My Own Artist

My biggest fear is that I will never be able to love the way I want to be in love.
My biggest fear is that I will never learn to love deeply, thoroughly.
My biggest fear is that these fears will come true.

Too much of feelings, too little of God.
Too selfish to let Him write my life, too deaf to the calls of mercy.
Too confused to let go, too angry to let Him dictate. 

If my life were a drawing, all I want to do is scribble marks across every bit of the paper, and start anew.

Leave me alone to draw and paint as I like.

Little Things

"Beauty is an enormous, unmerited gift given randomly, stupidly."
-Khaled Hosseini, And The Mountains Echoed. 

Of the many things I admire about Hosseini's writing, it is his artistic flair and ability to convey something through so few words and yet, such truth and beauty that stands out the most. Small, distinct quotes that appear about the book, quietly, subtly, speaking volumes to a reader. A writer can write about so many things, and yet, the ones that get the most attention are those who babble about S&M sex, vampire romance and ridiculously fantasized young love affairs. 

Not that Hosseini is not recognized at all; he is, in fact, one of the best writers of today and so much of what and how I write is inspired by him. But anywho. Going back to the quote above...

It breaks my heart, doesn't it? That this world is so based on those who are lucky or blessed enough to win the genetic lottery, with almost no credible worth except that it is lovely to look at, charming, etc. I look at myself and I can point out ten different things I would change about my face, about my body. 

Self-acceptance is a lifelong journey, I believe, not just something you can decide to change overnight. 

Have I ever learned to accept myself? No. Am I still insecure? Heck yes, absolutely. I would gaze at the beautiful girls on campus and feel like a hairy gorilla next to them. For my clumsy ways, my make-up free face, my bad hair. My rolls of fat spilling out in love handles. My puffy eyes and cheeks from not getting enough sleep. My less than charming clothes which I picked out of comfort first and style second. Hah. 

But have I made the first step? YES. Am I proud of a few things that I possess? Of course! I try, first of all, to be thankful for what I have. I have four limbs, a functional, healthy body with no food allergies(except maybe that ONE painkiller my doc gave me for my wisdom teeth surgery- but that doesn't count as food, does it?), functioning five senses... 

It's difficult, honestly, to be thankful for these things in a world where superficial beauty is so very much prized above anything else. I mean, I admit. I want a different nose, eyes, cheeks, mouth. And that's like only one of it. But I tell myself every day that I love my eyes, for the thick lashes and eyebrows that give it a little definition. I tell myself I like my lips, because although it isn't Angelina Jolie's seductive pout, it's nice and plump and not too thin(when it's not chapped from not wearing chapstick). I tell myself I'm proud of my hair, although it is an unruly piece of mop, because it is thick, jet-black, and when it behaves it has a lovely smooth sheen. I tell myself that I like my skin, appreciating it for its ability to tan evenly, and for its natural darker brown color. 

Just tiny things. But it has done volumes, just being proud of small things God has given me. I mean, if I cannot be thankful for the small things that God bequeaths, I will never be able to be thankful for the big things He bestows.  

There are millions of girls and women out there whom I acknowledge are way more beautiful than I will ever be. And while it gets me down on most occasions, it also gives me the opportunity to appreciate my own beauty. Every little shuffle is a tiny step, a tiny step to loving yourself. So don't give up just then, even when the "You're beautiful just the way you are" quote doesn't work. 

Look into the mirror today and ask yourself:
What's the one thing that I love about my features?

Letters of Broken Souls

I write so that others need not see, 
So that others need not know what lies beneath
This skin, of foul rot and decaying soul,
From the missing heart stone, 
From the suffering of so long ago. 

I write so that I see myself, 
I disassociate much like
A ghost, who looks from afar, 
Judging, yet understanding,
Myself, because no one else knows who you are. 

I wrote so to let you in, 
You who begged for a piece of
This broken heart, this blackened rock, 
And in return you promised
A piece of yours, a thousand years under lock. 

I wrote for him and Him, 
Both of which I was starting
To love, deeply and thoroughly,
Though he never ceased to remind me
That He was more important-- and always will be. 

She writes because of joy,
The laughter and the hopes
And dreams that she felt were true,
That this had to be it,
Nothing else would ever do.

She writes because of sorrow,
Of the wrenching of her mistakes
That drove her wild with anger and
Of the hills that rose and dipped,
And of the sunlight that came and went.

He writes so that he can crawl,
Like a bleeding soldier, wounded from war,
To his true love, where her hand is stretched out
Begging for one last kiss, but he refuses
And holds on for as long as he can, even if it hurts.

He writes so that she can see,
The Angel that is docked above in eternity,
To let her see that He has the answer,
To their spilled milk and self lashes,
And the screw ups that haunt their future.

She writes to abuse,
To insult and break down,
Using the Word like a a shield,
To bash the other's raw crown.

She writes of the Scripture,
Like sliding on a shining gown, 
Stolen along with three diamonds
Presenting herself in kind. 

He writes like a wolf,
Ready to devour,
The food of his sister, 
Ignoring the wounded pain in her eyes. 

He writes like a fool,
Imbued with the deceit and
Lies, from the demon,
And his servant who stole the diamonds.

They write just to hurt,
They break in just to steal,
Those letters of broken souls,
And attack with a twisted deception
The pain of so long ago.