The Caged Dream

It’s the folly of man to believe he can own a woman, that he alone can possess her heart.

Gilded though they be, the bars of her cage cannot hold what is meant to be free.

A prisoner of those bars with no means to fill the hole in her heart —

the unfound is forever lost, all of life is loss

always seeking, always weeping.

Passion imploded leaves rage and a bitter taste, pacing along the confines of the space.

 

Passion directed opens the expanses to be explored, unfurling wings to seek the unknown.

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Wicked?

watching you watching me I look away, try to breathe

the warning in your voice urges me to leave, but I won’t ask you to prove what I already see, what I want, what I need

Maybe I am wicked, my heart falling apart, waiting to see the reflection of the lost hope, the fears I have hidden inside, to see I’m not the only one

I say this life too bold hands out years to tortured souls, years too far past weigh down the soft of heart with aching parts, immobilizing those for whom this life is not enough, yet still is too much

wringing wringing wringing my hands — tell me there’s some way bear these grating chains beyond throwing myself to the crashing waves because with this weight I can’t walk on the water, it only pulls me under

I’m just a lost girl and you see me, try to breathe

 

 

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

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.