This is our first Mars Hill assignment, to introduce yourself using an 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of paper. I’m usually not a huge fan of collage, because I don’t like how mine turn out. But this one’s not bad. :)
July 18th, 2009
These are the two little girls that I have the privilege of living with. :)
Not the greatest picture, but it’ll have to do. It’s been a long time since I’ve painted. It felt good to get back to it.
At Pike’s Place Market (AKA the best place in the universe), you can buy bouquets of flowers for $5… and that makes me very very happy. 
And the sunset this evening. Beautiful.
I began by counting down the days,
counting down the days until
the ruins were left behind;
left behind, along with the wounds they gave–
or so I hoped.
I hoped, at the end of this yellow brick road
I would find that gift for which my soul cries.
My soul cries, not for a brain instead of straw;
not for a heart instead of a hollow tin.;
not for courage instead of fear.
My soul cries for a place to rest,
to rest and feel safe,
to feel safe and loved without condition,
a place to call home.
I’ve counted down the days,
3…2….1… and here I am,
walking the streets of the Emerald City,
hoping, still, to find what I’m looking for.
But the curtain has already been drawn,
the wizard revealed as a man alone.
And this, the place where Dorothy’s story and my own diverge:
There is no good witch to impart her wisdom,
to tell me I had the power all along.
If I click my heels together, only bruises will I gain.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
Inspired by therapy – partly my own experience, and partly the experience of others. Written in rhymed iambic pentameter.
Finally, Hope
I sit. My eyes, they move around the room.
I breath, and hold my knees up to my chest.
I speak. I try to bring you to my tomb
I hope that this will somehow give me rest.
You search, and ask me where my mind has gone.
You wait. I look away, I know, I fear
You ask. But if you saw what’s going on
You’d run. Alone, you’ll leave me dying here.
It hurts. My head, it spins, I cannot see.
It screams, I hold on tight, afraid to fall.
It taunts. The darkness closes in on me.
It waits for me to build another wall.
I hear you ask, please take me there with you.
I breath again as light comes seeping through.
I’m not particularly fond of this poem, but my professor seemed to like it. So here it is. It’s supposed to be in the same of a coffee cup, but it won’t let me format it like that on the blog for some reason.
Coffee Cup
The coffee cup sits on the table; a
curvy deep red body, a spec
of light reflected from the
sun just below an s-shaped handle on the
the side, curling up at the bottom, a line of
light following its curve. Steam rises from
the rim, rising and disappearing again
it is warm to the touch and smells
of French vanilla. The steam is
warming the face, leaving tiny drops
of dew; the rim is cold on the lips; sip.
