Oct 31, 2017





Empty like the sand and homework covered seat of my car.

Empty like the untruthfully peaceful fields of a silent war.

Empty like the space your breath, your thoughts, your laughter once filled.

Empty like the pedestal of my ideals that beautifully harsh reality killed.


But full!

Full like my heart with emotions to spare.

Full like my exsistence where our memories are simply there.

Full like my eyes that were finally taught to see.

Full like my soul that was finally taught to be,

Full of Hope.

Empy of regret.

To know that living is not to just cope.

That loving is not an impossible secret.

Yes I am torn, Yes I am flawed.

Yes today may be empty.

But I am filled with the knowledge,

That for once,

I lived,

For once

I loved


New Posts
  • estherhiilani
    Oct 31, 2017

    I feel there are pieces of you streaked across my fingers Leading bloodless trails to my heart. An invisible reflection of the colorful smudges that linger, Oily traces of my art. The stroke of your brush across my mind Leaves a broken jagged colorful Yet swift and sure implied line My paint was already thickly laid down, But the path of your hand Brought buried unseen colors to the foreground. Blending my subtle tones with a brand new vibrant hue, I realize there is an element to my design that I had not seen before I realize it is you. I step back to take a breath, to take the pieces in as a whole. And the words of a master echo, do not capture the body capture the soul. My hand hovers for a frozen moment over slippery wet paint, Do I leave the colors bright, or blend them faint? Or do I close my eyes and let the beauty of the unfinished linger on my tongue, For truth be told, Once a stroke is made It can not be undone.
  • estherhiilani
    Oct 31, 2017

    Vulnerable it seems like such an ugly word, like you are allowing your life to be spoken but not heard. As if strange fingers are slipping their way through the crevices of your mind and into your soul. As if you are defined by weakness, by who, and what, you are below. But what if your vulnerability is a conscious willing choice? What if a silent breath is your heart’s voice? What if the fingers that slip through your mind trace a path of longing over every curve they find? When the words spoken by your lips are felt not heard. When a slip of tongue leaves you flying higher than a bird. Is it vulnerability when you have the courage to take a step forward, Even when you know that step will place your back against a wall? When you allow someone else's existence to fill the space left as your breath falls. Is love simply a name for the choice to be so willingly vulnerable that it is no longer you or me? But a beautiful tangled mess of our broken pieces that is WE
  • estherhiilani
    Jul 10

    Fall 2012 Today, per homework assignment, I went out and observed nature. Not that nature is exactly hard to observe on this lush campus; around here it literally engulfs you, swarms around you, and gets under your skin... Mosquitoes anybody... To observe nature in the most comfortable manner, I planted myself spread eagle on a shady outdoor bench. Screened from the bustle of busy hallways by a vibrant thicket of torch ginger I had a little Eden all to myself. The sun was warm and the breeze was wet and cool. Before I knew it though the only thing observing nature was the outside of my eyelids. Nature was probably observing me, and making the most of my unguarded lunch box. For a blissful hour and a half I drifted in a blurry world free of homework, deadlines, or confusing people, then reality faded back in. Nature had to stay where it was I had to go back to my life of homework, deadlines, and confusing people. A few hours later I found myself sitting on a similar bench waiting for an appointment. My pen scratched across a page as I tried to make the most of my time but it soon fell still as my eyes were drawn to the red ginger where buzzing bees glinted in the setting sun. Life seemed so simple for the bees. They had one purpose, and they knew it. They lived; they served; they died. Their work was laid out before them and their deadline was the setting of the sun. Relationships were simple matters of life, not complicated webs of love and betrayal. For a moment I envied the simple straightforward lives and beauty of nature. Those crimson blooms did not ever spend their days alone, or have to wonder if their beauty was shadowed by a neighbor. They just simply were, and were beautiful. But then it struck me, I didn't want to just be, and be beautiful. I didn't even want to have a simple life. Maybe people are complicated sometimes... a lot ... maybe they hurt or confuse you ... a lot ... but with each wound comes new understanding and growth. Life might still be beautiful if people always made sense, but it would be a monotonous stale beauty. It would be a life of permanent calm summers. The sun would always shine softly and the breeze blow gently. But that would get boring very quickly, like too many sugar cookies. It is the stormy days, and the still grey calm afterwards, the stinging rain, and blazing sunsets that make each day something different; something new and fascinating. It is the thrill of looking into someone's eyes and trying to put words to everything unsaid that builds a fifth dimension to life's beauty. As we watch the blush colored sunrise of friendship, no one knows if the clouds on the horizon forebode a mid-day storm, or if that day is destined to end in bright glory. Unlike birds, bees, and red ginger flowers, people don't live a set routine of interaction. Their lives are not a patterned rhythmic dance. People soar, leap, and crash. Sometimes you find yourself in a light waltz, a fiery tango, a large busy line dance, or a sad lilting solo, but it is this ride through each other's lives that makes each day a surprise; each day a new chance.