Stones and Stories

I used to hurl rocks deep into the lake that I called an ocean. 
Burying my past in these stones that would sink.
Writing my future in the ripples of broken glass.

I was once told I had no story. 
Nothing to raise my voice about,
At least not yet. 
"Someday you might be horses on a branch 
Or a house in the woods, 
Someday maybe you'll have a box to fill
But not yet, not yet" he said. 

I would write stories on keys and lock them away; 
I'd have conversations with the ghosts of myself. 
Drawing pictures in each heart beat. 
Hiding away the truths I'd found
Longing for the day I'd be told,
I had something worth raising my voice about

City-scapes were hidden in my bones, 
I had the maps of countries unseen drawn out 
And the lives I'd wanted mine to look like, 
Hidden in poems and spoken by others in stories. 

My knees click when I sit, 
My ankles not so strong from the beating they've endured. 
Some men stand taller than others, 
I was one who thought he fit better into the shadows of other men. 
Never ridding myself of the slouch my mother so badly hated. 

Cut fingers and bruised eyes. 
I was a mess of a man becoming less. 
Someone who thought not a story to tell. 
But I was living with them up under my skin. 

Circus acts unfolding
Great strong men lifting
Scripts held three quarts on napkins 
And one forth in my head. 

I know what it is to feel less. 
To stand in front of a broken mirror
And look for your identity. 
Knowing somewhere between the cracks and the cuts 
There's something there worth sharing. 
Hoping that someone else would be able to see it too. 

I can see in the way you bury fingers in your palms  
That you have something to share. 
Unfold your story for me. 

Take me into the forest with you  
Read to me the words you've penned 
Show me the walk between Monroe 
And the lakefront you think through. 
Give me the keys to your forgotten-about park. 

I want a chance to see the world through your eyes. 
I want to know your story. 
We'll build a wall made entirely from the rocks
That fit perfectly in the palm of your hands
And we'll stand together as it all falls apart.

And in turn I'll take you to the cliffs I've stood upon. 
There you can shout into the void ahead of us. 
You can look into the deep before you. 
Knowing you have something to add. 

I want to let you know you have something to add.
This emptiness that sits between us. 
It would be lacking if you were not here. 
You have something to give. 
You have something we need. 

Please. Settle my ears with the rest of your song. 
Lend me the peace hidden in your story. 
I've traveled long enough, 
Hearing only the sound of my treading heart, 
Or my struggling feet. 

Give me a story to fall asleep to. 
Hide me in the safety of a home. 
Break this bread with me. 
Drink this wine. 

Walk with me, 
Through this process, 
Walk with me, 
Through this garden with weeds, 
Through this city with cracks, 
Walk with me.  

I need to know that I'm not alone. 


-----

This is a poem I wrote awhile back. Far enough back to have some perspective on it, but not quite long enough ago where I can't still relate. I wrote it at a point in life where I was struggling to belong. I didn't know where I fit. I didn't know what I was suppose to do. And because of that I felt like I didn't matter.  I just wanted to know that I mattered. I wanted someone to validate the journey I had been on and the road I was taking, wherever that might be. I just wanted to be something. Something clear and stated and purposeful. I wanted to be special. 

I think it's something we all struggle with and desire at times. 
To matter. 
To be special. 
To be someone's something. 

But so often we get caught up in this tension between the story people think we should be living with the story we're actually living. We end up either feeling like a failure or disappointment or on the other hand we feel like we're lying to everyone, or to ourselves at least.  

I've rarely found a situation where living out others expectations for our lives is healthy. It does us no good playing the part others have created us to be. 

----

I have a problem with being vulnerable. 

I can often mask it by being open with struggles I've had, or how I felt, or what happened in my life. But really that's just me sharing about things I've overcome. That's me painting a picture of being finished, of me having arrived at that point we all wish was a reality. It's me being open, maybe, but it's not me being vulnerable. 

See being vulnerable is hard, because it let's people in on the process, and at least for me, the process is what I've so often run from. 

See in the process you see that there's no ending. And if we're always in process then there's no resolve. And that can make you feel kind of helpless. It opens our eyes to the need for others. And it could be just that I'm a prideful human being with an X and Y chromosome, but it's hard needing other people. I find it very easy being needed. I actually kind of thrive on it. It fills that spot of mattering. If people need me then I must have value, I must mean something. But needing others... that's completely different... but it's something I can't escape. I need people. Because I don't have the answers. Believe me, I wish I had all the answers, but as much as I try to deny it. I'm in process. 

But I don't know if answers to problems is really what I need. I don't actually think that it's what any of us really need most of the time. I think what we're longing for is to know, that despite all of it, every mistake we've made and struggle we've gone through, to know that we're not alone. 

So if it's self-hatred, depression, loneliness, anger, sin, doubt, expectations... whatever it is. I promise you, you're not alone on this journey. I'm right there with you. 

So in case you haven't quite gotten it. This is me. In the midsts of a struggle, just trying to be a bit more open and a lot more vulnerable. Come and join me. I think we'd do better off if we laid down our masks of who we thought we should be and simply were ourselves.