pink silk against my skin
i close my eyes,
drift into that sacred place,
embraced by those things
that escape me in light,
transcended from the diffidence
that follows me through every waking moment,
tiger lilies and daffodils . . .
scents of a xanthic morning,
my lips still saturated
with the sweet taste of a poised demeanor
when the sparks of reality
emerge through the cracks in the blinds.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
pink silk against my skin
I am imperfect and damaged
I am a walking contradiction –
happy and sad,
lonely and loved.
I am scared and fearless.
I am a woman fighting,
I am coping as best I can.
I am smiles in one breath
and rage in another,
a mess of emotions
I don’t know how to control.
I am old in spirit
and so very young in understanding.
I am weary and tattered.
I’ve lived a hundred lives
and worn a hundred faces,
all on the way to finding me.
I’m not there yet.
I am the voices screaming in my head.
All of them.
I am not who you see.
I am searching for acceptance
I am searching for that touch –
the one that says I’m okay.
Because I don’t know it on my own.
I am honest,
with others, yes –
but mostly with myself.
I know my shortcomings.
I wish I didn’t.
I want to find a better me,
a more complete me,
a functional me.
I am searching.
I am learning.
I am trying.
This poem was bred from a One Minute Writing post I wrote several weeks ago.
it’s not strength that keeps me safe –
it’s weakness . . .
it’s not sanity that keeps me moving forward –
it’s fear . . .
rage spreads through my limbs,
a wildfire of words spoken and words kept silent . . .
of loneliness and isolation and irrelevance,
a quelling only accomplished with one vice or another . . .
socially unacceptable actions are the self-medication of choice . . .
when i’m strong enough.
it’s always easier after the first touch . . .
the exhalation purges the disease inside my head . . .
even if only temporarily . . .
are just melodrama and angst and the only way to purge it is to write it down and throw it into the world . . . . .
tired and worn . . .
stretched and pulled and beaten . . .
tired of the inadequacy . . .
need to get out of my head.
easily discarded and thrown away . . .
never can be what they want me to be . . .
never can be what I want me to be.
stupid for my naivety . . .
for thinking I meant more . . .
or maybe I’m just making mountains again.
think too much . . .
need to get out of my head.
no energy left . . .
want to run away . . .
want the world to disappear . . .
want to feel like I mean something.
want to cut, want to burn . . .
just want to make the world disappear . . .
need that control . . .
need to make the rest of this go away.
sorry I couldn’t be everything . . .
sorry I couldn’t be more . . .
sorry I couldn’t be perfect . . .
sorry I wasn’t good enough.
always trying to make it right . . .
make it better . . .
hate myself for not being good enough.
I feel so fucking stupid.
treading through the greys –
thick like honey to slow my movements –
reaching . . .
the rainbow watercolors
of Springtime pastels
almost within my grasp . . .
till I topple underneath my own penchant for comfort
This was written for the Trifecta Weekend Writing Challenge #68 – a 33-word piece that uses three of the following words: topple, paradigm, underneath, nerve, honey, loop
Put on a happy face and pretend like everything’s all right . . .
pretend like my heart isn’t breaking . . .
pretend like I’m not falling apart.
Act as if . . .
as if all is well . . .
shallow answers to shallow questions . . .
Yearning to scream . . .
tell the world I can’t be who they want me to be . . .
I just can’t.
Tired, weak, and I don’t want to feel.
can’t sleep . . . rest comes in small short-lived waves.
Inside feels so small,
outside much too large.
I feel cramped or exposed
and I don’t know which is worse.
keeping up pretenses . . .
allowing the world to continue to see what they’ve always seen.
fog surrounds the oblivious masses,
a white smoky drug
makes the outside world seem dark –
blinded by dogma and righteousness
they move with purpose,
stepping in line
to follow the frauds
who dress fear and hatred
with pretty gold trappings,
call them Law
under the guise of salvation –
obedient pets taught not to ask questions
for fear of the sin of knowledge
Since I’m stuck on yet another night when I don’t feel like writing . . . or thinking . . . or feeling, I’m going to force myself to do at least one of those things. I’m going to share some of my favorite spoken word pieces. If you’re interested in checking out more awesome poets, you can see some of my favorites on my Pinterest board, or just go to the actual YouTube page and keep clicking on the suggested videos (that’s how I found most of my favorites).
These are some of the videos I watch to help inspire me . . . or at the very least, to just help me feel when I start to go numb.
And because those are all pretty heavy, here’s one to make you laugh (so long as you’re not offended by adult content ) . . . .
can’t form a coherent thought
through the amplified sparks of sound
jetting through my dining room,
bouncing off of walls,
reverberating inside my head –
the clicking of my fingers on the keys . . .
the creaking of my daughter rocking in her chair . . .
the heavy breathing and interspersed snoring
from the man in the living room
who swears he’s not sleeping . . .
the hum of the fan under my computer . . .
all working tirelessly to keep the world spinning
till the nausea rises up
and the words in front of me become blurry
and the voice inside my head screams for a cold pillow and a dark room . . .
This poem was written for the VisDare 11: Whorl based on the image prompt above. The piece has to be less than 150 words. . . . It’s a true story and sadly, it’s the best I can do tonight. Now I’m headed for that cold pillow and dark room. G’nite all!
A flash sparked across the sky,
people cheered under lights of blue and red and white,
but I couldn’t hear the crowd
over my own screaming.
I paid the ‘doctor’
before he ushered me out the back alley,
I fell into bed that night
cold and barren,
my womb destined for emptiness.
The young woman in front of me
sheds tears and dignity
as she talks about the violation.
I hold her hand,
her feet rest in stirrups.
My tools are clean,
her choice is valid.
Freedom is more than patriotic fireworks.
This was written for the speakeasy #100 – a piece of fiction or poetry using the first line, “A flash sparked across the sky” and referencing, in some way, the picture below.