How can something so beautiful become so distorted and ugly?
I’m very excited to share my article published this morning with A Fine Parent, parenting blog, focusing on becoming better versions of ourselves as parents. I’ve loved working with them and being a part of their mission.
lightning splintering jagged
edge to edge
Not quite shards,
New space created
One to many
With hope and
Not quite shards,
Rumbling trucks pass by
Rattle the smallest piece
A glinting shower
All shards now
And an empty
I am not a willow
It seems our agreement shifted. And if I wanted to I would. If I believed anything other than the past would repeat itself, I’d behave differently. If I had it in me, I’d be right back on board. But,
I don’t have it in me. I don’t believe anything other than the past will repeat itself. In my deepest depths, recesses of my heart and mind, all my hidden coves, I know that nothing will change. I know that I will go through this over and over until I’m completely destroyed. Angry. Hateful. Resentful. Incapable.
And that’s not who I want to be. Not who I am. Not a person I’m willing to become.
I believe in goodness, in love. I believe in awareness, in knowing when you’re done, in trusting to know when we’ve reached an impasse.
It’s not that your aren’t worth it. You are my greatest love. You are everything I hoped and ever wanted. You are a kaleidoscope.
But I have scar tissue built up around my ability to go back. It’s marbled, knobby, held fast. I can see no, feel no, believe no other way.
The distance stretched too far this time. My heart is hardened. My hope proved insufficient. Asking for work, effort, belief, is out of the question. I’m tired. And I can’t.
Weakness exists in the mind of the slighted. You’re weak
In the mind of the one who cannot own. I was weak
Weakness, the idea of it, is an excuse. Protection against truth, honesty, ownership.
Weakness exists in heart of the broken. I am weak
In the heart of the lost. They were weak
Weakness, the idea of it, is a comfort. A barrier against pain, reality, ownership.
Weakness exists in the breath of the disillusioned. Crushed, forced from them until the final wisps trail out
Along paths worn deep.
Each piece you hand out may never return. Giving it all away so freely, you must know dangers await. Without a string attached, it won’t know to return. How will you have more than what you’ve got, if you’re slapping it in the hand of every stranger that walks by?
Surely, you could take more care. Keep it closer. Dole it out, once worth has been assessed? It’ll all be gone and you’ll be left empty handed. Hollow-hearted. Weak and sad.
I keep all of mine in here. See? It’s just there. In that pile. Waiting. For the right time. The right one. The one that deserves it. Earned it. Needs it. I’ll be fine sitting here, watching you empty of your abundance.
Fine, go. All I need is just there. Under that layer of dust. Beneath the lost and lonely. Don’t worry, I know what to do. While you dump yours all over, I’ll have mine right here. Close and always waiting.
i think i’m the worst sort of person. when is it okay to hurt someone else? when is it okay to say i can’t do this? only the worst sort would consider it. a person who thinks they deserve more than what they’ve got. that it could be better somewhere else. that constant waiting for the other shoe to drop will leave. the ebb and flow no longer dictated by desire or addiction. just ebb. ebb and ebb and ebb. til it’s gone.
but it’s never gone. even if you flush it out. chase it away. cut it from your heart. it’s still there. always hidden in the unsuspected. no matter the precautions taken. no matter the questions. no matter the reservations. always there. always ready to show me i’m wrong.
i am the worst sort of person
for wanting more than what i’ve got.
What are you fucking thinking? What are you fucking doing? Who the fuck do you think you are?
I don’t know. I don’t know. Just lost.
Figure your shit out. There’s only one solution. Climb back on the crazy train. And hang on. You’re not going anywhere. You don’t know how.
I could figure it out. I could stick up for me.
Please. You can’t. You don’t understand enough to argue. I’ll tell you what to do. You’ll do it. Because we all want the same thing. And that’s for me, I mean us, to be happy.
You don’t really care. You just want to secure me. Under your thumb. Shapeless. Faceless. Lost.
You’re ridiculous. I told you you didn’t get it. You’ve just validated my point.
For your unfettered consideration
and undoubtedly refined thought,
tell me how you interpret
all of these changes
that have come unexpected,
unannounced, and unwanted
into the lives of everyone
who manages to pay attention
and notice what wrongs have
been done, ignored, and
tragically encouraged with
the enthusiasm of
a two year-old child
and the recklessness of one
who knows nothing of struggle,
heartache, and loss.
Mighty 5 … in fifty minutes Workshop Margaret Pettis Poem 3: Goal to write on sentence (about 20 lines) that is one perfect sentence. Showing that I can control language syntactically, grammatically, logically. with 5 words per line.
Linda Pastan The New Dog that is one sentence that is grammatically perfect. See below.
The New Dog
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal whose innocent disruptions make nonsense of my old simplicities-- as if I needed him to prove again that after all the careful planning, anything can happen.