Breath.

I breathe out wisps of days past in chill air,
ghosts who dance in the cover of white.

Tell me, do you fear the sun?
I promise the spring will bring old ghosts to light.

I promise you,

                                    You see,   hope   is found
                            when the sun   rises    and breaks the
                       darkness, takes     over     fearful nights and 
                 brings redemption to    the      fall.  Believe the dawn,
              promising to light the    horizon   each and every day and
            let yourself wake anew.   Look     outside your window, open
          your blinded eyes and get    up.      Life is made new each day.

I’m filling quiet,

won’t stay silent. 

Here lie my addictions; may they rest and leave me peace.

Externalizing the internal,

painting pain where pain can live its course.

Cut, bleed, scab, scar -

a life birthed in pain and killed in silence.

Singing lessons.

I practiced my breathing,
an act of vitality, nothing more.

Hand on my diaphragm, I measure
how much life I breathe in,

how much I breathe out.

For certainly there is more to
the moment but it is not without its

beginnings -

my lungs are full of air
and they tell me I am alive.

Still running.

I might not ever know how I got here.  If I’ll ever know where I came from.  If I’ll ever even know where I stand at this present moment in time with the kind of conviction that says, “I exist.”  Stagnant, I stand in hesitation, in utter fear and trepidation because who wants to move forward without the luxury of finding comfort in the what-should-be-permanent nature of the past?  I walk ahead softly, look behind and close the door as if I could love what is coming without loving what has come before. 

I will not be afraid of happiness.

The end.

Sarah Chung – In fear of tears (demo). (9 plays)

Attempting to realize the words in my head,
conversations I’ve rehearsed each time and again
I’m convinced that these words you still won’t comprehend 
In fear of tears.

There’s something that keeps me from speaking my mind,
from speaking my heart when my soul is inside
and I want to give up and just say that I tried
In fear of tears.

[Prechorus:]
It’s called miscommunication,
lack of motivation,
an “I don’t understand
but I’ll just take your words and leave.”
It’s called fear and trepidation
of tears and detonation, anticipate the battle,
turn away, forget to breathe.

[Chorus:]
Who are we but two humans in the struggle?
Who are we to just close our eyes and crumble?
We all need to understand, be understood
so you listen to me; I’ll tell the truth:
I’m here for you.

You push for an answer and I push away
I have all the words but I’m still too afraid
and long after we part I’m still lying awake, In fear of tears.

We talk like two strangers and act like two friends
When communication comes I’ll find an end
because doubt tells me caution for what lies ahead
In fear of tears.

It’s the fear and all the doubt,
of emotion breaking out,
it’s the thinking all about -
break down.

We miscommunicate,
we resent and hesitate,
can we find some common ground and break
down.

_________________________________________

Read More

Broken homes and my sins to atone.

I fight the words that rattle my bones,

that creep through my cartilage and in blood build their homes.

What shall I call in my body my own?

Fear and its ink claim my flesh;

I’m alone.

To take advice.

I’ll package my words

with a bow and curl the ribbon,

cut loose my emotions

with a few deep breaths

and a shiny red balloon;

I don’t have the words to 

speak or the means to leave

my burdens, but I can

let myself let go

and trust they’ll find 

their own

silver linings.

Anonymous asked: Write the poem on an actual balloon and take a picture! Then set it freeeeeeeeeee

I kind of love you.

Try again.

I hold my fist at my side       when
friends comfort me with soft       words
that try to cushion the hurting but      can’t
even come close. I crave some quick        fix
but understanding is in short supply and      pain
comes in multitudes.  Circumstance feeds         hope
and breaks it again; when I seek, empathy only      hides.

100,000 steps to what some call “recovery.”

I am an addict in recovery, holding my hands away from my face, washing. Always washing. I close my eyes when I face the mirror, ashamed of how my skin keeps tallies of every moment of regression, forgetting myself in a fit of impulsive depression. And I try to escape the remembering, but my legs have inscribed every step I took backwards and tell me to walk in the wrong direction. 


I am an addict in recovery, trying to escape the urge to cover pain with pain, to numb feelings with sharp edges and too many pills. When I lose control of my inhibitions, my mind escapes to trains and bridges and how high would I need to fall. I’ve been taught to breathe, to deconstruct lies, to identify feelings that remain foreign to me. I’ve been taught to grab the phone instead of the razor, to take a single pill instead of twenty. And I follow these rules to the letter until the singular scar down my right wrist reminds me that I am only going through the motions of being “better.”

Things tend to look up until they’re looking down. I smile until something insignificant triggers nervous hands that snap rubber bands against my wrists until they swell with anger - is this what they teach you in therapy? It starts with rubber bands and ends with bandaids; sometimes I confess, sometimes I fall into lies of omission I like to call “truth.”

I am an addict in recovery. Pain is my temporary fix. When life starts looking happier, I fall into withdrawal, missing the depression that brought me down, firmly secured to a miserable ground. When I start laughing, I start doubting; the years have jaded me into wondering what price I will pay for my happiness.

I want to think that everything they say about recovery is a lie, but my therapist tells me to stay away from black and white. Eight steps, twenty seven steps, how many steps are there?

When you make up your mind, come live it. There are no steps. Recovery is a lifetime.

Painting dried roses.

Sometimes I sit and grieve for myself;
I am in the eighth stage.

Grapes and dates and ever too late.

I know a boy who told me that one day,
he will be sitting on the edge of the fountain,
drinking cheap wine with a pretty girl.

I don’t know why he had to specify “cheap”
because expensive seems more romantic to me,
but I wished him well, told him

“You let me know if that ever happens.”

Even though I knew he was talking about me.

It was the first time a boy let me know he liked me,
be it cheap wine on a sunny day,
and I thought about what it would feel like
to be that girl.

But I went back to my room and found the razor,
broke skin and didn’t put the pieces together until now:

I am scared of being loved so I masked it with pain,
told myself it hurts to trust - look, I have scars to prove it.

And these scars continue to remind me
how far I am from deserving -

they whisper in my ear,

this is what happens when you love.