Don't Just Stand There

Something I can't stand:
When I put myself out there emotionally: reveal something to someone, make myself vulnerable to another person for whatever reason....I can't stand when they don't respond.

This happens all the time. Sometimes they just nod. Sometimes they might even say thank you or okay, but nothing else. Sometimes they say nothing at all.

I hate when they say nothing at all.

Do you hear me? Do you care? Do you even realize that I just cut myself open and let you look inside my chest? Say something.

Anything.

That's where I am today.

Dear October 28th, 2013

Gonna be totally honest with you. You scared me a little. You made me cry a little bit. And parts of you made me really, really mad.

You had your little moments of relief. Creative Writing, where I could rant in forgiving pencil lead. The icy glass of water and good laugh when I walked into my house. Any time I saw my cat.

But you allowed yourself to be way too influenced by the night of the 26th, and that was what pissed me off the most. So in that regard, you were kind of a jerk to me. But as always, I'll forgive you.

But I do think it's time for you to call it a day.

Fears Spawned From an Abstract Tumblr Photo

I think I'd like a pair of Oxfords.

Because when I've been cast out into the huge blue earth,
Alone on a raft
In a sea of term papers and 9am classes and liberal professors,
and I've got to do my own grocery shopping,

I think I'll prefer to get my apples and cucumbers from a farmer's market.

Because really, who doesn't prefer organic?

And so as I browse the produce in the soft 10:00am rays,
An iPhone in one hand and cloth satchel in the other,
And some lonely philosophy major student
With dark hair and a Bible in his back pocket
Is perusing the homemade jellies,
I don't want him to look over
And dismiss me as commonplace
Just because I'm wearing faded TOMS
Or NewBalance sneakers

You can tell something about a person by their shoes.
Not as much as you've heard, but some.

And a pair of Oxfords
Might be the thing that causes Mr. Right
To stop for a second longer
And wonder

I'd never want him to pass me over
Because of something as ordinary
As shoes

Conviction

I'm writing this down and putting it here so I don't forget it.

Every Sunday, I finish up steaming milk and pouring mochas in Noah's Cafe, and after grabbing my satchel from the wicker basket under the counter, I walk into the worship center of Mount Ararat midway though the singing, quietly accept a worship bulletin from the usher, and check my phone for my dad's text of where my family is sitting.

And every Sunday, as I listen to Todd Gaston unpack Scripture in new and amazing ways, I can't get certain people out of my mind.

I can't stop thinking: I wish _____ was here SO much. This is exactly what they're going through right now. I'm going to invite them to come with me sometime. They don't even realize how encouraging it is.

Every week this happens. And more often than not, the same people come to my mind every week.

And I'm not doing anything about it.

I'm sitting here, praying for them, and praying for God to bring someone else into their lives to build them up, and you know what? The uncomfortable truth might just be that He already did, and it's me.

If that's the case, why on earth am I still just sitting here?

So anyone who reads this: hold me accountable. Next time we talk, ask me what I've been doing to reach those people. Ask me if I've talked to them.

Because the things I'm hearing every Sunday are too good to keep all to myself.

What I Wish To Be

She's got Rapunzel's hair
And Ariel's voice

Her face is a map 
With freckles for roadsigns

Fonts have been modeled
From her handwriting

Strangers admire her makeup
When she's not wearing any

When she stands, she is English nobility
When she walks, she is a Victoria's Secret model

Her necklace is lucky to be close enough
To smell her perfume

When Solomon wrote the 31st Proverb,
He was watching her from across the street. 

Decorum

Now that I'm applying to colleges, I've been hearing things like,

"You should really be careful about what you post 'online', because you need to think about who can see those things. Like colleges."

So basically, I can't post anything I wouldn't want to explain someone anymore. That was my decision, no one else's.

And yes, I have another, locked page, that I can just rant on and no one can see it but me. But we all know that's not at all the same thing.

So basically, this is just stifling. I have no outlet anymore! I can't get out the things rambling inside my head, because it's not nearly as satisfying to just look at them in this secret corner that no one else will ever see.

I think we all knew that was never the entire point of this blog, anyway.

I give full freedom to my thoughts and feelings on here not only because I can, but because...

...I think deep down, there's always the notion in the back of my head that those people will, in fact, see those things.

And I think deep, deep down...

... I want them to.

I want you to know what I really think of you. I want you to know the music I'm listening to or why I wasn't myself at school today. I want you to know what made me happy this afternoon or who intrigued me last week. I don't like hiding it. I never have. I don't feel myself when I hold it in.

And some things, of course, are too much. But that was why I made the other page. Not for what I'm forced to use it for now.

But it's no use. This is the way it has to be until I say otherwise.

I'm sorry, world. But college is turning me into an ankles-crossed, hands-folded, mouth-closed version of myself, and even though I hate it, it's the way it has to be.

I'm just going to have to hold it in.

Some Thoughts About The Stranger In 4X

To Write A Poem For A Stranger

To write a poem for a stranger
Is to hand them your diary
It is giving them X-ray goggles

It is jumping off a cliff
Without checking for your parachute
It is painting a Siberian tiger
When all you've attempted are trees

It's handing them a briefcase with a million dollars
And hoping they don't give it away
It is ordering lunch in Paris
And hoping the waiter speaks English

This is the first time I've spoken to you
And I'm speaking a language
You may have never heard

You might be fluent
Or you might furrow your brow
And back away slowly
From me,
A foreigner.