The Breaking of Me

I’ve heard it said I should be glad of life.

Sometimes I can’t see the beauty, I can’t hear the music.

I’m listening, listening trying still to find out who I’m meant to be.

The music, it plays so faintly–I scarcely hear it now.

My body moves, the words from heart and mind through fingertips, but I can’t hear the music,

not when this world is blaring around me,

not with this chaos surrounding the hidden-me.

The weight of this life makes me cry and I can’t hold the pain inside without you holding me.

I’m desperate, I’m wild, I want to move freely but what can’t I learn is that I can’t be found in you, nor you in me–

surviving this will be the breaking of me.

 

Let the children dance.

Let the children sing.

Let the children dream.

Let them find beauty and be who they’re meant to be.

Don’t sentence them to silence and expect them to live free because to be whole they must one day be re-broken.

 

to dance and sing, to write, and to love, that would be a beautiful thing

Advertisements

Sand in My Blood

I can read your signs, I can read your signs I know what you’re saying

and I still see you, I still see you even when I look away

Part of me wants you, part of me hates this

I don’t want to be too close, but I can’t step away

I don’t want to face what could be but I can’t take what can’t be

I’ve been here too long, this sand is in my blood there’s no way across

 

I could find peace in your arms if I could leave my shores

plumb to the depths, lay bare all that’s between us

But I’ve got sand in my blood and silence in my bones

if only I could reach out,  if only I could reach out, if only I could reach you

but there’s an ocean between us and we’d drown in those waves

 

 

 

Reflecting

We’re made of spirit and stardust,

wonder bound up in bone and sinew.

Looking and longing for a reflection

of an unknown truth.

I’d rather be lonely than strand you beside me…

Yet still I ache for your voice, your laughter, your eyes.

I know — I know better but it’s like you’re inside me,

as if you know every destination and there you stand waiting.

There I see my reflection but an endless me is not what I should be reflecting.

My heart forgets the truth of me, forgets the truth in all this debating.

The cosmos flow inside my veins, yet still I don’t feel the power I contain.

 

Unbidden Fire

Who can say that it’s worse to never have loved at all?

Have you ever tried to douse a fire that trembles through your veins?

What of the love lost,

one that I want only to move closer to,

but one I must surrender to the cold torrent of time?

If I can’t be rescued from my mind,

with all the flaws inherent here,

when I am just who I am

how can I hope to save you?

I don’t know how strong I am,

I don’t know that I can save you,

but I will fight,

I’d give my life to face the demons that try to take you.

Let’s catch fire to the sky, strike the fear to chill their veins.

Beneath this cold ice, a fire hides inside.

What I Miss the Most

I miss being able to process. Having moments of silence.

I just need (many, many) moments to let life pass by without my drum beating

I don’t care that I play a different beat, but I don’t want anyone to see me drumming.

There’s something to be said about being hidden.

You see, when people think they see you, they offer up their comments about how you breathe, or how you sit, or how you process.

And when your mind is already overloaded — I pretend my cheeks aren’t flushing, that I don’t hear the stutter in my voice — then all the opinions are friendly grenades in the siege of senses.

These things ingrained. Oh, these things ingrained in my motions, in my habits, in my way of thinking don’t allow for pretense. This is who I am. It is who I was shaped to be.

Do soldiers forget their training? If your essence was stripped bare, if your first feeling was fear of bombardment, would you ever be uncircumspect?

You take your moments when you can get them.

The Deepest Dark

the deepest dark lies within our hearts

we laugh, we smile, bear and grin it

are we daring enough to really bare it

 

fear versus apathy

both trying to overtake me

it’s like the lights are out but I’m roaming around

trying to sort the universe out

 

maybe this is too internalized

I need hollowed out so I don’t feel

knock the walls down bust the windows out

it’s hard to change what you don’t understand

 

get the keys, fly down the highway

the pounding waves of the surging storm

–get over it, just move on–

the only moment of silence comes when driving under the bridge

the absence of sound, the separation from the constant roar,

the forgetting of the dark all around,

is bliss…

–just be happy–

addiction begins

 

But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window–maybe rearrange all the furniture.”
― Raymond Carver

Depression – that limp word for the storm of black panic and half-demented malfunction – had over the years worked itself out in Charlotte’s life in a curious pattern. Its onset was often imperceptible: like an assiduous housekeeper locking up a rambling mansion, it noiselessly went about and turned off, one by one, the mind’s thousand small accesses to pleasure.”
Sebastian Faulks

The Weight of Wanting

Fingertips caress my lips…

This prison of selfishness has me wrapped tightly in its firm embrace.

The real me, of beauty and of power, the better-than-me me is caged right under my skin.

I entrap myself. My struggle is in vain. Not because I cannot win. I will win either way. But which part of me comes out the victor… The one who grabs and schemes and hates? Or the one who yields and loves for love’s sake?

 

Living History

I, I carry inside me my family’s history

marching forward in misery,

bearing the weight of their suffering.

Drawn by the pull of their sins

that I wear as a covering

made of blood-tipped raven’s wings

spiraling faster to find the ache

of a restless heart and staled dreams.

 

Maybe it’s not the stars that align

but the brokenness inside you and I that ticks in time.

The spark in another’s eyes has a sweetness to fight back

the bitter taste of reality,

but next to you, I’m too recklessly close —

I’m not their living history.

I’m just a girl trying to chase away the shadows

from her head, trying to breathe in the free air.

Tell me I can shed these black wings

and finally release all that’s hidden here.

Tell me there’s a way to understand this stirring.

Pearl

You are my most precious of pearls,

yet I am to release you unto the world.

I don’t want to trap you in the confines of childhood–

no, I want you to run and be free–

or to use your innocent gaze to fill my own heart–

not display your love for all to see.

 

But do you see this marked and hardened shell?

I want only to protect you from all that would scar and mar,

from all that would tear apart your heart.

I would keep you here but you have cracked open

my life and all that was hidden there–

revealing the deeper pain beneath those outward marks.

How am I to teach you to be free when all in this world scares me?

The Lost Reflection

I am not looking for a lover.

Simply someone who understands what it is like to have these deep passions and dark moods coupled with an unchanging heart. You know who you are. We cannot find ourselves mirrored in art for we are not the sort of people about whom books are written. If we appear at all, we are in the background, hidden and haunted. Perhaps haunting is the better word. We are a sort of grey lady of life. Our passionate feelings are locked away behind our sense of ourselves.

We are emotional exiles living on the island of our mind. Our own body feels foreign to us. Not because it is the wrong body. But because every ache or pain, every sensation from it invades our mind.

The safekeep, the fortress, the prison of our mind.

If we hide within it we are deemed shy at best, cold or even haughty at worst. And if we seek solace beyond ourselves, seek to somehow share the intensity of our feelings, we risk being perceived as attracted to the one we turn to.

It would be deemed a choked and awkward, juvenile attempt by our stuttering and stumbling and (lack of) eye contact. If we could be looked upon as a whole being, then those judging us would see that our bumbling intensity is simply how we interact with a world outside of ourselves, a world that seems much too complicated to us who are overwhelmed by the internal.

Lonely exiles in self-imposed captivity.