What's in a cup?

Candleholder, o Candleholder, I am grateful that You lit my wick Candleholder, o Candleholder, You hold me upside down Candleholder, o Candleholder, You are aiming the wax inside the candleholder, the candleholder that stands so stable on the ground the candleholder, the candleholder into which I’m placed, held and found the candleholder, the candleholder is where I’ll stand tall and proud. Candleholder, o Candleholder, I’ll stand secure and shine In your candleholder so divine I’ll stand without Your hand And let people admire Your flame While the wax runs down my frame. 

Sometimes you miss someone in your life that you do not know and did not get a chance to get to know even though you wish you had. I miss someone I hardly know because he did not let me know he was taking a chance. What does it look like to put yourself out there and still look unavailable? What does it feel like to make yourself vulnerable without feeling exposed? What if all the distance does nothing for the heart except to harden it? What if all the silence screams? I am all me. I can be all things to anyone. I enjoy my own company more than others' at times, not because I dislike others but because I understand myself better than others understand me. I believe in myself, and I know one day someone will believe in me as once one had. When now I come into myself, I can only pray that someone will be behind me, reading what I see and helping me with words that fall on my path and I need to decipher if I should pick them up and throw them aside or plant them on the way. Words ...

"Do you still think of me sometimes?", he asked. How can I answer that? I received balloons on my birthday from a friend. The balloons say Happy Birthday. A lot of time has elapsed since my birthday, but the balloons are still round. They are not as full as on my actual birthday, but I am amazed that they have lasted this long. Some days I come home and wonder if I should pop them and throw them away, but then I ask myself, is there anything wrong with holding onto something that made me happy, even for just a moment? So I leave them hanging in my room for another day. At what point should I say, it's been long enough, you can stop celebrating? Actually now they remind me how quickly time passes by, and yet they are like science experiments to me. How long does a blown-up balloon last? When will I stop having feelings for you? When will I stop thinking about you? Perhaps it is time to pop the balloons.

Kick out beauty and the brain kicks in. It is funny I say without laughing to explain how this feels. By this I mean my age. I no longer look the same. My beauty got swept away. Sure there are remnants, but it is not the same. Youth is leaving the building. Now I stand in an empty hallway and the door I assumed I'd enter one day is closing. I can almost hear the click. Then I will never enter that room of having a child and building a family and having a heritage, together with someone, no great legacy to look back on. If indeed that door should close, I will then either still experience love and commitment but in a dual mode or I will commit my life to some thing and not someone. For life. I never thought I would be in this hallway. I thought the doors would stay open forever. There are many rooms that can be entered and are worth exploring. I need to turn my face away from the expected norm and move toward the unknown, where perhaps I will be alone, but ...

Already I am suffering with broken bones. Already I am dealing with my broken heart. Leave my mind alone! Let me have strength in one part of me. Brokenness has left me open with many cracks people can see. The Japanese cover their broken pottery with gold that beautifies their creativity. As for me, please preserve a part of me from fate of bad luck and inadequacy. Please protect me from further loss of everything I hold deep inside of me that seeks expression yet fears oppression. Already I am broken but not crushed. Already I am standing up for what I feel, think and believe. Already I am fixing what can be fixed and accepting all the other dirt that comes upon my beaten track. I will not remain broken. My bones are gaining in strength. My heart is healing and will be restored. My mind is developing and reconnecting. My spirit soars high into the heavens. Who knew humanity would be so hard?

The heart cannot feast on the love it does not meet, so it turns to what it knows, to the familiar abode. Every heart has a default setting, a place it once called home, and to this home it shall return. Some hearts find comfort in the freedom of a hard run on tarred and winding roads, amd yet another in drugs, sex and rock n roll, and a third in the healthy confines of a safe and loving family home. Who knows where you were when at first you experienced love? We cannot choose whether we are born in Winter or in Spring, and we do not all believe in God, but we all experience life, and to some it is pleasurable and to others it means pain. He whose heart was born in Spring sees life in everything. He whose heart was born in Winter sees the end of everything. What joy for some, what doom for yet another? It is pure torture to belong to a group of darkened hearts whose bitterness drenches through every open pore, and for the hearts born in Spring life...

I heard the click in my heart, only your switch did not move. You took a chance on me, then left me in the dark until I needed to ask.  You pressed the buttons that read: Reject. So I went back to my heart's switch.  Click. Reset.