“We are very good at preparing to live, but not very good at living. We know how to sacrifice ten years for a diploma, and we are willing to work very hard to get a job, a car, a house, and so on. But we have difficulty remembering that we are alive in the present moment, the only moment there is for us to be alive.”—Thich Nhat Hanh (via psych-facts)
“I carry my own heart.
I carry it like a shield in front of me
so that nobody will know I’m missing a rib.
If my grandchildren ask me,
this is what I will tell them.
When you’re being destructive and
don’t want people to see,
don’t wrap it up like it’s a Christmas gift.
Carry your own heart like the compass
hanging under our rear-view mirror,
always pointing where you’ll learn what it all means.
Carry your own heart when your father
refuses to hold your mother’s hand when they walk.
Carry your own heart and let it choose for itself
what to put inside that is worth the space.
Because these small, and seemingly insignificant, moments
will grow into much bigger ones as you age.
When you meet someone with sharp edges,
carry your own heart -
bare and soft and alive.
Let them cut it open so that the rain
can slip through the cracks to rinse it lightly
and drain away your coarse regrets.
When they throw stones at it,
turn them into pebbles that
bounce off delicately on the ripples.
I know how you hurt and I know how you bleed.
We bruise and we heal.
We fix old wounds with new stitches,
and that’s what we’re born to do.
Lock it up but slip the keys
under the tongue of someone
who carries his own heart, too.
When I grow old,
my heart will not anchor me down like a
silver-cross necklace of remorse,
but will arch my back into a rainbow
spreading across the Manhattan sky after the storm.
And if my grandchildren ask me,
this is what I will tell them:
Like a shield,
through the fire and through the flames,
I carry my own heart.”—Diane Poon, “I Carry My Own Heart (Like a Shield)” (via eyesayes)
“There’s a dream where we break all the dishes in my kitchen and then
eat the pieces.
I know it’s a dream because we are still alive after we swallow.
It sounds more like a nightmare,
and it would be, except that
we are together,
so even the fractured ceramic is
tender as we chew it.
There’s a dream where we want our own world,
so we cut it out of blue and green paper
like a science project,
except your silhouette is every piece of land
and my spine is every mountain range laying across you.
Here are the broken plates
mending inside of us, healing soft
and pliant, bending like the necks of swans,
forgetting that they are glass.
Maybe we can forget, too.
I can kiss you where it’s sharp
until you can’t remember how the pain
made you someone to be afraid of.
There’s a dream where nothing bleeds, but everything is alive,
where broken things can be made
unbroken just by wishing it.
Let me tell you about the earth
and what it looked like before we
got our hands on it.
Let me tell you about the earth and
how it broke apart like a plate on
the tile floor.
We all know what it is to be unmade.
In a dream, we tried to forget.”—Caitlyn Siehl, "Drift" (via prewars)