I have so many old friends.
Friends I have known my whole life.
Or at least I have called them friends.
My despair, my fear, my anger, they have been with me for so long.
Living side by side.
Dark.
And I lived here willingly, blaming everyone but me.
It was easier. Made it easier for me to not take responsibility.
Made it easier for me to be a victim. To not SEE that all my friends were my enemies and I created them.
To keep me company, but they are easy. They come easy and stick around.
But like growing pains, they hurt me.
Kept me from seeing. Myself,the beauty around me. The loves of my life.
I kept my hands tight around my heart squeezing it till it couldn't breathe. Each finger digging into the tender flesh, piercing the very essence of my being. Till I no longer remembered that those fingers-hate, anger, despair, loneliness, anger, fear, blame, sadness, victim, and lost weren't apart of my heart, they were just holding my heart in.
So each day, I pry, finger by finger, my heart free from my own grasp.
Letting go.
Allowing myself to be free.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
June 21st 2012
It has been awhile since I have sat down to write about anything, let alone a poem. I have been caught up in the mundane as so many of us often do get caught up. Living our lives for the time when we get off work. So a while ago back in November I was given a project by a mentor to write about surrender. I spent weeks trying to find the words to write about this concept that is so fluid and lacking in structure. I struggled with it, and though about it and finally today, I feel I have found a way to describe surrender in the way that my heart knows how.
Surrender:
I wish to talk of surrender
But as my lips part to speak...the concept grows larger than my mouth.
it break my teeth as I try to form it into shape to make meaning.
I reach into my mouth with deft fingers and pull at the words...but my fingers grow fatigued for the words are like lead and grow more resistant with each pull. Slippery and like quicksand my fingers sink into it rather than around it.
Finally, I drop my hands, fingers exhausted, muscles cramping and I take a long slow breathe.
...And there...the BREATHE...it releases me and my jaw drops with the word of surrender flowing from my lips...free.
It has been awhile since I have sat down to write about anything, let alone a poem. I have been caught up in the mundane as so many of us often do get caught up. Living our lives for the time when we get off work. So a while ago back in November I was given a project by a mentor to write about surrender. I spent weeks trying to find the words to write about this concept that is so fluid and lacking in structure. I struggled with it, and though about it and finally today, I feel I have found a way to describe surrender in the way that my heart knows how.
Surrender:
I wish to talk of surrender
But as my lips part to speak...the concept grows larger than my mouth.
it break my teeth as I try to form it into shape to make meaning.
I reach into my mouth with deft fingers and pull at the words...but my fingers grow fatigued for the words are like lead and grow more resistant with each pull. Slippery and like quicksand my fingers sink into it rather than around it.
Finally, I drop my hands, fingers exhausted, muscles cramping and I take a long slow breathe.
...And there...the BREATHE...it releases me and my jaw drops with the word of surrender flowing from my lips...free.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
I am tired of each morning waiting to get to the next
Of getting up looking forward to going back to sleep.
So I try, to center my heart over my soul, my soul over my head
But it is so frustrating to me that live is so filled with the mundane.
If today were to be my last day on Earth, I would have woken up late for my alarm, meditated ( a little), gone to work and ate an uninspired lunch, went to the gym and then went to bed. At no point during that day would there have been any given moment that would be worth telling an epic tale about.
And as I sit trying to align my heart, soul, and head I feel a leaden weight in my chest seize control making it hard to breath. I find my heart slows down and my head starts to wander and my soul scrabbles desperately at my rib cage to be left free. I dream of Paris, and wandering the streets alone, floating through memories and pasts like water. And as I sit I remember that none of it matters. That I can dream, and whine, feel desperate and tired...but the point is that as I write this, I sit with my space and live what I know.
Of getting up looking forward to going back to sleep.
So I try, to center my heart over my soul, my soul over my head
But it is so frustrating to me that live is so filled with the mundane.
If today were to be my last day on Earth, I would have woken up late for my alarm, meditated ( a little), gone to work and ate an uninspired lunch, went to the gym and then went to bed. At no point during that day would there have been any given moment that would be worth telling an epic tale about.
And as I sit trying to align my heart, soul, and head I feel a leaden weight in my chest seize control making it hard to breath. I find my heart slows down and my head starts to wander and my soul scrabbles desperately at my rib cage to be left free. I dream of Paris, and wandering the streets alone, floating through memories and pasts like water. And as I sit I remember that none of it matters. That I can dream, and whine, feel desperate and tired...but the point is that as I write this, I sit with my space and live what I know.
Monday, January 30, 2012
I lay, naked beneath the covers and I think of you.
The spaces without you, the moments alone.
I think about the many different faces I wear, with you and without you.
All of these faces are me, but all of them are not me.
They are things I have given meaning, meaning to mean me.
They are arbitrary, and hollow, but at the same time, full, abundant, purposefully.
At least I can say that. At least I can say they are purposeful. At least I can say that I am actively making choices in my life.
It will not be me, who wakes up at 50 and wonders what happened to her life.
I will be able to chart my life, on my face and hands. On my body and mind. In my surroundings and fate. I will remember where I have been, and who I have been. And most importantly why. I will remember why I have been the way I am, why I chose to be this way, and why above all else it was important to be. To be just this.
The spaces without you, the moments alone.
I think about the many different faces I wear, with you and without you.
All of these faces are me, but all of them are not me.
They are things I have given meaning, meaning to mean me.
They are arbitrary, and hollow, but at the same time, full, abundant, purposefully.
At least I can say that. At least I can say they are purposeful. At least I can say that I am actively making choices in my life.
It will not be me, who wakes up at 50 and wonders what happened to her life.
I will be able to chart my life, on my face and hands. On my body and mind. In my surroundings and fate. I will remember where I have been, and who I have been. And most importantly why. I will remember why I have been the way I am, why I chose to be this way, and why above all else it was important to be. To be just this.
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