The Evolution of Fire

I used to write with fire
basking in the golden glow
blazing across the page.

I slung words like flaming arrows
without regard.

They were powerful,
they were bold,
they burned . . .

And then one day,
sitting alone in the center
of a cold, radioactive flame,
willing cancer to ashes
I came to understand.

There is no pride in fiery destruction,
no lasting warmth in white-hot anger,
no vindication in always trying to prove oneself.

One of the lucky ones,
it’s been four years and
I’m still here to live and write.

But my words have changed with what I learned
and my life has changed with my words.

 

 

 

Lines

(Inspired by the art, pictured below) of a dear friend and incredible artist, find more of her artwork on Instagram–@ladyweintraub)

Lines over lines

I am made of mistakes

Every try, every fail

indelibly recorded.

While success,

somehow more temporary,

comes and goes with a smile.

If you could see underneath,

there are miles of

lines over lines

I’ve drawn over my mistakes

inerasable.

Bleeding ink over the page

when my veins are empty

and even my breath is drawn dark with regret.

Fingers clenched–

my unsteady hand continues its path.

I cannot stop,

Or, I suppose I could, but

I won’t.

I am seeking

the perfect slope of cheek and chin

The right touch of stubbornness and

intelligence about the eyes,

wisdom and courage,

compassion and discipline . . .

Falling short, picking up, beginning again.

I am made of mistakes

Lines over lines over lines over lines . . .

photo(2)