This is a personal documentation through poetry.
I am learning to look inward now, give myself love when I least want to. I do not live to love others, I live to love myself. I will find and create what is enough for me, and you will learn to let it...
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There is a hill and there is a stone. On the hill is a quiet home, In the backyard sits the stone. I live in this quiet home, and I have made it so. The silence of my footsteps will never reach The outside air's fingertips. I grow tired of wanting more. I grow like the sun drunk potted plant That is still ultimately forgotten on the sill. I grow upwards, and outwards, And eventually not at all. I find the stone outside, Covered in bugs and moss, Some living, most dead— All unaware of the woman I have always been. My footsteps greet the air, and we are both just as shocked. How are you so quiet? How are you so gentle? The air wisps through my hair to ruffle some emotion in me. But all I want is the stone. How do I tell dead things that silence is a teacher? The silence taught me more than any sentence could. At this moment, I remember that I am small. I am a small girl, with a big heart, On a tall, tall hill. Wanting things and getting them can be in close relation, If my arms are strong enough. And I find that they are when I begin to push the stone towards the edge of the lawn. The air has no limbs, and no voice at all really, When the stone tumbles over the crest. The air falls silent. The stone becomes my stone. My house becomes the house. The hill becomes "God." And I find a way to keep on walking.
