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)


Everything changes,
and no one ever tells
you why.
No one asks you or
thinks to consider your
point of view.
Things just become
something else.
And you find yourself
a little shaken, a lot
Night time turns into
the better part of day.
That place you can hide
from the dragons that seek
to find you, that seek to devour
all you once were.
All you’ve ever known.
Everything changes.
Even you.
And as hard or as much
as you fight it, one day, when
the sun is shining or
during a gentle rain or a light
snow, you’ll let go.
And you’ll look out the door or
you’ll open a window, and you’ll
hear the strangest sound of
a heart beating.
And, in some mysterious way,
you come out thankful

- because everything changes

by: rueberry

How do you explain that meekness takes all your strength, that in the depths of sorrows is where you find your humanity, and that to sincerely forgive first requires an understanding of all things whom you are? How do you adequately explain what you must first survive, in order to believe?


It seems, almost daily, we lose a freedom here and another there. And we are told to shut up. That it is for the greater good, but what is the greater good, if not for the personal welfare and sovereignty of all its parts? I submit that we face a great peril as we navigate through these trying times. The greatest assault. That which is upon our freedom of conscience. This defines each us all. It is the very essence of who we are as sentient beings. And if any group can by use of shame or social coercion and isolationism attempt to compel an individual to forsake that which defines him or her and insist that as a human being they adopt beliefs repugnant to their very natures, as demand their better angels they resist, than we are no more than brutes blindly enslaving one another in our hubris, and unworthy of the inheritance that are these freedoms we so carelessly let slip into memory and lore. The good of the many, or the few, does not outweigh the good of the one; rather, the good of the one is surety to the good of all.



I can’t see my reflection
in the mirror,
and I can’t find where I
placed my teardrops.
I can’t smile underneath this
water where my smiles take
the breath away from me.
I may have mistaken you for
laughter -
for all my chuckles sound like
lonesome sighs.
I may have thought we would
last forever,
but forever stayed only for a while.
So I’ll wait until this time tomorrow,
let time heal these scars upon
my heartbreak,
but tomorrow is such a long time,
far too long, to wait within myself.

Your opinions alone mean nothing to us. Your convictions, however, can affect all our worlds. How they would, this, your opinions tell.

— 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
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.