What is the price of love? -poem

I went to the store, the one with unseen things.

On its shelves, things like courage and honesty. Justice, honor, compassion, charity, humility…etc.

Endless shelves with endless things.

Free samples were given out, of course, for the people who couldn’t make up their mind.

I tried wisdom, and it was alright.

I tried patience, but I found it’s taste to be a little dry and chalky. The trashcan had never before been so utilized by me.

Perhaps it was time to buy more politeness, I thought to myself.

But I wanted to buy love, it was for that reason that I had come to the store.

It was on display in the window.

Shining as brightly as ever. I knew it was what I wanted from the moment it caught my eye.

It was above the envy and vanity, the anger.

I found it inside the store, and eagerly I picked it up, curling my fingers delicately around it.

And I thought to myself.

It would soon be mine. I would never give it away.

I would put it in a box, visible to my eyes only. No one would ever know that I had it in my possession.

And all was well in the line to buy it.

The people in front of me had such things as anger and resentment.

And I wondered what use they had for those things.

It was clear to see just how much it had cost them by the look on their faces, as the total price appeared.

Grimaces. Scornful looks.

But I was not afraid to ring up my item; proudly, I handed love to the cashier.

And the cashier scanned it: beep.

But the price did not appear.

The cashier looked at me with astonishment, and then scanned it again.

Again, nothing, no price appeared.

Frustrated with this message, the cashier called the manager, to complain about the product.

He said, “What’s the price of love?”

And the manager could not tell him.

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St. Clarita’s Story o̶f̶ ̶M̶a̶r̶t̶y̶r̶d̶o̶m̶ ̶ (intro to short story)

And so this is where my story begins, at my death because it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

I was in bed, reading, when the guards came in, silently judging my book as well as the rosary around my wrist, red beads and black rope, with white skull beads, handmade, for the Our Fathers’. At the time I lived in a cathedral, and nobody knew, until today.

It was at four in the morning when they arrived at my cell, hidden, as cliche as it sounds, behind a bookcase, adjacent to the small chapel. The bookcase with rows and rows of saints and martyrs, influential thinkers, past Peters and notable theologians. All of them, those glowing golden titles, quickly came to mind, just as the fire that had consumed them all.

For the world, the only loss was that of the precious fossil fuel, gasoline, but to me, that knowledge so eloquently penned in paper by men and women inspired by God. That was my life, my loss. And yet, the stone door didn’t burn, and for that I am grateful.

Perhaps I was born to die like this, cruelly executed at the hands of my enemies.

Perhaps my story was to be carried on in the hearts of the many onlookers, the cowards, the innocent who had never touched the cloth of the altar, not once felt the grain of the wooden pews, the marble tops in the sacristy.

Like flowers: after a shower

“Now I am alone.” Hamlet

Like rain in the wild, fresh and mild Dew in the grass.

Naked. After the shower.

Mud. Dirt. Water.

Skin. Soul. Matter.

And yet, I took a shower, like a flower.

In the greenhouse. White lodgehouse. Prairies. Purple ones. Yellow ones.

Fruitflies hovering above the strawberries.

The green hose on the soaked cement. The puddles by the door and by the cold pipes and pores.

Taught to use the watering hose. The long rod with a round ends with holes.

No lightning or thunder. Rain from above. No clouds or birds buzz. Just the wetness.

The clearness, falling to the leaves…and the pots…and the floor.

How my socks got wet!

How warm the air was in that house!

Like my soul, in this body.

Soul Searching (poem)

Prayer time, silent time; sans meter or rhyme

Feeling down, feeling myself, feeling lost,

Feeling pleasure, feeling pressure, feeling lesser

Lost, confused, torn, defiled

Angry, sad, cold, and tired.

Sleeping, at last

Waking, too fast.

Feeling the past, last night’s mental cast.

Soul Searching.

Looking for something, anything to fill this hole in my soul, vast and bold

Bouldered, rocks and stormy seas, singing old songs of misery, despair and where I’ll be.

I take up my rosary, and pray.

Hail, hail, hail, all Hail Mary, Mater Dei.

Full of grace, I have recourse to thee.

Help me find my soul, my identity.

Help me amidst the pain, the fear, purple nails, and bloody tear.

I am not afraid when I know that God is near.

To end this poem, I want to say…

My soul is here.

awkward-ness

I would like to talk about being awkward. Isn’t this awkward? It’s past my bedtime and I am not asleep. That is pretty awkward to me.

I just think it’s okay to be awkward.

Uncomfortable, just for awhile.

In the awkward silence, as you struggle with words, as you struggle with thoughts, it can be hard.

Poetry time!

Guava seeds: one, two, and three

I said, “give me that box of guavas” and then I gave him my pesos.

What happened next was…new

As my teeth fell threw the fruit skin and the syrup inside rushed to the surface, my tongue met it’s new friend, mister sweet, ripe guava.

Topped with salt, and a squeeze of fresh lime

Cut in half, feel how the rind

Soft, and bitter, sweet and juicy

But the seeds…

How they stay between my gums, like pebbles in my shoe

They feel like death.

Like this awkwardness between us.

Like guava seeds.

🙂

So, I hope you enjoyed this poem as much as I enoyed writing it. I haven’t had guava fruit in awhile, but I’m pretty sure they still have tiny, annoying seeds in them. I might be wrong. I might be thinking of some kind of berry.

Have a good day (and (maybe) try to get out of your comfort zone today)!

ヾ(´︶`*)ノ♬

(Untitled)

I can’t sleep.

School starts in about 6 or 7 hours.

  • I didn’t finish my summer homework.
  • I feel the weight of my existence.
  • It sucks.
  • My eyelids feel heavy but
  • My phone is in my hands and
  • Blogging is fun?

I can’t remember the last time I did this, staying up all night for a dumb post about nothing.

It’s unique to my heart.

Here I am. And here you are. But I can’t see you. And you can’t see me.

Better yet, I don’t know your name or what you must be feeling.

I don’t know your problems. And I can’t guess your favourite color (although it’s probably blue).

But I can tell you how I am feeling and I guess that’s fine for now.

MY FEELINGS

blue, unsurprisingly. with a dash of purple (a really deep purple).

whatever blue means…

it’s hard to describe my emotions??.it’s like describing colors to a blind man.

For example:

orange? Well it’s bright and sour but not so sour that it’s also sweet. Citrusy

yellow? I guess it’s mellow like a banana. And warm like the sun, but it has an intensity to it like peeing ur pants. An urgency almost. Before the yellow banana turns to brown and it’s rotting away. Fruit flies in the air that are SO. ANNOYING.

and red? flesh…y watermelon. it’s there. You can feel it. Immediately. It’s refrigerated and delicate. And it takes away ur heat once ur lips touch skin

Red is my favorite color.

But I’m feeling blue? a dark purple?

I guess I would describe blue/ dark purple as someone’s gaze in a cold library.

With dingy lighting and a broken heater. And that annoying light bulb that makes the noise. (Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…)

They look at me and I look at them.

I don’t know them.

I don’t know you.

But look at me.

that’s blue.