I want you to know
That every time I face a blank page with a
half-formed idea that I have to FORCE
myself to pick the words that bring life
the words that burn bridges,
Or allow anger biased by hurt to freely
I chose a life of words that heal
And I have to keep making that choice
through every bit of pain I feel.
I can not afford to fall backwards.
When I see the arrows flung at me
As they often are by
Those who do not use
them as tools,
Those who do not know how to grow their
Or process their own pain,
Or express their own love,
When those arrows fly by my head
Or when one arrow –
Usually thrown by someone I love the
Pierces my stomach,
Leaves me wounded,
but still alive to fight again,
That arrow I remove,
And use to dig the earth.
I take that weapon covered in blood and
and make it a tool.
It was never meant to keep hurting me!
I use it to dig,
To plant forgiveness,
To grow in peace,
To bring life.
That weapon in your hand has been
recommissioned to give life in mine –
Not to take it,
To grow food to share with others,
Not to starve me of human connection.
Could I deny the wound that still hurts?
I do not,
But the flower’s growing from my stomach
Are now more sweet –
The food more flavorful I eat –
Than the shot you threw at our defeat.