When you change your life for the sake of others you must accept that if it doesn’t work, that’s okay too.
And yet, you choose to defend
With blind eyes and closed ears
Ignoring your Truth.
Hope seeps through your fractured heart.
Slowed evermore by Should, like
Sand, those tiny glistening bits of quartz,
clogging all sense
Drawing a line between protecting and sacrificing,
Your search is endless and meaningless.
Blanketed by Ought, and held out of reach
By your own hand.
Extending forever outward in all directions
Never to realize
Nor to accept
Each dream, each desire stems from within.
| CLOSE | SAND | DEFEND | STEM | LINE |
-Weekly Writing Challenge #163 Poetry from the secret keeper
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.
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.
Oh how I long
for a romantic song
about co-dependence and
lack of boundary keeping.
Make it mainstream
With thoughts for the teens
And perhaps inspire change.
owning what’s yours
Admitting a wrong
A new world will begin
One we wish we lived in
But never realized it’s ours
for the making.
Pluma paced, preoccupied.
Perhaps, she went too far this time.
Her heart, she followed, though plummeting inside.
Pluma played it safe, you see, her designs always quite clean.
Pedestrian, pacifying, plain.
Pluma pulsed within, craving dynamic peppy seams.
Passion for fashion pushed her over the edge.
Now she waits for critics to drop their sledge.
The paper slips under her door.
Pluma pounces, peeks, prays.
And before she can pull her eyes away,
Pluma sees Princess Pud
On the full cover front page,
Parading about in her new favs
The headline reads:
Princess Pud Proudly Prances in Her New Pluma Puffy Pantses!
Puffy Pants are all the rage
Thanks to Pluma and her plucky passion for forward thinking fashion!
Oh, good god,
She can hardly believe it.
Pluma passes out
Just to conceive it.
I had a dream I wrote a poem. Inspired and fluid.
Excited, I stopped to read it.
To relive what I’d done.
Realizing as I searched that it was gone.
Never here really.
Just penned in my sleep.
Vertigo. I remember.
Earnest. True words.
And connection. A shared meaning understood.
Bright blue electricity snaking.
Images flashing white. Ignition.
You knew what I meant. What I wanted to say.
A shroud lifted. Light piercing through a dark room.
Questions forgotten. Explanations excused.
Insight. An unmistakable link.
Ease spread. It rippled across your face.
Just a dream though.
Tumbling in the dark.
Words about something that moved me …
Something I had to make clear.
To create. To do justice.
To completely share.
Loss and disappointment at what was only a dream.
Just a lingering desire remains.
I want to dig it out of there.
Deep inside my brain.