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.

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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.

 

 

 

Its personal. 2/22/18

“Taken for Granted”
A one clit
Nipple twist
Into submission
Or volition
A fight for space.
Nuerons misfiring
And ironing
Out
All common sense
Sledgehammers
In the hands of Builders
Infastructure
Destroyed?
Or remodeled?
Tired of wondering
Bring 4th of July
To a winter picnic
Let Vitamin D
Deficiencies
And
Other
Deficiencies
Spark and ignite
Rainstorms
Seat belt warnings
Traction control
Turned off
Feelings get soft
When overly exposed
To air
Airing out
Overdue apparitions
Of swallowed mediocracy
Cacophony
Of noses sniffling,
Unable to determine
The scent of
Danger
Anymore.
Dogs can smell thousands
Of times
Better
Than we can.
And they can
Love that
Way
Too.
So whose bite hurts more?
Its personal.

Uncomfortable Defaults

I ask permission

for even

the smallest actions,

because too many times

I was stripped naked

and never questioned.

I learned to gather

any enjoyment from

being of service.

Nervous,

I learned that

shutting down

made me safe.

I’m uncomfortable

unlearning

that which has protected me,

even though I know

the hands that now touch me

offer home;

My fears

vibrate in this healing space, because

I still hesitate.

I still shake,

unable to know how

to offer more

than

my default.

Unsure if I ever will.

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.. ❤

Compassion for the Suffering

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).

 

Answer:                                                     We are only human.

And we are trying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What crawls beneath the rock

The soil of life is fertile for conflict, growth, and expansion. When we stop to feel the vibration of the earth beneath our feet, or the warmth of the sun up above, we can hear those whispers that remind us that we are ever moving and adapting to each moment and element of our lives.

Staying grounded has been a weary challenge for me these last few weeks, stretching out muscles for organizing I forgot that I had, and exercising the voice I often quiet in order to listen better.

I love being the rock. In the midst of storm, I like to seem still. On the sunniest days, I love to absorb and reflect the heat. Whether its night or day, I love to remain singular, constant, reliable. I’m comfortable with the weight of my being, which is sometimes quite heavy: a giver and nurturer by choice.

But I am more than my surface, because what effects me extends beyond my physical barriers. What crawls beneath and around these surfaces has the ability to distill my grounding, and my focus at times. It has the power to isolate me in these sensations, and pull me inwards towards thoughts I’ve tried to leave in the crevices beneath.

All of this metaphorical talk feels lovely to my nervous mind, which wants desperately to express itself, and yet balks from a public forum in which to share. There is a reverent recognition inside me for stories shared, and how the power of shared experiences can affect life around oneself. Indeed, I fancy myself as brave, but in moments where I might be able to depict a feeling with exact phrases or an exact story, the words feel too limiting.

This woman, she hears your struggle. She feels it in her bones. There is a reason she brings such fierce passion to her organizing, because her life is about creating space for those to share in struggle, as much as it needs to be about understanding where her struggle has left her. A victim, not quite, perhaps a survivor, but also, vulnerable. As we all are.

One Billion Rising is coming; the day, the events. It is her voice, my voice, shouting from the rooftops to those who know not my recent struggles, that this woman still struggles. She struggles with cycles of emotions, the pains of grief and shame, and the fire of empowerment and connection. She is not missing, she is whole; and she is feeling, and she is loving, and she is asking you to look deeper. Her shouts move beyond her, because that is the only way that she knows how to be okay..sometimes.

3rd person makes it easier for her to say this. Emotional and psychological abuse is abuse. And it is not okay, by any means. Critical discussion and accountability are the only ways to really counter this, but with good intention many want to fall to the side of the wrongdoer, as she once did, to help him change. In this, he continues his cycle, where many will want to ask her point of view, but not be ready to hear it.

And that, is real.

She wasn’t ready to hear it herself.

But she read it to herself as a bedtime story for many nights; she found herself listening to it like a podcast on the car ride home; she found community in a sort of book club which discussed the plot holes, the character development, and the climax.

No, she wasn’t ready.

But she was ready to begin writing the epilogue.

Yes, dear readers, this woman recognizes that compassion has its limits in human nature. We often tend to stick ourselves to the wrong doer, either hoping we feel repentance for our own shame by helping them change, or channeling all our fears into hatred towards them. It is not easy to tend to those who have been hurt, reflections of ourselves. This exists in micro and macro situations, where we fall into a spectrum of diversity. Ranges of this ripple outward from curiosity, but sometimes we hesitate to get answers that would make life harder or less simple. This woman has compassion, if not understanding, for those stuck in this place.  We can only hold so much at a time.

But you see, this woman knows she is the one holding the pen to her story. She rises above this novel with grace, a grace she knows only by her own strength combined with those that have been there to place a warm palm comfortingly on her back, to mail her letters of love and encouragement, to sip tea and discuss the possibilities in life, or share their own struggles in reminder that we all have each other. She has risen before, but never with the support of such a beautiful, empowering community around her.

She is a rock, but her roots help hold her in place. Alone, but connected.

Beautiful and raw.