What Could Have Been

The slow, even stroke
Of your fingertips
Gliding along my body

Lulls me to sleep,
Even as it arouses.

I still miss you,
Miss what could have been.
But this knowing--this certainty--
That we wouldn't have made it far
Calls me home.

I can say, I love you,
And mean it in a friendly way.
Because you hold a piece of my heart--
I let you in.

And those fingertips
That glide across my skin
Tell me you miss me too
You miss what could have been.

Object Poem

Concise and lyrical in simplicity, the nativity is beckoning for your hope, your trust, your love. It speaks of acceptance and involvement with life. I have it in a place of honor, all year round. It reminds me of my children. It's a gift of heart, filled with loving-kindness--the type I have for my children and yours. We are that nativity, sheltered under the stars, the moon. We sacrifice for our children. We give it all. And that little baby in that nativity? He is me. He is you. He is concise and lyrical in simplicity, beckoning for your hope, your trust, your love.

Manchester Collection

I.
Lying in bed, with these scars on my wrist,
I meditate on happiness
On a me I no longer am

Greasy, delicious cheese pizza,
Crust thin, in its box on a red and black tiled floor.
A circle of friends, of laughter,
Mingling with swallows and the
Sounds of chewing.

Tarot cards spread out on the floor,
Next to the pizza,
Detailing what our lives will hold

Death was never foretold for me,I think,
As I trace my scars with a finger.

II.
Communion is eating in fellowship.
Thin crust cheese pizza
Is not the body of Christ,
Yet it brings us together in love.

Tabby's tarot cards are spread on the floor
Resting innocently, waiting to be read
Waiting to deal out our future lives,
To give away secrets we never knew.

I lean against the dressers
Enjoying the company and the food
I laugh when they laugh
I cry when they cry

Thin crust cheese pizza is not the body of Christ.
Yet it brings us together in love.

Fellowship in eating is communion.

III.
I walk down three flight of stairs with her.
I tell her I envy her easy way with people,
Tell her how personable she is.
I will learn a lot from her in the next few years.

We pay the boy who brought our pizza,
Probably a college student like us,
And travel back up three flights
To eat in fellowship with out new found friends

Tarot cards are spread as we take our first bites
And Tabby tells us the possibilities of the future
Skepticism and interest are written on my face,
But I don't think anyone could tell.

The pizza is good--
I've yet to find it's equal--
And thus began the tradition.

Before the break up that is.

Before the college years took their toll.
Before my breakdown and subsequent leaving.
That pizza is a tie to a happy time.
A time I cannot recreate, not re-enter...
Even with an open invitation.

A Poem for Christmas

(written December 22, 2008)

There is a photograph
Of my brothers and I--
A Christmas with both
Mom and Dad,
Even after the divorce.

We look happy with our gifts,
With our family, being together.

Now, my brothers and I are grown.
We have five Christmas' to attend.
We're still happy, but it isn't the same
As when you're little.

I remember this photograph
Mostly because my Dad is in it.
It reminds me of a time that
Exists only in my imagination.

Of a time when the season was all
About Santa and Frosty the Snowman,
About the gifts and family

It's still about the gifts and family,
But it's also about Jesus.
He was in that photograph too--
In my smile.

The Verb

(written December 22, 2008)

I walk in from the cold
And heat envelops me
An instant sweeping change
I've had a few changes like that--

Irreversible.
Incomplete transitions,
Like a sentence without a verb.
You must supply the meat.

When you feel insubstantial
It's hard to bring anything to the table,
To be of use, of worth.

You must have that verb.
Without it--
You might get crossed out
By some editor's mark.
A big, red No.

But poetry--
You don't need complete sentences
Maybe that's why I'm at home here,
Sitting against this heater, writing again.

My Name

I'm seeing shadows again
Hearing my name when no one's around
Wishing it were you,
Instead of these demons that haunt me.
But you've left me.

I curl up in bed and will myself
To sleep sometimes,
When there's nothing else to do.

Yet, sometimes, I feel like even my depression
Has left me, but it isn't a good feeling.
It's an empty, hollow space that has
Depression's mark all over it.

I'd rather feel something.

Feel that first bright burn of love, or hurt
Feel the way a child can sneak into your heart,
And, oh so slowly, back out again as you grow apart.
I suppose it's the same for lovers.

Sometimes I think my feelings have left me,
As you did--
To nothingness.

I think that part, that numb, nothing part--
I think that's when I start to see shadows again
To hear my name in a voice
Seldom used.

Restlessness

Writing postcards to people I don't know,
I stay up past my bedtime.
Sleep will not claim me.

I try to sleep in.
There's no reason to get out of bed.
But I'm restless.

As always, I'm restless.

Is there ever a good enough reason to get out of bed?

Monsters Under the Covers

We are the monsters
We are the mistaken
Why is there always some
Negative thing to drag you down?

Down into murky waters,
Where you drown.

You choke on those waters,
On being a monster,
Because you are a monster.

But you are mistaken.

Danger

I am burnt gold fingerprints
Like Hiroshima's bomb-
Laid waste.

Have you left me?
A long time ago.

I am crisp white sheets
Like a dry erase board--
I create

I am in as much danger now
as when you left.

Dead Roses

(Written November 11, 2008)

I write myself into a depression
And begin to sob
It's 3 am and there's no one to call
No one online, for once.

So I'm alone,
Alone as only depression can make you

Who am I?
Am I just a mass of
engineered chemicals?

Do I really want to know?

A call to my therapist, Help!
And a recall of all my past mistakes
They hurtle around inside my head
Until I want to pull my hair out

Oblivion!
I need oblivion.

Dead roses and five Klonopin later,
I feel numb, finally.

Stacey

(Written November 1, 2008)

There is so much I won't do
So much I'm afraid of
But you...

You volunteer, you get involved.
You live in foreign countries,
speak foreign tongues.

How is it that you are my rock?
The one I need to talk to
When my life has blown up.
And it has, several times.

More times than I would like to count.

So thank you.
Thank you for being there.

Make Believe

I don't think this has been posted on here yet....

(Written February 18, 2007)

love is like hope that fills empty places in your heart
it makes me weep to remember you, to ask you to give me something, anything, to remember
in all the darkness and in all the light, you are there
i hold dreams in my head, and they are happy
happy with that hint of sadness that speaks to the soul that knows it will not last

i dream of you, of elijiah and olivia, of being more thanI am.
You would make me more than I have been,
already have, with your love and your peace
your ability to feel to learn to know to grow

is this another love letter to the one etched in my heart?
is this another love letter to the children i will adopt?
is this a love letter to myself, the first?

i believe at times that the sadness of this world will crush me with its weight
But I know the laughter that bursts past my lips and the smiles and the child's delight covers all of it

i've made you think that i hate snow, because i dislike the lack of color, the cold
but it is beautiful and peaceful and exhausting
it dusts the earth with crystals and softness
covers us with drops of pearl and comfort, just as the green that follows restores the spirit,
as the falling of leaves reminds me forever of happy times spent in happy places
i feel this hole in my heart, more than you can know
i fill it with business and the love i still hold for you, but i remain a shell, a husk, a charred and burned out hovel
at the end of each day

my organs will turn to dust before i'd want to forsake you
my children will grow up with what i have been taught, with all that i have to give
they will live in magic, in make believe, i would give everything i have to give them that
to fulfill what i've always believed
their dark eyes will mirror mine and they will know how to love
how to givehow to grow

they'll have your sensibility and my determination, my mother's genorousity
as well as that spark that is purely them, they'll have all that because i will give it to them, i will model it and claim it and give and give and give

you are the closest thing i've ever come to devotion
and yes, every smile, every tear, every frustration and joy
every word i write and every hug i give is a love letter
to you. to me. to a future of make believe.

Promises

In the end all we had was each other,
And then all we had was ourselves.
It's a loss that has been counted.
A loss that I cannot pretend doesn't exist.

This year, on my birthday,
I promise to not be maudlin.
I promise to not count this year
As another failure,
Or to remember failures.

A failure of love to withstand our needs.

I promise to not think of you,
To not think of the parking lot,
Or of empty, meaningless sex.
But especially,
I promise to not think of
that beautiful promise
And how it shattered me.

Because in the end,
All you have is yourself.

Naturally

(written November 2, 2008)

Plastered behind closed eyelids
I listen to my breathing and
wonder if you hear me.

Are you as aware of me
as I am of you,
lying there beside me with
darkness as our blanket,
the great equalizer?

My breathing feels forced as
I try to be natural.
I'm lying so still because I'm
afraid to disturb you.

Why can't I relax?
Why must I please you?

The Words

(written November 2, 2008)

I wish I were a poet at large
But I don't always have the words.

The words to communicate to you
My stream of thought, my heart.

And it kills me when those words don't always
Make the sense I think they should.

I'd hate to be read and misunderstood
Or worse, read and put down
Because I lack the words

To communicate my heart.

My Soul

(written November 2, 2008)

My soul is on display on the table next to me.
My fears shake out from my hands.
Self-exposure and self-expression are
much the same thing.
And my first book of poems is both.

I write and I write until I have no more to say,
For now.
And now I'm putting all that writing together--
A progression, a story of growing up.

My first book of poems is both
Self-expression and self-exposure.
And my hands shake out my fears,
Because the table displays my soul.

Air

(written November 2, 2008)

Floating while sitting still
I can't seem to find the ground
For all this air

I'm lying awake yet another night
Writing because I can't sleep
And I'm so high, I'm floating on air
In a bed that seems to take flight
When I close my eyes.

Shaking from shoulders to fingers
From high-dosage pills and more
coffee than I'm used to,
My pen is only steady when on the page.

I wish my words would take flight,
Fly as high as my mind,
As high as this tightly controlled mania
Will take them

But I still have to work
For every phrase

I close my eyes to rest them.
And to think of my next words.
And again I am floating above
the ground, swimming in air.

The Girl in the Photograph

(written November 2, 2008)

She looks so happy,
So pretty,
Standing there between
Two friends.

Her short, sassy hair
Seems to invite,
While the curves of her body
Entice.

She looks so happy.

What happened to her?

The Man in the Moon

(written October 26,2008)

If I had the night sky all to myself
I'd lay in the grass and stare at the moon
I'd try to discern if there's a face hidden there
Or if it's just this universal indifference

If I had the night sky all to myself
I'd curl up in the grass and dirt
And cry out my sorrow, my burdens, my fears
I'd give them all to that bright, blue moon

Because I like to believe there's a face hidden there

And when I was done
The wind would dry my tears
And rip at my clothes
Reminding me that I am cold--

Man in the moon or no; He can't keep you warm.

The End

(written October 23, 2008)

Desolation
Destruction
This is how I feel

Deconstruction
Discontent
I need to make some changes

Rebuilding again--
I wonder what face
The mirror will see
When it's all at an end.

Where it Counts

(written September 22, 2008)

I never have enough to give to you
And when I do talk I feel unnatural,
Manic as the day is long
So mostly I stay quiet, in my own world
Where nothing much happens
Yet, the world is expected of me

I'm meant for more than this, aren't I?
Is my task here so simple as to teach
These children right from wrong?
What about me?
What about what my soul needs
To keep it going strong?

What of the practice my days require?
Does this forced interaction prepare me for days to come?
I'm full of questions with borrowed answers,
Or none at all.

Sorrow

(written September 22,2008)

Rivulets of rain grace my window pane
And I can't help but feel like that window
And the rain is sorrow running through my pain
Down my glassy cheeks, to places where sorrow collects
To strike another day

My sorrow consumes me and I die in
Self-reflective writing, everyday
Until I am nothing but a scribbled page
Filled with nonsense, verbs and nouns
Filled with sorrow

I guess it collects on the page.

Yet Again

(written September 22, 2008)

Time spent wasted away
Right where God wants me...
To learn what?

Yet another doctor to fill another day
At least I'm not hospitalized
Listening to other people's problems
And feeling superior.

Yet another hour spent writing
The only thing that seems to keep me sane.
Even when I was manic, it was a saving grace.
It showed me how bad I really was.

Yet another overdose of Klonopin
Swallowed with the best intentions
But swallowed nonetheless

Yet another day filled with children's tears,
Hurts, and complaints
So few are the times of happiness
Or maybe I just have trouble finding them

Yet another year of nothing
Of no accomplishments.
Another year to be a disappointment
To my family.

I used to have a way with words
I used to be able to turn a phrase
Now I feel all dried up--
The reservoir of words has gone up in steam

Why can't I be happy with me?

Is it bad to wish for a manic state,
Just for a change of pace?

Shattered

I've got a poem waiting to break free
If only I could find its rhythm
Pin its words to the page
Like butterflies on display

This poem will shatter you
It will shatter me
It will be great
But I can't get it down

The words elude me

TS Eliot

(written August 22,2008)

I'm a wasteland
A Barren shell
A scattered wind
And an unformulated plan

Shards of me
Float aimlessly
In an endless sea

There's no knowing where I'm going
Or who I'm going to be

Can the broken pieces be put back together?
Or is it time for a new me?

I feel lost
Broken
Undefined

I don't know what I live for
What I stand for

I've chased mistakes
Until I'm nothing but dust
At their feet

I was so happy once
Once upon a time
But there are no happy endings
Not this time

What do I have that I can call mine?

Blue as Blue Can Be

I am blue as ocean waves, with white-capped peaks and bottomless depths.
I am as green as grass, freshly mown--any greener and I'd have to have been born yesterday.
I am red as shame after Eve's fall. Was it really so wrong?

I am a song never sung to just anyone, but a song nonetheless.
I am a poet, though I haven't felt like one of late.
I am nothing to me and can't expect better from anyone else.

But I am as red as passion clasped tight in naked arms, held, enthralled.
And I am green as envy--you have accomplished so much more than me.
And I am bluer than a frostbitten tongue.

Blue enough, it would seem, for both you and me.

Drug Abuser

(written May 31, 2008)

Another sleepless night
Free of things that go bump
In the night

I want drugs
So bad I can remember the
Sensory perception of being on them

I want to be knocked out
But I don't want to have
Vague memories of trying to
Pull an IV out of my arm
While family and doctors
Keep an eye on the
Drug abuser

I just want to sleep
To not think
To not dream
To just float away

I want, I want, I want

Closed eyes put pain to it
As though mocking the idea of sleep
So I lay awake staring
At the ceiling, at nothing
For yet another hour

Everyone

(written July 23, 2008)

Not every thought
Can make a poem,
Turn its conception in chaos
To a brilliant white light,
A Beacon of truth.

Not every word
Is meant to be spoken,
The hurtful ones least of all
Because you can't take them back,
Even when you ask for forgiveness.

Not every song
Should be played
Loud and long
Some are soft as rose petals,
They need a gentle touch.

But every person--
Everyone can be loved.

Love and Luck

(written July 23, 2008)

Legs of mutilated hope
And a cap from an empty bottle of pills:
Klonopin, it reads.

It feels as though I've spent half my days
Waiting for a name to turn from gray to black.

Time spent staring at the walls
And a sign to remind me:
Take your fucking pills.

It feels as though I've spent half my days
Wasting away this life I've been given.

Black on white--permanent ink
And marks you can't wash away:
Whore, they yell.

It feels as though I've spent half my days
Writing out these letters, verbs, and nouns.

Hair removal to purge memory
And a drawn-on wedding ring on my marriage finger:
Flash it with pride.

It feels as though I've spent half my days
Out of love and luck.

Love Song

(written July 23, 2008)

Strike a chord for harmony
Then strike one for love
And soon you'll have a melody
That dreams are made off of.

Play a tune of empathy
Then play one of heartbreak
And soon you'll have them crying,
Crying out their love.

Dream a dream of chemistry
Then dream a dream of true love
And soon you'll have a reality
That ideals are built on.

So strike a chord,
Play a tune,
Dream a dream,
And remember...

Foolish dreams are the dearest,
As are songs of love.

Failing

(written July 22, 2008)

You were a pretty lie
Held onto because none
Is prettier than this--

This dream I had of you and I

But dreams fail
And we found out it wasn't what we
Wanted anyway

But still, it remains a pretty thing
A thing of value
Perhaps, in some alternate dimension,
We ended up together, you and I

Perhaps we grew old together
Had children, who then blessed us
With grand-children

But perhaps we wouldn't have had normal--
Our passions always did run high
And your dreams, they were always bigger than mine.

Would I have been swept along on your current?
Always going somewhere bigger and better
Than the last fantastic place?
Or would I have been swept aside,
Like so much dirt marring your perfect days?

And tell me--
I want to know,
Would I still be me
After you were through
Chasing all those dreams?

I think it's best
That we parted ways
But I can still recognize
The value of such a lie.
Such a pretty lie.

Q-doba

(written July 22, 2008)

I'm sitting in Q-doba watching
the rain pelt the pavement.
The wind swings the street lights
As they turn from red to green
And back again.

I wish I was anywhere
But here,
Sitting across from you

I don't mind the rain
I don't even mind getting wet
But I can't sit here,
Hold a conversation,
And not wish I was somewhere else.

The light is red
And I'm hanging by a thread
Now it's yellow
Warning me to slow it down
And green--
Green as grass after a rain,
It reminds me that I love you

But there's only so much love
It can't get you by on its own
So I sit here
Red, yellow, green
And wish I was anywhere else.

Spice

(written July 22, 2008)

Expanded waist-line
And wasted time
How I wish the
Skies were gray

January again
The freezing time
Lost selves
New allies

But still--
That waist-line

Perhaps when the
Skies are gray
I'll cease to think
In phrase

But July--
Blue skies
Brings new delights
Like lilacs in the shade

Variety is the spice of life

Memory-keeper, Soul-seeker

(written July 5, 2008)

I write because one day I will not be able to
I will not be able to remember,
So I write.
I will not be able to lift my hand without it shaking,
So I write.
I will not be able to think as clearly as I can now,
So I write.

My writing is a record
A recording
I write to find the patterns, the means, the themes

I want as much of this life as I can to be written down
Because then and only then can I make some sense of it

My writing is a living will
A living determination
I write to find the discipline to write

Even when it feels like I lack
Determination or Discipline, or both
I write.

My writing is a testament
A testimony
I write to find the truth--inside me, inside you

I write because there is never enough truth between you and me
Because I yearn for a truth so bright
That it would shine like gold from the page

I write because to not write would break my heart

I write from the land of milk and honey
Of plentiful and never enough
I am a memory-keeper, a soul-seeker
I write from a well that never runs dry
And my cup, it runneth over.

Choice

I still don't pray
Not like I should
I'm coming closer and closer to belief
But it remains elusive

I used to think Jesus was just another prophet
I've come to believe in the Holy Trinity
I used to think all faiths led to God
But now I'm not so sure

If you don't believe in a Christian God
Can you really go to a Christian hell?
Is it a physical place, like I've read?
A God that created the universe
Could certainly create a heaven and hell
Like two distant planets

But I don't want to believe
That someone who grew up in another faith
Could go to a Christian hell.

Sometimes religion is like your parents
You can't help what you're born into

Maybe I was lucky after all--
Being born into nothing
Christian values I suppose,
But we didn't go to church

Maybe I'm lucky,
To get to decide without
A lifetime of conditioning

Or maybe it would have been better
To be born into a church-going family
Where faith would have been second nature

But you can't change your upbringing
And all I have is this weight of choice
Sitting on my shoulders

My Favorite Things

I've become bitter
About the way things have turned out
About how life has been dealt me

But I've come to realize
That I can't stay mad.
I can't hold on to anger.
Disappointment, fear, bitterness--
These are a few of my favorite things.
They are things I hold on to

In low moments
When I am reminded
Of all my losses,
I hold disappointment in my hands

In contemplated trips
When I miss my friends
And the events in their lives,
I hold fear in the back of my throat

In the middle of the night
When I close my eyes
But am unable to sleep,
I hold bitterness to my chest

In moments preceding weakness
I recognize my failures all over again

There are times when
I want to be 19 again
When the lights are low
And so am I

I don't want to go back
Knowing what I know now
So I can only hope that there's no such thing as fate
And that I wouldn't
Repeat the same mistakes

I can wish to go back
To that happy time
Even knowing how stupid I was
How naive

But you can't return
To a time already lost
To places foreign to you now
To faces that no longer know you
Because you aren't that 19 year old girl
Not anymore

I stopped sharing myself with others
It feels so foreign to open up
To talk about my personal life,
Such that it is

I've come to the conclusion that no one cares about you
The way that you do
There is no one else
That really cares about the details of your day

And while this is sad,
I believe it is true.

Oh, I wouldn't wish this existence on anyone

But I suppose it isn't that bad
Who I've become could certainly be worse
And I no longer think
Of taking off-road trips
And short cuts to death
So I've improved, you see?

Maybe in time
This bitterness I have
Will pass
Like the rain
Like the sun

Like a day in the dark

Choked on Love

Once a silly girl thought she was in love
She felt her too full heart
Expand out of her chest,
Taking the room her lungs needed to breathe
Until she was so light from lack of air
That she floated above reality.

It's all a half forgotten dream now,
After she came tumbling down.
And the silly girl, she hurt--
She choked on love.

Burning Bright

The flame burns bright,
Flickers and then holds, strong
The orange of it glows for me
The yellow, it's always for you
Metaphors, metaphors...
My love is ash on my tongue.

Sometimes this love hurts, like a pang.
A half forgotten memory
That surfaces when I least expect it--
A sharp contrast to my soft skin,
The aching pulse, the reminder of life.

But it's all I have to give--
My soul in my eyes,
Ineffectual love letters,
And that orange that burns so hot?
You repel it

Relating

I thought it would come true
This dream I had of me and you
But it turns out that dreams fail
And little ones assumed dark are now pale.

I thought things would be different
I thought you would remain true
I guess I thought I meant more to you.

But thoughts can be forgetful
When absence steals my dew
And other girls surround you, shiny and new.

Penned

written in 2007

It's not the lies we tell ourselves that get us in trouble, it's the lies we believe. Sugar-coated, sticky sweet lies that drip off your tongue like honey. Thick and warm, these lies give birth to a whole new way of thinking. Then, before you know it, you can't tell the truth from the lies you made your truth. These lies live and breathe, taking on forms so grotesque that you begin to believe you must be wrong some how to have created them. Literally made wrong. Dysfunctional. Perhaps, even, insane. These lies spawn a whole new reality featuring you as the worst thing you can imagine. You pin the whole of wrongness to the front of your chest, attached to the heart, puncturing lungs to get there til you're broken in mind and body. Soon your spirit follows. You believe that you are the monster you've painted yourself. You come to believe that you are worthless. That life can't get any worse and yet you know that each minute it does. The next moment drags into the next. And you just can't get out of the reality that you've created. You can't get out of your head long enough to think. You're stuck. Pinned. Penned.

A Child of Mine

Little lives are entrusted to my care
But I can't even take care of me.

As I sit and watch those lives,
Entrusted to my care,
I can't help but want
Better for them than what I've had.

I want my children to know
A better life than mine
And believing that impossible--
No one's life is easy--
I would rather just be alone.

Alone to storm the years, the fears
But at times alone just means lonley
So I dream of a boy, a little Elijah boy,
I don't know if he is mine--
A child of mine would require a sacrifice of sanity
A host of pills to replace the ones I already take

So I try not to dream of the future
Of maybes and what if's
It isn't healthy, it isn't living in the now.
The present is all anyone ever has
So I try to be content with my uncertainty

And day after day,
I watch those little lives unfold.

Rinse and Repeat

Day after day
It always seems the same

And it's so silly
To worry about the past,
But history has a way of repeating--
I couldn't bear to break again

So many times
I have wanted to be natural
To not pump chemicals into my head
Daily, nightly and again

But I'm too afraid to try
Too afraid that things would fall apart
Afraid that I need the pills,
That I need balance more than I need me

So I surrender this day to you
I have no use for it

Because
It all seems the same
Day after day

Guilty for Telling the Truth

This loveless weight,
Like guilt because I
Do not bear young
Even though I can,

It presses on me
Until I feel like I should feel
Something for someone,

But there's just me.

I feel like weeping
For a man I've never met
A man that may not exist
And I wonder,
Is there only that bright, blue moon?

There is no other for me.

If you lie to yourself,
Is it still a lie?
A lie told in the light
And strengthened by your awareness of it

Does it become truth?

If it does then I'm afraid this guilt I feel
It's a love-lie
A dear, lovely, love-lie
Held tight like a good memory.

Is it possible to feel guilty for being something you aren't?

Because I am not.
And I am.
A lie.

Freedom

(written May 12, 2008)

I imagine Death to be Freedom
But I wish Freedom looked like Love
Then I could say I yearn for freedom,
Openly, and no one would worry
And I could continue to strive
For a death that looks like love

How realistic is a freedom that looks like love?
Does love free you or tie you down?
I admit that I don't know
But I hope it opens doors,
Creates possibilities, and always,
Always strives for more

My love will shimmer like a mirage
Yet be solid as a rock
Or I won't have it at all.

My death that looks like freedom that looks like love
Will be transcendent
So don't mourn for me
You don't mourn love

Sanity-savers

I take another day
As I swallow the pills that keep me sane
Sane for another day.

I forgot them last night,
So maybe I was less sane today.

What would happen to me
If I were to stop taking these pills
These little sanity-savers?

Would I fall apart?
Would the world melt around me?

I fear so.
So I try to remember to not forget.

Dia de los Muertos

If life were easy
There'd be no need
For depression, suicide
And all their ilk.

But life is hard
And I still dream
At times of death.
At times of life.

Fear is a funny thing
It stands in your way
Until you knock it down
And then you wonder what kind
Of hold it ever had over you

Today is the day of the dead
The day when the walking wounded
Strive to be something more

Here I am--
Staring at prayer flags
Wondering if emotion has to be authentic
And thinking of you

I'd like to think
Emotion is authentic
But I remember you
And I know that's not true

The broken words between us
Will not mend with love
No matter how hard you wish it

Because today is the day of the dead
The walking wounded strive,
For more.

I am the lover I don't have to love

(written April 17, 2008)

Don't you ever wonder what it's like,
To wake up and feel alive?

It gets old,
This breathing in and out
(Until I stop).

I feel old in my hands
Little old lady hands
Shaking like a leaf.

I don't want to grow old
Become broken in body
As I am in spirit

Become a shadow of myself
Unable to think coherently
Unable to write

Unbelievable and irrevocable
The point of no return
Not for me

If I can't write, read, explore?
There is no matter before me
More important than this

The only regret I'll have
In stopping the breath of my lungs
Is that I will never have ever felt alive.

Writing to You

(written April 17, 2008)

The shadow of a new dawn
Grows cold on the pavement
And I've yet to hear from you

I've been sitting in this window seat
Wrapped in a blanket
To ward off the chill.

Yet, the numbing feeling of ice--
If I'm shivering, I know
I can still feel alive.

The hours grow into days
And I miss your voice,
Your face

My heart tells me you will come back
But, raspier still, the voice of reason
Tells me the days will turn to years.

With only the glimmer of hope
I shiver in the morning cold
As I sit here again

Writing to you

Risk

(written April 15, 2008)


You say I am not moving
And I agree
But I need this time to renew, to grow
To grow anew

2009
It seems such a long time
With nothing but the empty to guide me

All I have is a handful of broken promises
Covenants with myself
And this time--
To make (or break) new promises

I'm afraid of what nothingness will bring
Afraid that in doing nothing, I'll become nothing
Afraid the nothingness will claim me
That I'll remain empty after my time is up

But most of all--
Afraid to start
Afraid to give myself a year of rest
Of nothing

Nothing Stays Different that Stays the Same

There is nothing you know about me that can't be changed
There is no place sacred for me without faith
Yet there is a constant variable that you know nothing about--
An untapped resource
A strength I could not live without

I wear a shield like trust
Fragile but hopeful
I keep my eyes shut
And pray

Prayer isn't easy for someone who wants to die
It makes it harder to be sincere
You feel like a lie
A lie told in the dark
Because lies are easier to believe when you don't see them coming

A chance--
A stab in the dark
And a steely will to do this life well
To live without contempt for life

Faith is a funny thing
My faith is not blind
But still, it is hard to see the bigger picture
To live outside my own head
To see and yet believe

Believing as I do
Living as I do
And one day, perhaps, a true and final death
This makes me who I am
And who I am?
Well, that can change

Lament for the Poor

If my throat could bear to curve this tune
I'd have a poem, a lament for the poor
The poor at heart, the scorned

If my emotions could be taught to sing
They'd play a song for you
But my heart is stone--
And you left when I had no voice

If but the beat of my pulse
Were enough to keep alive a memory lost,
I'd never consider this drive
This drive of pain and perhaps shame

But if's and and's are all for naught
And it is my hand steering this wheel

The ways and days of these midnight hours
Fill my head with weariness
I remember loves and wonder
If I've ever loved at all

And then I laugh because
To not have loved would mean release,
Relief, resolve

The resolve to never sing again
To never let my heart be polished
By a sweet song

To mend the ways of a broken spirit
To knit together my soul--
So tight!

With each tick of the clock
I grow closer to Death
Like lovers meeting in eternal shade

I'd sing for Death
I'd crack open my heart
And pour out my love--
So fast!

So fast I'd fade away
A soul leaping from this grave of a body

But Death is no friend to me
He snubs me at every turn
No accidents befall me
No switch is flipped
No light is burned out

So, weary still, I sit
And my heart keeps time
With my breaths
Betrayals both

I don't know how to make you understand
My poems are not about dying
But about living

Living a life, as others do,
Of tedium and despair
Through heartaches and laughter
Just living.

I can make it known that I want to die
But that's just surface--
There's so much more to me

If my heart is that stone
And the moon is just and always
A moon
Then the world is a cruel mistress
Kept at too high a price

If my song were enough to make you stay,
Would I be any happier?
I think not.

These chemical miles I have travelled
Have professed to help
But I still feel the same
(I hide it better)
And the difference is that no one knows

So is it a life I lead, or a lie?

Can you tell me friend,
For only to you could I be so intimate,
Is life worth leading when you've forgotten how to sing?

The Emptiness that Burns

(written February 7, 2008)

The hard edge of life is getting to me again
Tired muscles hide what was once a long goodbye
Language is a barrier I can't seem to breach
So I lie with my words
I don't practice what I preach

I say I'm an open book, but see, you have to pry
And did I say it would be easy?
Well, that was just a lie.

I tell you what you want to hear
What I want to hear too,
But I know it from the truth

I'm not as well as I pretend to be
But I'm not the despondent mess I remember
Or the manic idiot dressed for surrender
So maybe I'm not as bad as I've been

Does that make it less of a concern
When I say, I want to die?

Sometimes I think I am a Sally
Pinned to the wall by love
Like an especially interesting bug
And that tears at me, until her words are mine
And I can't remember which of us has
The emptiness that burns.

Autobiography

Life is a harried confession
Told to no one and everyone
So how does our own narrative get away from us?

Tell me, are we not responsible because we looked up
Before we ever thought to look down?

When we fell, and we did,
Were the sounds we made a quiet anguish
Or did we rejoice that we no longer had to talk so loud?

I think life is a story,
Lies we believe to be truth
Truth we take for lies

And that is how we lose our own narration--
When we open our mouths to share it

Dreamsong

I'm afraid to dream
Because dreams have a way of disappearing round here
I'm afraid to try too hard because trying leads to disappointment
When all I wanted was a lucky break

I can't push past my limitations when it's comfortable here

Yet comfortable is scary when your future
Relies on new frontiers

So I try a little harder
Until the blood drains to my fingertips and into the pen
Where I write my words in the only red ink God ever made

Hoping poetry can prove that there's life to be had
Beyond the one I've disappeared into

Sometimes I think I write when I dream

So I write a little more, dream a little dream.
It's practice for the real thing.

The Places You Died Are the Places You Lived the Most

**This poem is a composite of some 2006 rant-writings, so if it sounds familiar that's why**

I am more than the composite of everything you know.
I am a dead weight of immobile fear lodged in my belly.
I am giving birth to a nameless fear I know all to well.

My heart is heavy.

Will you hear the artificial
In my voice when I create
A Truth from my lies?

Only for you.
I lie so well only for you.

I will sing!
I will sing and I will whisper
Until only the raw rasp of breath is left in my lungs.
(You like me to breathe)

Salty sweet surrender is a keepsake
In my heart and in my lungs.
My voice screams but I cannot
Quiet it with whispers, though I try.
I try.

My head aches with words unsaid,
With life trying to escape the veins.

No escapes, not this time.
No spiderweb kisses of a former blade.
But the scars, so soft, are evidence
Only I can see.

The devil's in the details,
The god is in the rain.

Emptiness is nothingness
Nothingness is everything
And everything is god.

I want to shed this skin
Find a new person underneath, one empty of god,
So that I don't have to feel the pain
Of nothingness anymore.

It is Friday.
Rejoice in the good news of the Lord
Because the bad will call its time
So rejoice in the days, the hours of contentment.
Pray for rain.

Pray for that slow liquid pull to the ground
Pray for a day in the dark,
For forever and the blink of an eye.

I need you to understand
It isn't about dying, but about living.

You will read the words of my pen
As though they came from your mouth
And the sounds you make will sing
And you will understand.

Can you handle this much hurt?
Can you deal with this much damage?

If I am a poet,
I'm a double-edged sword
And you are at the tip of my blade

If it hurts enough to bleed
It hurts enough to taunt you with it

Because the places you die,
They're the places you live the most.

Weekend Pursuits

Silky Sweet Abandon
Lying in bed again
The Great Nothing
Sharing my sheets

And how wonderful it feels
To indulge in Nothingness
The Weekend game--
My favorite pursuit

A Writer's Fate

I write in golden dreams
And teardrop reams
Of failures big and small

I meditate on spoken word
Translating it to the page
In fits and starts

Nearing the age of no return
I sit, expanding, decompressing
Until tears well in my eyes

And there is no room to turn
Once I've gone forward
No way to go back

The future is scary
One fat teardrop after another
And the world gives no slack