Most Assureldy

Most assuredly, in life, I just want to be held.
I just wanted him to hold me and it be tangible,
pressure but no force behind the hugs and wet eyes.

Most assuredly, one day
I may look on the road I've been traveling
See my dusty pants and sweaty palms,
and decide that i'd rather be on the grass
than in the field.

"Adoration Losing"

It's Golden If You Believe It Is

Beyond

What lies beyond my frozen path,
lost witih time?
Sitting and looking for
more than what's there
bleak traces of a past forgotten.

M vision has become deferred
with constant chattering noises.
The softness of the mid air out looking
the horizon sends confusion flustering
in the dark.

Which way do I go to meet destiny
be it good or bad; reluctantly following.
My onlooking path has crooked in site.
When will the maze end?:
Is there more than what's there?

It's 1997. I am approximately 15 years old. I'm moody, not having the greatest home life, angsty, and writing terrible poetry like the little jewel above. What do i do? Enter into a poetry contest at school, write 'Beyond' (which included a terrible orange/purple maze coloring), submit it, and...win! W.I.N. To this day, I can't believe I won because there were some much better poems submitted and I knew it. This is why, if you are a creative individual you must never stop creating. Because even in your worst, someone will love it. They will celebrate you and honor you 'Beyond' what you feel is warranted. Never stop making.

Glory

GLORY

It's a glorious thing to stay up all night for the sole purpose of watching the sun rise.

A vulnerable, quiet peace overcomes its bearer, even if only for a fleeting moment.

The heart smiles.

When It's Done

When I die, lay my body at the bellows of the river. Take up a hand of crushed sand and toss it into it's vigorous rush.
Bring no bond made of words.
Carry in your soul those ties forged beyond the edges of this world.
Drop lilies of sunshined tears into babbling brooks.
Leave the stones where they fall. Make no memory of loss.

But
Do not forget the sunlight on your cheek as aI lay next to you
or the lightning rods we hopped over while clutching at each other.
And
I won't forget your steady hand pouring steaming cups of liquid chammomile as we sat on the porch remembering Jasmine, or the stick figures I drew clothes on from the book under your dusty bed.

Yes, when I close my eyes at last
i will only hear your voice
calling--
'Grace.'

Original poem by me, Grace K. Lewis