by Keri L
What If It Was You?
I have a question, I have to know
If you could see what you'd reap
Would those still be the seeds you'd sow?
Please, before you walk away, just let me speak
My question is this; what if it was you?
What if you were the people you mocked?
What if you felt what you make them feel?
Would that be enough to make you stop
Knowing it's more than just their happiness you steal?
What if it was you, staring into the mirror
Begging yourself to just keep holding on?
Doing the best you can to find a little cheer
Because all you ever get told is you don't belong
What if it was you crying in the night?
What if you were the one longing for a home?
What if it was you giving up the fight?
What if it was you who felt so alone?
What if it was you, reaching for that blade
To carve sad portraits deep into your skin?
What if it was you who thought, 'no one cares, so why stay?'
What if it was you who felt you'd reached your end?
What if it was you who walked into that room?
What if it was you who received that call?
And found out someone you loved by death had been consumed?
What would you do as you felt the tears fall?
Tell me this, what if it was you?
What if it was you who was told to shut up?
What if it was you who was denied help?
There's no room in this for you to say 'but,'
Because to no one should that hand ever be dealt
Put yourself in other's shoes, I challenge you to
Understand why to 'all' we must be a friend
Because one day you might not just be walking a mile in those shoes
One day you might be the one who owns them
This… was not an easy poem to write. For starters, it’s half the size that it first was, and secondly, it was written in an hour of great anger. I struggled with this, wept, prayed, and felt my heart break in my chest in sorrow for the pain so many people go through. What brought on my anger was hearing someone say that suicide isn’t a problem, that if someone wants to take their own life, they should be assisted, that they deserve to die, that if they have those feelings, they’re a stupid animal. It broke my heart to hear that, and it made me angry. Angry that our world has become so desensitized, that there is little compassion to be found anymore. And it made me want to change that, to say something, so I did. Originally published on my blog, this poem got a lot of views and started a lot of conversations, and I hope it will continue to do so. I also hope that it will always serve as a reminder to me to never belittle how someone else feels, or disregard what they are going through, and I hope it does the same to you.
A Letter & Prayer for Our Police Officers
Dear Police Officer(s),
I wish there was a more adequate way of expressing my gratitude to you instead of just saying thank you, but since that's what I have to work with, I shall do my best. So, thank you. Thank you for having the strength and courage to join the force, for putting on a uniform that only makes you a target. Thank you for putting on that badge and putting yourself between the good and the bad, though lately it seems you're only condemned for doing that, for doing what's right. Thank you for putting yourself in harm's way for my sake, for protecting people who spit on you.
I can't imagine having the honor and selflessness that you do, I can't imagine helping those who project you to be a monster, when you're truly an angel. I can't begin to understand what it's like to go to work every day and know you might not come home, you might never see your spouse and kids again, because a coward might ambush you while you're only protecting him. Selfishly, I pray I never know the pain of losing a partner, and that the media will never lump my kind as hateful and evil, all because of a few bad apples. I pray I never get caught in a fight and watch my blood stain the ground. I pray these things, never understanding that they are your reality.
I can go to a restaurant and feel safe in what I order, but you aren't honored with that. You have to worry about being poisoned, about glass being dropped into your food, or just being denied service all together. Denied service all because you're doing what is right, and in a politically correct world, that paints you as a hateful jerk.
People talk about how they got Beyoncé's autograph, or how Aaron Rodgers signed this, and while I'm sure they're good people, it's not their autograph I want; it's yours. I want the autograph of a hero. You. You are a hero, you are fighting a war right here on American soil, you're sacrificing everything you hold dear so that I don't have to. People laud celebrities for doing this and that, but they forget you, the one who makes it possible for these celebrities to do what they do. You are the one who is making a difference, you are the one who is fighting evil, and I thank you so much for that.
Your sacrifice is not going unseen, and for what it's worth, I'm thankful for you. My heart is full of gratitude for what you do, and I support you, I back you, and I pray for you. This is my prayer for you, and I hope you find strength in it.
Jesus, I come before You today with a thankful heart. I am continually in awe and wonder at the grace You have bestowed upon me, the love You rain down me, Your mercy and truth. I thank You for giving me this day, and for blessing this nation with the men and women who wear blue.
God, I ask that You watch over our police officers, that You would protect and shield them from the fiery darts of the enemy, that You would encamp angels round about them at all times. I pray that Your hand would be upon them at work and at home, and that You would guide them in the situations that they face, giving them the wisdom and knowledge that they need.
God, if there is someone who's desire is to harm them, I come against them in Your powerful name, and I plead Your precious blood over these officers' lives, that a hedge of protection would cover them from the crown of their heads to the soles of their feet. Fight for them, God, destroy the enemy that lies in the darkness, seeking to hurt them. Move in a mighty way, and heal this land.
And Lord, I pray for the physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being of our cops, that you would strengthen them, give them peace for their worries and joy for their sorrows. Heal the hurts they carry, the wounds they keep hidden, ease their fears, and let Your presence be felt in their squad cars.
I pray that You touch this nation, especially our youth, and show them that these men and women are only here to help them, that they are not the enemy, and that You would convict those in the media whose intention is to lie about and destroy the force. Convict this generation, God, show us the truth, and bless and protect our men and women in blue, for Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
I pray all this in the name that is above all names, the only name that brings salvation; the mighty name of Jesus. Amen.
The only thing I’m going to say about this is that I support our men and women in blue.
Ireland
Look over this land
Tell me, what do you see?
‘Tis a land where every heart is stout
And every man’s dream is to be free
Grass the color of emeralds
Gray and blue skies that stretch to forever
Water that foams, sings its own songs
Mist drifting o’er the moors, like liquid silver
In every town, and in every borough
There’s a warmth that can’t be bought
Stories and laughter by the fireside
And many a soul finds what it’s sought
A walk in the city
You’ll always be greeted by a kind face
It doesn’t matter where you go
You know your heart has found its place
Wander through the mist shrouded land
<
br /> Climb to the top of a mossy hill
Take a look out over the peaceful valleys
– Just standing there your soul gets a thrill
Maybe a visit to an old mound
Or a place where fairies are known to be
Perhaps see the great stone structures
Hear the birds whistling in the trees
Take a stroll down a country road
Watch the waves crash against the shore
See the sun make a shy appearance
Know you’ll never long for more
This land has known heartache
She’s seen her share of blood
But she still stands strong
And her courage is like an unstoppable flood
Home of my heart
Where my soul belongs
IRELAND
Every year, my writing group holds a secret poetry contest. We all write a poem, fold it, number it, then mix them all together and randomly draw one. It’s quite a bit of fun trying to guess who wrote what, and a few years back, I was asked to pick out topic, as we always choose one (i.e, one year, it was the ocean) and I chose Ireland, my favorite country. Having read much of Ireland’s history, it wasn’t hard to write this poem, nor was it difficult for my friends to guess who the author was. Being part Irish, I’m planning to one day travel to my ancestors homeland, and this is just one of the many things where I’ve written about it.
The Power of Memories
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered into the silence, pressing the cool bottle of beer against her cheek. “I give up.”
She took a long pull of the drink, grimacing as the yeasty taste flooded her mouth. She had never been one for drinking, and she hated beer, but, hey, it did its job as well as any other alcoholic beverage, especially after four bottles. Though it couldn’t erase memories and events, it could temporarily dull the pain, lessen the feelings of helplessness and frustration.
She squinted at the clock that ticked away on the wall, her bleary eyes not wanting to focus, but when they did, she let out a sigh and pulled herself to her feet, momentarily swaying as the beer really hit home. She let out a wet giggle as the backs of her calves hit the couch before heading to the kitchen. Her parents were out of town till the next morning, so she needed to get rid of the beer. Though she was 23 and old enough to drink, they didn’t approve of such things, and finding out she’d dared to disobey them would only add to the abuse they dealt out to her on a daily basis.
She placed the bottles in a box and set them to the side, then turned and opened up the kitchen cabinets. One by one, she carefully packed each and every glass, every plate, saucer, skillet, and bowl into a large leather bag. She had to half climb into the cupboard after Christmas 2008. He liked to hide in the back every time.
Once done, she eased the straps of the bag over her shoulders and stood, grabbing the box of beer bottles. Looking at the bag, it was no wonder she bore deep cuts on her shoulders and scars on her palms. It weighed over a hundred pounds and dwarfed her, made her back all bent up, but, so did everyone else’s. Everyone had a bag like she did, and everyone carried it around and unpacked when they got home. It’s just the way it was.
She carefully opened the kitchen door and slunk out into the black night, making her way to her neighbor’s house. He liked to drink, a lot, so adding her four beer bottles to the several dozen in his recycling bin that sat on the curb for pick up the next morning wouldn’t be noticed.
She tripped over a small shrub and almost fell, catching herself. “Shhh!” she whispered sloppily as her dishes clinked in her bag. She quickly deposited the bottles in the bin and made her way back to her house, where she unpacked her bag, only to realize a few minutes later that she needed to set out her garbage for pickup, as the truck came quite early, and with a grumble, she hastily repacked her dishes and went to the garage.
Once she came back, she again unpacked all her dishes and carefully positioned them just so. She’d started to leave the kitchen when she heard a cupboard door squeal open, and turned back with a sigh.
Date Night 2014 was peeking out at her, and she shook a finger at it. “No,” she said. “Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.”
Date Night 2014 only pushed the door open further, it’s chipped edges glinting in the kitchen light, and with a sigh, she stomped over and pushed it back in before slamming the cupboard door shut. It reopened and Date Night 2014 once again peeked back out, but this time when she went to push it back in, she jerked back with a startled cry.
She stared at her fingers where blood welled up from a deep cut, and something inside her broke. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact she’d been pushed too far, but something broke, and with a snarl, she snatched the dish out of the cupboard and threw it to the floor where it shattered across the cheap tile. She screamed, frightened at what she had done, but then she saw her fingers were healing, the cut closing up, and she grabbed another dish and threw it as well.
High pitched tinkles met her ears as dish after dish, cup after bowl after plate, saucer, platter, and glass shattered across the floor, and with each one, another pain left her body, her back began to straighten, and she grabbed a skillet, hitting it against the countertop as hard as she could, pieces of cheap granite flying past her. She went on until the skillet was disfigured before tossing it to the floor and reaching for another, repeating the process over and over until not a dish was left in one piece, each smashed beyond recognition, beyond repair.
When at last she was done, the sun was beginning to rise and not a pain was left in her body. Date Rape 2013 was smithereens, as was Prom Night, Birthday Tears, and all the others. She smiled at the mess before her, the way the glass crunched underfoot.
A startled gasp drew her attention to the kitchen door where her mom stood, her own shoulders bent under the weight of her dish filled bag, and with a cry, she went at her daughter, hand raised to slap her, but her daughter shoved her away, doing the same with her dad.
“What have you done?!? You stupid little fool!” they screamed at her.
But this time, she screamed back. “No! I’m done! I’m done living like this! You wanna keep hauling those damned things around, be my guest, but I refuse to do it any longer!”
Free. She was finally free.
If you hadn’t noticed, I end most of short stories quite abruptly, either with a question or like I just did. Why? Because I don’t want to write the ending, I want you to. I want these stories to leave you thinking thoughts you’ve never thought before, I want you to ask questions that scare you, to search yourself. I want you to take away something helpful, and with this story, I want you take away the importance of letting your bad memories ago. I’m not going to go into how to do so, because I’m not a therapist, but I just want to prod you in the right direction. So many people don’t realize the power memories have over them, but once you do, you’re one step closer to breaking away from them. It’s not easy, it doesn’t happen overnight, but it will happen, and you will be a better, happier person for it.
A Love Letter from God
Dear you,
Are you surprised to be hearing from me? You shouldn’t be. I talk to you every day, you’re just not listening. I’m with you every single second, you’re just not looking. I want so badly for you to open up and let me in all the way, not just part way. I wish so much that you would stop trying to hide the things you think you should be ashamed of, that you would stop running away every time I mention the thing that brings you so much pain when you know that I can take it away. You tell yourself that it’s your problem, not mine, that it’s something no one can change. You bury your face in your pillow and cry, your heart screaming for help, but you silence it, because you’ve been told you shouldn’t feel that way.
I miss you so much. I think about you all the time, nonstop. I think about all the amazing things that are in store for you, all the beautiful things you’re going to do. Even though you
don’t want me to, I can feel your pain. Even though you do everything you can to stifle them, I can feel your tears, I can see them glitter and shimmer in the light when I hold up the bottle I collect them in. You wish I didn’t, but I can hear the sobs you try to muffle in the shower, in the car, in your head. Your pain is like a red-hot sliver slicing through my heart, and what makes it so much worse is that you won’t let me take it away, especially when you know that I can. I want nothing more than to wrap you up in my arms and stop the pain. I want to hold you close as you let everything out, but you keep pushing me away.
That frown marring your face? I wish you’d let me smooth it away. That constant pain in your chest? I wish you’d just let me take it away. And that throbbing fire in your soul that threatens to destroy you? I wish you’d let me put it out and replace it with a glowing light of joy. I just wish you’d let me heal that hurt. I reach for you, but you slap me away, you scream for me to leave, but deep inside, I know it’s only because you’re afraid I’ll hurt you, I’ll let you down, I’ll leave you, abandon you, like so many others have.
I long to wrap my arm around your shoulders as you cry into your hands, I wish you’d give in and just rest your head on my chest. I wish you’d stop believing that you have to be strong all the time, that you have to fight your battles alone. I wish you’d accept the gift I’m offering you. I wish you’d start living like you’re loved, because that is exactly what you are.
You wonder how deep my love is, how far it stretches, if it could ever be counted, you tell yourself that it has to run out at some point, but if you truly want to know the depth of it, just look at my hands, my feet, my side. Count the grains of sand on every shore, count every star that sparkles in the night sky. Number the drops it takes to fill each and every ocean, and even then, my love keeps going. It doesn’t run out. It can’t run out, that’s just the way it is. So, why run away from something that doesn’t end? Why run away from a love that will never hurt you, never leave you, let you down, or judge you? Why run away from something that can only heal you, grow you, replenish you, give you the strength you need, the very breath that fills your lungs? I’m not against you, I’m for you, and that’s how it has always been, the way it will always be.
