I’m Calling for You

Jesus I’m calling for you

I’m calling on you

I’m waiting for you

I’m waiting for you to take my heart

And break the bad

And break the hurt

I’m waiting for you to fill my soul

And fill my voids and love me full

Jesus I’m calling for you

I’m calling on you

I’m waiting for you

I’m calling for you to rescue my world

Build up the love

Build us with hope

I’m calling for you to fill up our hearts

And rekindle the garden

Jesus I’m calling for you

I’m calling on you

I’m waiting for you

I’m waiting for you to show us the way

Show us the truth

Show us the love

I’m waiting for you to guide our souls

To a future forever with you

Conversations with God.

Where are You? Why haven’t I felt Your words, or Your vision? Why have You left me here by myself waiting for the next inclination; to decipher whether it’s my own thoughts or Yours.


Will You show me? Will You sit with me?


I can’t hear You. I’m waiting; I’m listening.


Where are You? I haven’t felt Your words or seen a single vision. You’ve left me here by myself waiting for the next inclination; to decipher my thoughts against Yours.


Sit with me. Why won’t You sit with me. Why won’t You hold me. Why won’t You turn me the direction and point.
I’m hungry for Your love. To learn and live Your path.
Throw me a bone; lay down bread crumbs. I’m waiting to know where You want me to go – to fulfill my calling. Please sit with me.


I can’t hear You. I’m waiting; I’m listening.


I’ve never known my calling to be clear, I’ve never known it as such. Sit with me. Hold me. Show me Your direction; please point.


Hear Me Now.

Hear me now; do you really want to know? Do you crave and question who I am? 
I’ll write it down, stroke by stroke – let the words formulate, float. 
Then, you may read and trace my mind, thought by thought – with seamless understanding. 
Envision me standing, talking –  expect me to explain aloud. But, don’t fool yourself; I’ll I trip, I studder. Go completely blank. 
This is normal, this is fine. Everyone stops and studders.
But the pressure of perfection consistently presses me and steals my words like a bandit.
The pressure actively presses me into corners and washes my mind clean. 
I fear that others won’t understand my thoughts, or be patient enough to wait…
 for my perfect combination of words.
It’s not a secret that my soul is on fire to express my thoughts; I crave to draw the world out – unfiltered by pressures of perception. 
Ask me to explain my world through a pen – ask me to stroke the keys. 
Read my words, and hear my voice through them.
It’s here you’ll find the most thoughtful me.

Alaskan Light

I love the endless light of Alaska – illuminating my dreams.

When I stand in the light, when I dance in the glow, I see myself more clearly – understand the world – distinctively.

The darkness seems to carry secrets – secrets known by none. We only see the light – the light of the midnight sun.

But, with the midnight sun, I share all.
I sing my dreams, hopes – endeavors.
I dance with my fears, failures.

So – I sing you the melody of illuminated nights –

I sing the song of the unsetting sun.
I dance for you, in the invisible shadows and embrace the golden light. Let us sing and dance without joys and sorrows in the unsetting, glow –

in the Alaskan light.

The mind’s melodies.

Memories have melodies which dance from ear to ear with quiet ease. They are smooth yet enticing, loud yet restful.

But this one began faint. It grew strong then it dissipated like sand in the wind.

And grew again.

I listen: it is off-pitch, mangled within other tones just as a thrashed piano, slammed by an angry hand.

The melody of this memory send shivers through my spine. My body contracts.

I am slammed into reality by another beating of keys. They slam into my mind, from side to side. My hands cover my ears, hoping to be released from the pain.


I seek refuge from the noise and my arms wrap around me. Knees retreat to my chest and my head presses against my legs. My upper body collapses over my knees, aching from the severity of pressure.

Who owns the hand on the piano.

Who has the audacity to cause such pain.

The sounds fade.

I release my body, and look up to the naked blue sky. I want to forget the pain, become deaf to the memories: the hurt, the fear.

But I can’t. I must listen; remember the moments. Good and bad.

They bind me to humanism: pain. What would I be if I forgot my memories.
Empty noise.





A Gruesome One.

My mind was full of recollection and thought as I washed my face in the water. The water was warm. As it rinsed down my body, my eyes shut. My hands smeared the soap from my jaw to my forehead in circular motions, gently cleaning every bit of my face.

I opened my eyes and saw the blood. I saw it dripping down my body to the shower floor. Traces fell down my chest and stomach and seeped between my toes before the water could wash it away. Diluted yet vibrant, it met the stream of water and fell into the drain. I watched it drip…drip…drip…for just a moment, then cracked the sliding shower door to see my red–smeared–face in the mirror.

Smeared from my jaw to my forehead, in circular motions, on every bit of my face — my nose bled for the third time that week.

Horrified, the door slammed shut and I stood under the water. I pinched my nose and exhaled from my mouth. What is this bloody world trying to tell me.

The Abyss.

In the midst of it—of the crashing lightning—I heard you tell me to breathe.  You said it in a smooth, deep tone. Your words repeated in my blank mind – in the spaces where my words generally fill. Your cold, wakening words rang in the corners and alleys of my quiet mind.

I lost my words, my intentions, my thoughts.

A breath, effortlessly, emitted from me and my lost, clouded words floated away into the abyss of forgotten thoughts.

I opened my eyes, saw you.

and remembered:

None are lost who don’t crave to be found.

And so, I did not speak.

And please, do not come looking.

You won’t find me;

I’m pondering the abyss of unspoken words.


Walk with me through the blackberry bushes
Watch as they bite your skin.
Each step is a step farther away
From feeling, living, sin.

Dance with me, through the fire.
Sway –
with the rhythm of your mind.
May your steps be quiet
and your motions bright.
Dance with me
Forever in the fire,
Through the pain and fear tonight.

Sing with me, the song of those who’re lost.
Sing the song aloud.
Be proud and sure in your solemn voice,
That they will hear you, remember you,
Are found.

Do you smell the blackened blackberry bushes,
Do you hear the dripping from torn skin?

You should
Hear them
See them.
Don’t fear them.

Sing with them, dance for them –
Meander through their world.

Know them
Share them:

The burdens of your mind.


via Daily Prompt: Meander

Happy Birthday.

I have always loved my birthday; I love the month of March when it’s still cold enough to ski, yet warm enough to smell the blooming flowers. I love the fact that I’m getting a year older – maturing with age, becoming more a fierce woman.

Growing up, I noticed other people didn’t feel the same. Birthdays are a secret, or avoided at all costs. No one should find you out because god forbid you turn a year older.

For several years, I’ve made myself believe my birthday is like no other day – it should be ignored and treated as the others: an expectation of monotony. I agreed for a while.

At least I tried. I played the game – never told others my birthday, pretended it was just another day.

I’ve never agreed with it.

Tell me your birthday, you deserve to be celebrated. Let us celebrate your life on this earth: your friends and family by your side. Birthdays are for loving others, blessing with your presence and celebrating life together. Birthdays are for thanking God you’ve lived another year.

They are for celebrating the strong, fierce, and powerful person you are: the impact you’ve made in your short, short, life and the changes you’ll continue to make.

Age is just a number but you are a soul with a fiery heart. And you carry the potential to change the world.

So do not shame me for having a “child-like” enjoyment for my day.

Because we are all here to celebrate.

they convinced me
i only had a few good years left
before i was replaced by a girl younger than me
as though men yield power with age
but women grow into irrelevance
they can keep their lies
for i have just gotten started
i feel as though i just left the womb
my twenties are the warm-up
for what i’m really about to do
wait until you see me in my thirties
now that will be a proper introduction
to the nasty, wild, woman in me.
how can i leave before the party’s started
rehearsals begin at forty
i ripen with age
i do not come with an expiration date
and now
for the main event
curtains up at fifty
let’s begin the show

timeless – rupi kaur



Don’t Talk to Strangers.

It was an ordinary day.

My music was the same volume as it usually is, and I drove the same road I always do. The same song was on repeat and my brain was swearing at cars for the same bloody reasons.

One cuts me off and I watch it, with a glare in my eye, swerve into the left lane and turn. No blinker, no courtesy. I follow it with my gaze as I wait for the light to turn, and find a place to park.

I walk across the street and at same time as an old man and his son. The older man howls about his hair being “bloody awful,” that he can’t believe he’s in public with such hair.

I kindly comment: “it looks fine.”

The two of them strike up a conversation with me as we walk to our respective stores.

I realize I’d gone too far and stop walking. I look around to find the store name and notice he and his son had stopped as well.

His eyes jolt a bit while he looks at me then pauses. He looks at his son and back at me, mouth slightly ajar.

Uncomfortable, I state “very nice to meet you..”

“You’re beautiful,” he shouts, emphatically. He peers at me looks at every inch of my face and grows nearer. I watch as his eyes trace the shape of my glasses and my face. He quickly looks at his son, I look at his son, and both of them back at me: “Isn’t she BEAUTIFUL?!”

“Thank you…very nice to meet you.” The old man compliments me again as the wind blows my hair into my face and over my glasses.  He slowly moves his fingers toward my face to clear the hair behind my ear.

I watch as his fingers move my hair: Every part of me wants to take five steps backward. I grow tense. He keeps looking at me and I at the ground; I step back and he stays put. “Goodbye,” I say and I shoot him a look which would say “you’re a fucking weirdo” in 388 countries.

I turn around, take several steps toward my store, and throw my head back laughing. This is no ordinary day.