The ISFJ

The ISFJ
With too much on her plate
Follows the normal state
Of her being
Against a world of change

Breathes in the steam of her traits
Thinks she’s to blame
For others
Uses her arms, a shield and brace

Blows out at what they say
Feels it every single day
For years
Listens as silence holds the pain

Organizes the rebuild from strain
Between her ideals and what’s fate
Out of control
Gives into what nurture can save

Focuses on every bitter, damaged face
Even coddles to the slight taste
Of unbalance
Despises what she must embrace

Leaves by gentle footsteps, trained
In deafening what she may
Have shown
Hides by words they can’t trace

Walks past stretchers and disgrace
Encourages each soul with blinding praise
That they
Are recovered from the collapse today

Stops, she the girl, a friend, one unsaved
Picks up today’s heavier plate
Carrying on
Through communication’s closing gate.

A. E. June

Vicious Cycle

You just called our lives a vicious cycle
And I want anything but to recall
This moment again
Where I don’t feel like opening up and eating
Because of what is eating at me
My dearest friend

Welcome to our pretty little vicious cycle
Where all I can ever seem to recall
Is how I need you
And you can’t see past anything compared
To the confusing pain that we bear
Just to get through

I would live every second of this vicious cycle
All for the few times that you can recall
That I’m your friend
Somehow I always see past this predicament
Of life throwing us on the pavement
When you get up again.

A. E. June

Seen And Not Heard

Whispers from a time
When I would have listened
Heard only now
That my shoes are fastened
I’m walking here
Across the swirling clouds
For I’m off to discover
Where I’m bound

An interesting understanding
In the ears above earth
Listens to the one
Who is seen and not heard
I began this momentum
To loosen me from tightness
This walk is a release
I longed from emptiness

To think I was ever content
On the grass of earth
This is the height
Where I hear my hurt
The thing is not to put on wings
But to grow
Get tall enough to leave
My angst below

Here, the place not to speak
When spoken to
Communication slows
As a mouth moves
The hands will direct
Any tongue that is broken
For they build the words
One longs spoken

And no longer will I listen
To the things I see
I will reach out
To see what is listening
So up, up I go
In a whisper of a new time
Where this clouded expanse
Becomes felt rhyme.

A. E. June

A Single Flower

In the corner of a garden
Among a place considered bare
A single bud lies blooming
But why does it grow there
For all around this garden
Lies nature’s vivid view
Where beauty blooms together
In picturesque patches, new
No need to linger in shadows
Dear flower, you’re not some weed
Take the chance of perfect roses
Be seen in bouquets by kings

“Because poet,” said the bud
“I’d rather be the first of so many
Flowers in far seasons to come
That fill this place of sordid empty
Consider me like a pioneer
Not some rookie missing out
For I will be the solid making
Of the patches of this ground
For like those all around here
They were started by a single flower
That bloomed in lone melancholy
But was the start of joy for hours.”

I sat back then pondered
On that sun lit garden grass
What just the beauty of nature
Can teach in its beginning’s past
So starts my growing cycle
A poet from a mere human
Like dirt to it’s new flower
Is my pen to my right hand
For I am a single flower
Among a place considered bare
Alone there I am blooming
And you ask why I bloom there.

A. E. June

Welcome to Penciled Heart Press!

Dear Reader,

The feeling of infinite possibilities in your hands. Do you have that? Have you ever had that?

I hope you find it. That all the aspects of your life fall into place and open up doors to the unknown – your future – and you don’t feel held back. Just race forward. Gain the people, actions, thoughts that will make up a lifetime. The ones that will flash through your head at the very last moment of it all.

You have those infinite possibilities. Right now.

For once, I’m allowing myself to know that I do too. It feels…great…freeing…like breath filling up lungs, giving me the frenzy to wander.

With shaky hands, I’ve officially laid my old blog to rest. In it’s place, I’m resurrecting a new project. Welcome to Penciled Heart Press!

I don’t know what all this will become. Here’s the first post, though. The beginning seed of self expression.

Stick around,

A. E. June