Pacing (free write)

Her feet pace

the tile floor

like the steps

of a Lioness

waiting

for her prey.

How many times

have these feet

traveled

back

and forth

over these years

Retracing things

lost

contemplating things gained

There is a sameness

to it

all .

Humbling.

Forgetting.

to pace herself

She wears thin

the soles

of her sneakers,

and of her energy.

Waiting to pounce

always.

Survival

Marked by

deterioration.

How do you live

if you’re not alive?

How does one

learn a different way ?

Pacing.

Electronic signals

creating background

symphony.

Being watched.

Keep moving.

Don’t let them see

knees buckle

from the hardness

of the foundation.

Pacing

Stalking

Surviving.

Rest

In your dreams.

 

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Such a damned thing. (freewrite)

Gorging on the sanctity of exhaustion

“happy” chemicals moving through limbs

tongues, fingers, eyes

free falling from reality

letting cares trespass outside

no longer penned up for close observation

their florescent desertion feels right.

The only way to feel calm

under course skin of palms

is to claim complete exhaustion

and sought after solitude

and understand how cliche it is

to be grateful

for such a damned thing.

The Dancer and The Healer

She lies

Not in your bed

But to your face,

Of friendship and honor.

Spirals of ruin

Bleed from her center,

Blamed on holes from long ago.

But she

Doesn’t realize at night

She spins, arms outstretched,

And nails ragged,

Hoping to create a world

In Her image,

Instead of the world she wants.

Once, you were

Mesmerized by this

Flourish of limbs.

Her nails dug into your most

Tender places,

And still, she captivates you.

I sit, upon this stone,

And wait for you to return.

Recognize the pull of ego,

The push of pain.

When you return,

I lift your shirt to

Find the bruises,

Offer you healing space,

And let you unravel.

A dancer earns no

Company, if she can’t

Convince the audience.

A healer earns no

Patients, if she doesn’t

Understand the process.

Funeral for your Selfishness (3/14/18)

*Freewrite, not yet edited. Mostly just processing.*

 

How long would it take you

to notice I was gone?

How badly would you

Want to speak at my funeral?

An opportunity for the thing

You always craved from me:

Attention.

One last chance,

Still never earned.

I was too easy for you all along

Or so you thought,

Until I decided that I

Wanted to receive as much

as I gave.

It would be ironic then,

If you spoke at my funeral,

Because just like now,

I’d have nothing more to offer you.

Morsels

Putting a bunch of shorter Poems from various days into this post. A lot deal with anxiety.  

 

2-26-18

Brushing my teeth

won’t remove the green

stains of jealousy

rotting my ability to

communicate. No, the

harshness of fear translates

ugly on the surface,

leaves others

with a prickly sensation.

Poor mental hygiene

is to blame.

 

12-23-17

Filtering thoughts

Overflow from work

Thrown headfirst

into a burst

of negativity

from all sides

no compromise

Christmas Time

and fielding lies

Finding truth

in only that

which matters to me.

Love divine

Irrational Signs

of cosmic symmetry

 

12-9-17

The barricades are rolling

up

over my toes and

up

around my ankles-

The prick of the wire

barbed and foreboding

makes me feel stuck

and I can’t

will myself to move

from this place

of fear.

 

1-?-18

Like the fox,

I won’t let you hurt me,

Not with your presence,

nor with your threats.

Instead I will watch

patiently, until you retreat.

Then I will tremble onward,

alone.

 

2-23-18

You.

An overdone sequence

of beginnings.

Declarations of intent

with no strength

to follow through.

Chewing on pens.

Later, later, later.

Why bother?

Reminders tacked to nuerons

firing yourself for trying.

Over before you started.

Begin again,

a bigger process

of learning to overcome

Nature

Nurture

(or lack thereof)

 

Summer-2017

I am the constant

swing of light

from day to night

I am the echoing

reverence of a silent church

My palms are flattened

from the support they offer.

I am enough to make

you wonder about.

Death becomes me

but I will not become death.

A removal of soul

beyond this physical realm.

My shoulders can dip

and shimmy into

outspread arms,

through valleys of truth,

the kind you spit out,

but doesn’t accept returns.

 

?-Summer-2017

I can walk you through battlefields from the confines of my memories,

A palm on your back to gently lead you around the landmines.

It is only later I will venture back alone

to talk to the ghosts there,

the figments of trust, love, nurturing, and safety,

and I will stroke their shimmering corporeal beings

in greeting.

We know one another too well,

and yet they still wonder why I continue to haunt the physical realm.

I remind them that they would not be visited if I ceased to lead

these new souls through their graveyards,

if I didn’t create plaques of poetry inspired by them.

They laugh,

because I don’t even believe me.

 

8-12-17

Living in a world of constant stimulation,

validation plugged into our fingers:

Tap, swipe, like, repeat:

We don’t make room for sunshine

and other necessary things.

The only way to conquer this constant pull is to

live with deprivation sometimes.

No outside inhalations.

Only those within.

Taking the time to sleep, organize, rifle through thoughts that have gathered.

If I let them all collect dust, the bunnies will outnumber my sanity.

 

?-?-2017

Anxiety is swirling around

the back of my throat

like a Bubble

Drowning

Cutthroat

the lining of my

vocal chambers

burn hollow

from the water in my lungs

Tongues

which have forced their

way into my

energy channels

Swimming upstream

Nightmare dreams

The desire to expel

but the lack of ability to tell

myself

how to accomplish this.

 

 

 

Fucked Like No Other 12/29/17

“You fuck me better than anyone else ever has. ”

She says,

And as instantly as my ego’s mouth

opens up to swallow the delicious words,

my heart pounds my chest

into a vulnerable cavity.

It recalls why it hurts

to hear these words,

even though my mouth has gone dry

with the thirst for them.

 

She has taken them away before.

 

Timing, age, hormone fluctuations:

there were always alternate explanations offered.

And while the subjective truth

is that it was likely

done for protection..

The sting remains.

Constantly doing the work to accept

my own feelings,

then being made to wonder

if I was just being

naive.

 

 

It is a curse at times

to read

others, and wonder whether their words will

find their body’s message.

Or if fear will prevent the delivery,

and suffocate the possibility.

Finally offered a drink in this heat,

my

tongue couldn’t figure out how to

swallow.

But I had already absorbed her into

my hollows.

 

Now, I sit and contemplate

fears we both harbor:

Her fear

 

whether my hunger

will outgrow her

ability to satiate.

My fear,

A sexual awakening of self

that could lead her backwards,

or perhaps forwards,

into this decade of desire.

Our fear,

that we become too significant to the other.

Our fear,

that the others passion,

is purely circumstantial.

 

Luckily,

There has been no denying

the strength of this connection.

It cannot be ignored.

It is too warm

to not take up space,

too obvious in the way my body melts,

too resilient in the way it fears

not taking this risk.

Active

Passion,

Love’s Purest Reaction.

We are both fucked.

 

 

 

Surrender in Process

Hands still shaking from

the way you fucked me,

I sit solemn,

staring across the room

at a platter

of Christmas cookies.

Inadequacy breathes down my neck,

Reflecting how

I faltered with rules

and temptations

Out of sync in sensation

Gagged by an inability

to express how I feel.

I kept it in, mouth shut,

But my body let it out

Bloody nose,

orgasmic flow,

tears falling

hot,

and unrelenting.

My body has learned to surrender,

While my mind has not.

It only accepts that sometimes

my body is weak.

And I benefit from it.

I’m cold,

but the heat is on,

I have words,

but you are gone.

The pillows, the blankets,

my fingers-

they smell like you.

But this poem

is for me.

 

 

Thanks to the person with whom I able to figure out these kinks in my own time, and my own way.. No pun intended. Okay, maybe a slight pun.. ❤