The Mind of Rueberry

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” If while I was here I tarried among the wild lilies, take no pause over it. For it was only because I found myself overwhelmed by their fragrance, being it was the first time for me." (rueberry)


I long to see this new horizon
not too far ahead,
to be innocent again, naive again,
the undiscovered delight that is tomorrow.
I crave the hunger of a soft caress; the
the indescribable feeling of rapture, and the
thought of being that someone so dear.
I am thrilled within my soul to dare chance
I believe again, in fairy tales, in happy endings,
in life’s new promise.
And I ache for deeply to have again that uneasy fear
of losing someone for whom I care, to hold my breath
when I feel unsure, and to gasp in horror should
I cause pain.
I long to cherish the need, and the belonging, of being the
sole possession of another’s heart.
I desire trust.
The hallowed gift of love.
And I marvel at how kind life can be, how so forgiving
the years can become, and how the honesty of an
endearing sentiment, so effortlessly, can change a world.
I long for this new horizon, for the old one is far
behind me now.

by: rueberry

"October Rush"

A heart once broke; t’is mended now,
but not the pain forgotten.
October rushed redemptive winds,
and melancholy hath gone away.

Angels sang beneath the moon so big,
as heaven gathered near.
September bid her friend adieu, and
love forsook, again.

Seasons past begin anew, as seasons
present seek their slumber.
And tears once shed by lover’s hurt,
smiles replaced them hopeful.

To farewell, my troubled sighs, though
goodbye be bittersweet.
Endeavor not to be again, lest hope
relent to unrepentant airs,
unkind as they be foreboding.

by: rueberry

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Marianne Williamson

Show me a man; a real man. A man that though he may not be wealthy, or the best looking guy around, or fit any of the stereotypical definitions of society, but a man, secure in who he is, having a deep sense of self respect, a pride that is not rooted in vanity, and a zeal for life that comes as naturally to him as breathing. Show me that man and I will show you a woman “fully responsible” for every good thing that he is.


"Broken Toys"

"My father was my hero.
I never told him that, but
I think he knew.
He had been a man every
bit as broken as the rest of
us, but he survived life.
Overcame it.
I could never live up to that.
I never overcame.
And he died.
It’s a hard thing when a hero
dies and leaves you behind trying
to be.
My father was my hero.
His best gift to me?

He’ll never be me.”



Everybody’s a poet,
but not everybody dies.
Not everybody holds their
head within the palms of
their hands, face down low,
heart shred to pieces.
Not everybody.
But poets do.
Poets need that shit.
They need to bleed, need to
rip their chests wide open, for
the whole world to see.
And it takes courage to be
that afraid.
It takes a set of brass balls
to be that vulnerable, lying on
the floor feeling like a fool.
Being that fool.
Not everybody’s a poet.
Cause unlike some, poets
write about the stuff that doesn’t
Poets live and die for just
a little pain.
Something they can spill
all over the pages of your
Drop it rock heavy on your soul.
To make you feel what it’s
like to need what you’ll never have.
To be -
but not be.


"Every Bit As Broken"

Where do all the broken pieces go?
The ones that no longer fit?
Do they go away, somewhere,
off to another place?
Or do they hang around acting
like they fit?
And who are all these perfect people
with their smiles and happy faces?
So in love.
I don’t believe them.
I see the cracks.
They’ve been shattered once before,
cause pieces never quite exactly fit -
when you put them back.

by: rueberry

I would have forgiven you. And I wish to God, you would have taken a moment to forgive yourself. Now we’re only echoes, in an empty room, screaming to ourselves.


"A Season Changes"

Fall came early, today.
And I felt a chill.
For a long moment I
became cold, and a sudden
shiver gave me pause.
I became, in that moment,
I had no reason to.
You lay here beside me,
and these are happy times.
Yet, why do I fear winter when
it is still far away?
Why has fall touched me so soon,
whispered this unkindness to my soul?
I heard myself sigh, and I held you
And I think, as your warmth sang me
gently back to sleep, I heard myself
weeping, too.
Summer tried so hard not to end.


"Sarsaparilla & Green Tea"

There is a madness to love,
an insanity that, by its vey
nature, requires we lose sight
of ourselves, and drink from
a cup that is neither empty nor full.
And, yet, we drink up our delusion,
becoming drunk on a wine that is
within ourselves.
Love is not ecstasy or great sadness.
She is only what we imagine her
to be.
And she, imagining us, imagines us
to be
so very strange.


"After All"

After shadows cast, and sullen gasps,
After rivers dry that spake your name
After fear is dead, and written dread,
After love and romance and smiles
seem an ancient thing
After us…
And what once was sacred to the core
Here we meet again
Every wonder and desire, every hope
and touch, that made us alive
Remains within
Two hearts sing as before
Only the eyes that we now look in,
trust in, have we changed
And we fall down believing, again

by: rueberry

"A Door Not Shut"

There’s an open door, and all
I need is to walk through it.
Everything will change.
But how do I leave this empty
room where pictures were once
carefully placed, where laughter
and tiny footfalls still echo in?
Where love was made?
Do I even have the right?
I know I should.
There’s no real reason to stay.
One step…
And I leave it all behind.
Just one.
This goodbye, to all those yesterday’s,
shouldn’t be so easy.
So I turn around, and say I’m sorry.
Decide to stay.
Not for long, I know.
Only until I forgive myself.
Release myself.
Accept that: even the ghosts
have gone.
That it’s only me - in here, in this room,

and I’m all alone.

by: rueberry


"They say we write our own story.
I find that a bit hard to believe.
I would have never written my
story this way.
Not like this.
Okay, so maybe we play a part,
contribute to it, but we certainly
have no editorial control.
No say over what ends up cut,
and on the floor.
I think the people who force themselves
into our lives, and those we let in, pretty
much dictate the outcome.
How is that a say?
Everyone’s a stranger in the beginning
of whatever chapter they’re in, and they’ll
either fuck things up or add to the script
something you never considered.
Write our own stories?
Not when everyone else is doing all they
can to take the credit for it.
Even trying to change the plot.
If we’re lucky, maybe, we get to pick
the title.”

by: rueberry


I take a pill to bring me up,
and then a drink to take me
I don’t want to go to sleep
In my dreams I drown.
And I can’t bare the wide awake,
Can’t bare the light I see.
I live and breathe within the in -
Here every color fades to grey,
Here every shadow kindly bleeds.
It’s how I try to be okay.
How awake I find my sleep.
In between the here and now,
just above the underneath.

by: rueberry


These days of mine tend to
be quite burgundy now.
Surely, there exist, still within
them, a little color.
A little texture here and there.
However darkly that may seem.
But certainly not as vibrant as once
they were in my other life.
A life I do and do not regret.
Strong drink and ugly women
have that affect on a man, I suppose.
Yet, given the days, and many
years I have survived this far, I
would be a liar if not to confess
there had been one summer, my
finest season, that has surpassed
them all when I take a snort, sit back
under a tall, very old, oak tree and
study for a moment the life I have
Let the kindness of a friendly breeze
flavor the thought.
My finest hour.
Nowadays, I’m just old.
And the fire that rages within my bones
curses that simple fact.
Having been able to stay alive.
It is all vanity, this idea of growing old.
When one gets there the prize will always
feel somewhat more than lacking.
I suppose it is why at some point one
stops looking forward and begins to
ever increasingly look back instead.
Life and consequence does not allow
for anyone to live as fully as they do long.
For anyone to suggest otherwise, well, such
an individual is nothing more than a dirty
rotten liar.
Someone, when you are young, it is best
to flee from.
Middle finger raised high.
I advise it be raised very high with quite
a few choice words to boot!