I am crushed.
All blood
Guts
Ooze
Spread across pavement,
Shades of
Green
Yellow
Lavender.
Like a bug.
Trampled and
Compressed into
Someone who bears
No resemblance to
Who or what I am.

Feeling crushed is not
Like treading on
Grapes to make wine.
Feeling crushed is
Being smashed with a
Hammer, shattering
Into shards
Reflecting
Pain and disappointment
To blind me to my
Potential.

Someone stomped on me.
I am crushed.

© Hilary Clark ~ 7/17/19

See the art that inspired this poem here.

Passion is not just reserved for the
bedroom or even your
romantic relationship.
This piece of art is passion in
vibrant color.
This poem is passion in
word and intent.
Passion is flow, where
time becomes illusion and
your genius creates
something from nothing.
Passion is your birthright.
Passion is your soul on fire.
Passion is when you
realize you’re made of
magic and
starlight and
love.

© Hilary Clark ~ 5/8/19

See the art here.

Wretched unhappiness spirals up and out of the
heart, pooling on the floor, a deep eddy of
sorrow and depression.  “Woe is me,”
she thinks.  She believes.
A bright, piercing gash of anguish scrapes her
soul raw, leaving her convinced (feeling)
woeful is her new normal.
It doesn’t have to be.
Normal is only normal if you let it.
Woe is only woe if you wallow.
What if she feeds on thoughts of joy instead?
A steady diet filled with zesty distractions and
platters of contradictions that reveal what she
believes is true and woeful is false.

One day, she wakes to discover
she has shed the weight of woe.

© Hilary Clark ~ 3/4/19

See the art here