"I loved you at your darkest."

Fantastic paraphrase of: “God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (‭Romans‬ ‭5‬:‭8‬ NIV)

Poetry is dope.
Photo swiped from @d_jedi25.

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feeling your lungs fill, freewrite 10.3.14

I wish I could say
that 
my actions are more than
those 
of a man drowning,
wild-armed, begging forgiveness
of the current — 

of the tide, apologizing
between bob and breech, asking the waves
why 
she seems never to love me
‘til I’m tightroping
a razor line between sea and sky
trying not to call myself capsized;

I wish I could tell you
my lungs aren’t taking on water,
 and

that my stomach
is not filled more with 

ocean than last meal, or
that 
I cannot feel all of my organs

descending into panic, you

once asked me if I could swim, I 

looked at you and told the
lie 
that lovers tell, trusting that the
prayers floating inside of our
chests, like clusters of young fireflies
still unsure of their own
light, will come to love
themselves into
constellations
and save us from our
dark corners like glowing stars
on childhood ceilings.

I said “for you,
I can learn.

I meant “if I drown,
it will have been
a choice
to chase your reflection.

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freewrite (9.28.14)

and then one day you wake up
and realize that
you’ve spent more of your
light dragging your
sorrows into sunshine —
bought more stock in your
pains, and angers, and
darkness, the relics that you keep
dutifully
carrying
with you each morning, than you’ve invested
into your smile —

one day, you will reach down
to grab your bags before walking
through another threshold, toward another
same-old-new-thing, your hands
will start shaking,
will look up at you,
will grow mouths,
will grow teeth,
will snarl “no,”
will ask
how you could be so stupid; how
you could believe
that the pieces of past you wear
like dog tags
dangled lazily across your breast plate
have ever actually spared or saved you; have ever not
just been your own blood painted like a bullseye around
your soft tissues and fears —

your hands will look
up at you and ask whether you
are better off, or whether you
just acclimated to
breathing angry and pushed-to-fringe as if
it were an altitude shift, and just
learned to find comfort in the places
that light doesn’t go willingly —

when your hands
look up to you, lifelines crying, asking why
you have forsaken them, I’m just begging
that you listen.

they are trying to save you.

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things i tell myself in the morning (9.23.14)

You will never change the
world until you
stop
asking whether, and
where, and
how, and if you
belong in it.

You must know;
like a truth living
in the basement of the
house that your doubts built
that you — beautiful, you
are an answer
and not a question.

Anonymous asked:

Do you read other people's work?

Not nearly enough, but I certainly learned what poetry was (certainly continue to learn what poetry is) through my reading of other people’s interpretations of it. 

Do you have anyone specific in mind, because I love reading poems. email them to poetry@nilesheron.com — and tell me why they matter to you if you’re not the poet, or why this poem mattered to you if you are.

:)

Quote Iconplease forgive my quiet.
I’ve been listening to God,
and men, and
trying to live down
each of my
days, my dreams
haven’t come ‘round
as often as nightmares have; it’s scary
when you can’t let go, and you
have more reasons to wake
up tomorrow than to
sleep tonight.
Niles Heron, Freewrite 9.15.14
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Freefragment, 8.29.14

she was like walking
up to the edge of a cliff
and letting your toes dangle
taste freedom; giving them
a chance to plume, or learn
they were always every-only human, she
was a dream on a picket fence
straddling, struggling to name
itself as either flying or
the other thing.