Little Infinity Poetry

Catching deep thoughts and words that run but don't get lost

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Looking at the highway last night, I thought,

Look at all these people, riding in these cars, so reliant on these pieces of metal to get them through day-to-day life.

Imagine if their reliance was instead on God.

How beautiful the world would be if people had as much faith in Him; who created them, as a piece of moving metal.

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I reckon I should've just

left you

The moment God told me the truth.

The words that He heard

To protect me

Are the same ones you said

when you left me.

I guess some people

never change.

Which is why I want my heart back

Fair exchange?

[openbookofblankpages]

come back

you told me so many lies I forget what the truth is anymore.

and I am here screaming

I love you

through the wood of a

closed door.

I am scared for you,

you have never grieved before,

I can't awaken love before it's time

so I will hold back my desire for

you.

If I'm going to forgive anyone

I will always

pray it's

you.

[openbookofblankpages]

Loved and Lost

I loved,

I loved so deep I got

lost

and when I tried to find my way back

You threw flower petals on the path

and watched me walk

down the one leading furthest

from you.

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thoughts

it's hard to be a woman of God with deep understanding and strong convictions, and feel like I'll never find a Christian man balanced with those convictions who does not conform to the patterns of the world and the culture it has created.

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will the sum of who we were,

exist only in these dividing moments?

we are such different equations

yet our eyes reflect the same infinite desire.

call me.

say something

a n y t h i n g...

the equations I used to love to solve,

have turned only into problems.

Just say that I failed the test

and I'll give someone else the chance;

to teach me.

not everything has to be a

calculation.

not everything has a definitive

answer.

[openbookofblankpages]

Shots

I can't believe I'm here again

I used to love, Love.

I wanted to, love Love

and now I'm sick of seeing it everywhere-

never consuming, but near.

Everyone's contagious and my medicine- it worked.

now I'm all alone

calling shots, yet

still wounded

from my first.

[openbookofblankpages]

The Queen

A rarity, 

sold and bought; you were a thought 

from which I often asked 

for clarity. 

Were you scared of me?

Real, 

I watch your soft skin peel

only feels like the pain you could’ve

spared in me. 

A parody, I played the fool 

poker faced the joker 

for your charity

Singularity, 

I almost thought you cared for me.

[openbookofblankpages]

I want to be a combination of things you love.

I hope you think of me fondly in moments when you wake and the sun peaks through your window, blanketing your skin with a soft glow.

I hope you think of me when snowflakes land on your cheek, reminding you that they come back every season, still just as beautiful as the first time they fell.

I hope you think of marshmallows melting into chocolate, as finger gloves on cold hands.

I hope you think of my eyes as you pass Christmas lights in the car, they always did shine for you.

I hope you can be content with Winter though you always did prefer Fall.

I hope 

I- 

I hope this means anything to you at all.

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Healing

if you don’t take the time to dress your wounds

You are going to bleed out on people 

who never even cut you.

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to Speak or to Die

“I pray you, sweetheart, counsel me whether it is better for a man to speak or die?”

Florida forthwith replied—­

“I shall always counsel my friends to speak and not to die.  There are few words that cannot be mended, but life once lost can never be regained.”

[quotemadness]

Just because things hadn’t gone the way I’d planned didn’t necessarily mean they’d gone wrong.

Ann Patchett (via quotemadness)

[thoughtkick]

The art of being happy lies in the power of extracting happiness from common things.

Henry Ward Beecher (via thoughtkick)

[perfectquote]

Love when you’re ready not when you’re lonely.

Unknown (via perfectquote)

[openbookofblankpages]

She was never the poem; she was always the writer. She used to write throughout morning, throughout noon, throughout night. Painting herself in words, hoping they would decorate her bleeding heart. She never became the poem, she was always more of a riddle, and I think the ink from her pen killed her a little.

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the park in berlin

tonight as my social battery drains like the setting sun, I find myself curled in my room, high pitches tuning through my mind. I pull my pillow close, as if it will absorb sound itself. when that doesn’t work I grasp the fabric of my blanket and cover my head, breathing steady in the darkness of a contained space. the only container that can seal my scrambled thoughts. it works for a while, until I am met with familiar human voices added to the mix downstairs. it stirs and stirs. my limbs dread the few steps I take, a chore to lift even a single finger to the screen. I breathe in relief as I untangle earbuds from the mesh on my nightstand, burying each bud deep to water my ears with silence. then I put on the final touch, a headset, to block any sound that might escape the first layer. I now lay on my bed, feet climbing the side of my wall, staring into the nothing and everything of 6:00 sunlight. I drag my phone to sit on my stomach and ask the search bar to fill me with a glass of “music for when you are overstimulating”. I expect it to ask me for my ID, lecture me that I am too young to fill myself with so much emotion. but it doesn’t. instead it suggests a song. a one they know I will keep on repeat all night long. I become drunken to the sounds of children’s voices playing in a berlin park. it soothes my mind, carrying the weight of simple tasks. they laugh for me as I walk downstairs into darkness. they sing for me as I remove my pizza from the microwave. they giggle as I drink my chocolate milk, one spoon at a time. they embrace the 7 year old in me that still mourns for physical touch. yearns for steady rubbing on her back as she cries, not a reassurance of twisted and manipulative lies. I think of my dad, then a tear slips out, then another, and another. I welcome them, they have been ringing every doorbell in my mind. they keep saying, let us in. so I do. I smell the freshly heated bread and sauce- “hello!” the child giggles, bubbling past an older woman, “hola!” she sings, “hola bella!” her voice flows together like the softness of flour, then slowly fades away. I repeat her voice, I hold on to every syllable. I remind my mind to be kind. it has lived through so much. peace be with your thoughts.

the child laughs one last time into the wind, and silence is met again with music,

“hello!” she sings to me.

[openbookofblankpages]

Sadness has a new origin in my life

But I’ve always wondered why it creeps in

In the form of jealously

it never quite,

matched its shadow…

The origin of “I told you so”

The form of embarrassment that sits alongside

the thought 💭 that maybe he liked me for me

But that’s silly

I am embarrassed that the thought even lingered in my mind.

Because all that time I thought

maybe

she was good

But I was good enough…

Guess I’m just a fool,

With an easy heart to stuff 🧸