*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.
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.
“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.
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.. ❤
There is a different pain
in understanding
than there is
in blind anger.
Revenge and hatred
rob you of opportunities.
The keep you in limbo, smoldering..
But they also take the edge off
through distraction and action.
Understanding means
you must accept
double the pain.
You must drop to your knees,
you must offer your heart,
Be vulnerable to start
over
again.
There is no immediate-
no direct effect- of understanding
but perhaps humility.
It keeps you not in fire, but in grief.
Both can exist in the same body,
but often
this burns bridges before you can cross them,
Floats signals of smoke before you speak.
We are often trapped then,
to condemn ourselves,
to one or the other:
As the women who react,
or the woman
you can walk over
and away from.
Written from the point of view of a woman living in a world where our emotions are often trivialized, and our experiences minimized.
I can feel myself enshrouding in isolation..
Its a curious temptation.
The desire to be alone
when all I crave
is to connect.
Birthdays are of only
one use to me:
Comparing myself
to previous incarnations
and
future assumptions
about where
this time and energy will place me.
Its always the hardest for my partners
When they want to get inside
And I let them pretend
By creating an outer layer of myself
That protects the most vulnerable parts of me from
Being seen. I cannot handle being seen,
as much as I desire.
I’m not sure there are many of us that can.
Lovers,
They don’t mean to lie.
They tell you they’ll love you at your worst,
(because that is what we all want)
They tell you they won’t leave you,
(because no one ever wants to be left)
They say they prefer communication over distance,
(because its hard not to know) .
They say these things
(meaning well)
And so it goes.
Then they see you at your ugly/
Engorged in your deepest fears,
and those phrases become
simple mantras
to spear
the beast,
relinquish her
and bring you to “peace”.
….
One of the bigger fears is still here:
that now that they’ve seen the ugly,
they won’t be able to un-see it-
and its talons are only
shackled by a hope
it won’t matter.
(That you can come home)
But hope is not reality, and reality is that
we are human.
And so as soon as the armor drops,
peace bargained monsters subdued,
it can be expected
they will decide to take space,
to shelter their thoughts,
and leave you
alone.
This is not unprovoked.
You recognize why they asked you not to do these things.
How much it hurts.
You understand.
And so instead you say “Okay”.
Instead you say “Go on”-
Because you understand their desire to heal.
And how big all of this feels.
Trusting, you tuck away your fears, once more.
And relay on what they’ve said will bring them back-
in the past-
in their own anxiety backlash.
…..
You begin wondering again:
why you are so hard on yourself
for not being able to accomplish the things you are asked
(by others, by yourself).
As you glance away,
I take the opportunity
To cup my hands
And scoop up the entity
of pain
You left in front of me.
Bending my elbows
I draw it into me
tender
And slow.
Here it sits
Encased in the
Warm,
clammy,
darkness
Of my palms: Fluttering
As you return your gaze
Words continuing
to slide off your teeth,
I’m only half listening,
Catching cues that tell me
When to nod or
murmer agreement.
Worry has traveled up my legs
And is now
tickling my spine
Uncomfortably.
The concern tells me
that
the longer I
hold on,
The more likely
I am
to release this being
Accidentally.
You haven’t noticed this
Struggle,
My primary focus
on getting
outside the present,
Where I can
release
this pain that resists
the confines
Of my skin,
And study it in the light.
You haven’t noticed,
Because I don’t want you too.
And you don’t want to either.
I entered this world
Into the arms of a
Woman
To whom
I was equal parts
blessing
And
curse.
Addicted and ill,
The thrill of a child’s love
Could only break the wall
At the right time.
I, too little
To care for myself,
Was another let down in her
World of resentment-filled-giving.
Through her reactions,
I learned that love was
Only earned
Through tears spilled
Voice strained
into silence
from crying
Mom
mom
mom
While she muttered
Through drunken breath
About how she hated
Her existence;
Alternatively I learned
through the effort
Of lightening this burden,
Her burden of being
Little hands attempting
To wipe windows
Without streaks,
To keep being the best of 3,
Living her dreams,
To make her laugh endlessly.
It didn’t matter though,
Because she still left,
Despite my best efforts.
11 years old
And she never came home.
And when I reunited with her,
She was still gone.
Sharing some more old fiction, as I begin to revisit my writing and wonder about its possibilities. Some friends and myself are doing a weekly writing group now, and I’m using it as an opportunity to commit to myself and my passion for words. (Sometimes I have trouble sticking with new things.) Curious to see where it will lead me! Anywho, here’s the beginning of a story I didn’t get too far into. The discipline of writing in the same style can be a stretch for me, and keeping up with the lyrical quality of this opening daunted me.
That’s what it feels like at least.
I brush the dirt off my pants as I stand up, and spit onto the pavement. What do I care if it’s not lady like? I used to care. I did. But you showed me a reality. Who am I anyway? Just another body?
My eyes squint as I look up and over towards the road. The cars are passing by, carelessly breaking the limit for speed on the suburban street.
Guess it doesn’t matter that some kid got hit last year. Reality is what you choose to exist.
My jeans have started to slide off my hips, creating an uncomfortable friction against the sweat on my skin. Tugging on the belt loops with my thumbs, I start walking over to my damaged car.
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I had called the cops. See that big dent in the car? That’s where I smashed into a tree, rushing to get to your house. I distracted the paramedics who should have been with you.
Before the tears can brim, I slide in, grabbing my I-pod, hitting shuffle and turning the keys in my ignition. My car is still resounding with an irritating beep because I’ve left the door open.
I turn and look outside at the yard, peaceful. So much unlike the cluttered chaos of my vehicle.
Once, I used to lay there in silence. The crickets could create music. Now they create a reminder. Cold nights climbing the roof of the local elementary school.
A muscle tugs on a smile at the edge of my lips. I let it linger, remembering those nights, before I switch the song and shut the door, savoring the metallic sound that closes me in.
Ricocheting Rambles 