Goal

Goal: Write a book of poems

Be honest with my words

Enjoy the sound of silence

Spread it. 

Keep writing meaningful words

After the Storm

And after the storm,

I run and run as the rains come

And I look up, I look up,

on my knees and out of luck,

I look up.

Night has always pushed up day

You must know life to see decay

But I won't rot, I won't rot

Not this mind and not this heart,

I won't rot.

And I took you by the hand

And we stood tall,

And remembered our own land,

What we lived for.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see what you find there,

With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

And now I cling to what I knew

I saw exactly what was true

But oh no more.

That's why I hold,

That's why I hold with all I have.

That's why I hold.

I will die alone and be left there.

Well I guess I'll just go home,

Oh God knows where.

Because death is just so full and man so small.

Well I'm scared of what's behind and what's before.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see what you find there,

With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

Mumford and Sons

The South

The below excerpt was posted as Andrea Gibson's status on Facebook. I thought it was really beautiful so I wanted to share. Enjoy

I used to live in New Orleans. I followed a girl there. We met on a road trip in Wyoming. We fell in love wearing hunting hats. We were both vegetarians. I was with her in Flagstaff, Arizona the first time she saw snow. She was with me in New Orleans the first time I saw a boy glue bottle caps to the bottom of his shoes and tap dance like he was chasing the hurricane that filled his grandpa’s

shot glass. I drank like a fish back then. I hadn’t found poetry yet. At least, I hadn’t found its voice box. I thought poetry was a quiet thing. I thought I could write poems in coffee shops. I thought the train was something that would find me. I hadn’t learned to hop. I worked with a guy who drank like a shark. He called my girlfriend my “old lady.” She was 24. We were so in love I gained 30 pounds. I couldn’t stop smiling. I had an old bike and a lawnmower and a radish garden. I knew nothing about politics. I knew a little about my tender heart. In the south, you never stop sweating. In the south, people hug you like you’re worth holding on to. I’m in the south tonight. People have been hugging me like I’m worth holding on to. I’ve been hugging them back the exact same way. Feels right.

Old Photograph

I have a picture in my bedroom 

on my night stand of my parents.

They look like newlyweds. 

The picture is paper and 

was printed and copied for me 

from a close relative

The frame is a light wood, and broken

I believe I have had the frame since grade school

There is no glass or plastic covering the photo

just mere paper bearing the faces of my parents

The photo is faded

and water spots grace sections 

of it's surface

As I was cleaning my room the other day,

I noticed the sound of a slight pitter patter 

from soft raindrops falling from the gray sky

and I made eye contact with my mother's fading hazel eyes.

You see, this old photograph is below the window

my window was slightly open

The thoughts went rolling through my head

The photo

What would happen to it if it were gone? 

If it disintegrated beneath the heavy rain?

And what would happen if my dad didn't remember that photo? 

Would the memory have ever existed? 

And what would I put in the decayed wood frame

That has held countless photographs,

and is merely holding on for dear life 

since the tape holding it together is loosing 

it's stickiness?

What would I do with an older wooden frame? 

The thought of filling it with something else 

feels like betrayal burning in my chest

How could I ever forget that photograph

and fill the frame with something other then this sacred memory

What is really sad is that 

I, Megan, will be 23 next week. 

and I still can't seem to fight 

or get over the fact that 

I need to write about my mom

That I need to not talk about it,

but write about it. 

Because writing heals my heart. 

So instead of thinking long countless 

sad, sobbing stories,

I rushed to my window and slammed it shut. 

Then I wished I could spend the day 

thinking, 

reading, 

writing ,

and being

But I went to work instead. 

JR

I wanted to share some of JR's photos. He really is amazing and I am so glad that our group in Peru decided to be apart of the Insideout project.

Titles and Such

Titles and Such

What do you call a poetry book? 

"Shit I wrote that time when I was pissed"?

"Years of notebooks and thinking"? 

Something abstract, 

formal, 

 simple? 

And once you pin down a title, 

who do you dedicate it to? 

Your hands for cramping through the drafts of shit? 

Your head for coping up with all the poetic crap? 

Or to the people that inspired your love poems

or hate poems, 

or your sex poems?

Or do you thank God for giving you the gift to write? 

Or do you thank your heart for allowing you feel everything? 

Or your first grade teacher Mrs. Hunt who taught you how to write

real words with meaning and truth? 

And once you dedicate your nameless book to something

What if you say "Oh crap! My poetry sucks! 

Like really sucks"? 

This is just some jiberish I wrote when I was 20 because 

I was lonely on a Friday night. 

What if you really do suck and nobody knows it 

but you? 

What do you do then with a nameless book

dedicated to nothing

full of shit? 

What do you do then? 

                                                                      -Me

Call It Off

Maybe I would have been something you'd be good at. 

I won't regret saying this
This thing
That I'm saying
Is it better than
Keeping my mouth shut
That goes without saying
Call, break it off
Call, break my own heart
Maybe I would have been
Something you'd be good at
Maybe you would have been
Something I'd be good at
But now we'll never know
I won't be sad
But in case
I'll go there
Everyday,
To make myself feel bad
There's a chance
I'll start to wonder
If this was the thing to do
I won't be out long
But I still think it better if
You take your time
Coming over here
I think that's for the best
Call, break it off
Call, break my own heart
Maybe I would have been
Something you'd be good at
Maybe you would have been
Something I'd be good at
But now
We'll never know
I won't be sad
But in case
I'll go there
Everyday,
To make myself feel bad
There's a chance
I'll start to wonder
If this was the thing to do
I'll start to wonder
If this was the thing to do