds you'll be sorry!" Now the moose really had no clue how to get rid of people whom he had swallowed. In fact, he'd never swallowed someone whole before. But luckily, with all of Carina's motion, his stomach was so upset that he threw her back out. However, poor Freddy was still stuck inside the moose's stomach. But Carina was smart enough to know that a moose's favorite food is floating raspberries. Although they are very rare, Carina knew just where to find them. She ran off to catch some, then hurried back to the moose and Freddy. Then, with the tantalizing smell of the floating raspberries the moose's jaw slowly dropped down until Freddy could hop right out! The moose was happy with his berries and promised never to try and eat Freddy or Carina again--in fact, they all became friends and live hoppily ever after.

Words

Wet walls,
glistening through the steady flow
of tears sliding down my face.
You broke something sacred--
unfixable--
now it's shattered--
left on the floor.
Yet you come back for more.
You think a smile fixes everything.
It can't be healed that easily.
Your smile can't lift the pieces off the ground--
glue them back together.
You don't comprehend--
I can't stuff your words back into your mouth--
But you continue to let them flow,
leaving me in ceaseless pain.
The hurt goes deeper than you realize.
I'm a good actor--
my mask is sealed.
But nothing lasts forever--
I won't be able to hide much longer.

Flying

Flying--
that one word--
so many wish for the ability--
so many think it impossible--
I believe--
You don't fly by spreading your arms--
You don't fly using magical dust--
It's real--
you just have to find it--
You have to release--
to let go--
why do eagles soar--
why do bees buzz on by--
Flying is impossible--
but it's possible for those who believe--
you have to empty all else--
put your faith in Him--
looking straight ahead--
not left--
not right--
not behind--
at Him--
and Fly.

My Friend

There's a part of me that cares,
but I know I must move on.
I can't let you hurt me without trying--
I have to give you up to God.
I have to let you be what he intended you to be--
just a special friend whom he has given to me.
A friend that makes me laugh a lot
on days when I'm sad--
but you're not always perfect either--
no sometimes you make me mad.
But how many people in our lives
never disappoint us?
Never fear my companion,
for I'll always forgive--
I know who you are--
not perfect-- but my friend.

Blind Spot

We see the blemishes,
know the facts.
We accept reality,
yet hang onto dreams.
Overnight they spring into emotions
that can not be contained.
The dangers of ideas
stalk our hearts.
The chance of an impossibility,
the hope of an improbability.
We try to mix and match--
blending fire with ice,
mixing salt and sugar.
We reject the realities,
trading them for fantasies.
We live in worlds
of our own making--
not realizing our denial
until a coarse surface breaks
the bubble of our disillusionment.
We crack and split almost
to the core of our being--
not having the forethought to
buy shatter-proof glass for the
case around our hearts.
We feel betrayed more by our dreams
than by our ideals.
When will we learn to accept
at face-value?
How not to build our fantasies
on conflicting interests?

The Story

He had been almost alone for quite some time. It was just the three of them since the first. He was content--He didn't need more--but He had always been creative. He got inspired--so excited with His plan that He was bursting with delight. He knew that all He had to do was let it out. He breathed. Light flashed and illuminated half of the area. He was now radiating golden, yellow beams in all directions. There was no fear--all was peace. He spoke into the silence, the vibrations flowing on and on in endless directions, fluttering through open space. Blue waves traveled to and fro in the once empty space. He gathered them into sections, separating them into equal groups--His masterpiece was starting to take shape--the proportions were becoming even. Now for some spice. He added a cool, slimy feel to the blue masses. He added sound to them, their soothing music now reaching all the bounds of his domain. Then He decided to add some more color--it would bring more life to His work. Splotches of green, red, purple, yellow, pink, orange--all the colors ever imagined--made their way into His masterpiece. They all were unique, although some of them looked similar. He had a special place to put each and every one of them. He added a new element to his art--different scents. Each and every part had a different scent--some were exotic, some were tangy, some were sweet, and some-- really didn't smell so good--but enhanced all of the others. Then He had a new idea pop into His head. He gave each of the plants a special taste too! They all had different textures, and varied between hot and cold. He saw how dark His artwork still seemed, so He decided to put in some more light. First He sculpted a round globe that shone brightly in all directions, illuminating every color to its brightest tone. He picked up the globe and placed it farther away from all the greenery so that it didn't illuminate the colors too much. A brilliant idea came to Him. What if He sculpted a much smaller globe and placed it in between the first globe and His original masterpiece? It could reflect the first globe's light and serve as a "second light" to His artwork. Then, to add even more sparkles to His work of art, He poked little holes all around His original work and placed tiny sparkling lights into the holes. But because they were so small, they couldn't be seen when the first globe was shining. He quickly solved this by making the second globe move, sometimes covering the first globe so that the tiny lights could be seen, and sometimes letting the first globe's light completely cover the art. Then He thought of something else--what could use these things He had already made? He decided to make things that breathed and moved around. Some had long necks, some had big eyes, some were furry. Some swam, some flew, and some waddled on the ground. He made them all different, but organized them into groups that would get along together. He formed likes and dislikes for each group about where they would dwell, and what they would eat. They spread all over the land. He looked at all He had created so far and thought something was still missing--the one thing that would add the final touch to make His masterpiece perfect. Pondering for a while, He realized He wanted to make something that was similar to Himself--something He could love, that could return His love, and not because it had to. He wondered what He should make this creature out of, and came up with a solution. Taking some earth from His creation, He formed it into an image of Himself. Then He stooped down and breathed into it. The being moved and lived and breathed and loved. He decided to call this being Adam. But He saw that something was yet missing--Adam was the only being of his kind--all the rest of His creation had groups of their species. He made Adam fall asleep, and took a single part of Adam, mixing it with more earth. He made this being more lovely and soft in form, sculpting her to fit Adam perfectly. Then He breathed into her, and woke Adam up. He decided to call her Eve. Then He sighed with contentment, having done all He had planned. His masterpiece was complete.

Forgiveness is an action

Some people think that simple words
can heal the wounds they have inflicted.
I have come to understand that mere
letters sprawled on a page,
or flowing from a mouth
can not erase the jagged scars
testifying to the internal gouges
forever bleeding from the heart.
Only stitches, formed from acts of reconciliation--
grace given freely to the offender-- can ever
bind the seeping wounds together,
and cause the scars to heal.

Pears

Tears dripping down my cheek--
only you know why.
Rosy colors spreading across my face--
you cause them to appear.
Sparkles gleaming in my azure eyes--
I can tell you're somewhere near.
A tinkling sound flows from my mouth--
only you can draw it out.
Sunbeams radiate from my wide smile--
you must be talking to me.
Sweet images appear in my dreams--
you must have sent them.
Notes of joy ring from my lips--
you placed them there.
I have no fears--
you'll always be here.

Please hear what I'm not saying

This is a poem I found in my speech class book, and I thought was really applicable to most people--so enjoy :)

Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the mask I wear
for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I'm afraid to take off,
and none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that's a second nature with me,
but don't be fooled,
for God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure,
that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without,
that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
that the water's calm and I'm in command
and that I need no one,
but don't believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend,
to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,
and I know it.
That is, if it's followed by acceptance,
if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
from my own self-built prison walls,
from the barriers I so painstakingly erect.
It's the only thing that will assure me
of what I can't assure myself,
that I'm really worth something.
But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
will not be followed by love.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me,
that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing
and that you will see this and reject me.

so I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
with a facade of assurance without
and a trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,
and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk
I tell you everything that's really nothing,
and nothing of what's everything,
of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine
do not be fooled by what I'm saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,
what I'd like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can't say.

I don't like hiding.
I don't like playing superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me
but you've got to help me.
You've got to hold out your hand
even when that's the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes
the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you're kind, and gentle, and encouraging,
each time you try to understand because you really care,
my heart begins to grow wings--
very small wings,
very feeble wings,
but wings!

With your power to touch me into feeling
you can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
how you can be a creator--an honest-to-God creator--
of the person that is me
if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
you alone can remove my mask,
you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,
from my lonely prison,
if you choose to.
Please choose to.

Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.
A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me
the blinder I may strike back.
It's irrational, but despite what books say about man
often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls
and in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down those walls
with firm hands but with gentle hands
for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet
and I am every woman you meet.

~Charles C Finn

Master of Disguise

Surrounded by thoughts--
not my own
Notes swirling in dizzying eddies--
burying my composition
Shapes muraling a path in my mind--
covering my masterpiece

I think the thoughts--
to escape the knowledge I have
I listen to the melodies--
to leave behind the rhythm of reality
I trace the murals--
to hide the telling paint of my beliefs

I paint myself in leaf patterns--
to cover every trace of pain
I don the clothes of the crowd--
to shade the tears staining my face
I mold my personality to cynicism--
to mask the love shattered
I fall helpless to my knees--
to pray for the ones I can't change