Feeling It All

in the darkness, spirals called
winding wells and staircases tall
regret and worry, fashioned lenses
costumes and masks, ill-fitting pretenses

naked and bare, exposed to the core
questions unanswered, left wanting more
measures and comparisons, not quite enough
sometimes the darkness has been pretty tough

but the light is brighter than ever before
no fear of darkness, not any more
embracing it all, the darkness and light
the in-between, the fights and flights

I feel it all like never before
this me I was meant to be, open and whole

-image is mine

Advertisements

Synchronicity

beneath the fabric of a single human heart
resides an elaborate orchestra,
a seemingly imbalanced sequence of forces,
intervals of time and measures of amplitude,
not at all working against one another,
but synchronizing themselves so intimately,
they are nearly indistinguishable as separate –
just like you and me,
pulsing to one beat

-image via Pixabay

Death By Roses


death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

but she couldn’t write about that right now –
her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear

so, she sat there, writing about stars, 
forgetting about how he once brought her red roses and watched her bloom

she wrote about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings, 
so that warmth might settle in her bones,
if only for a moment 

she sat there, pen in hand, 
pretending everything was fine,
writing about stars she couldn’t see,
warmth she could no longer feel

her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear,
and when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
the bruises felt all too fresh and the scars were still itchy and tender 

when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
her pen couldn’t stop writing about how he cracked her rib cage with fistfuls of longing, 
about how he watched as her entire being bent toward the light of his promises of forever,
about how she gave him pieces of herself she’d never shown another human being,
only to be pricked by his indifferent thorns,
about how he haphazardly plucked her from the life-altering soil and let her wither to dust 

she knew for certain that to love is to burden oneself with cracks in one’s rib cage,
with bruises and scars,
with the inevitable dangers of thorns

her skin was too thin not to write about stars –
but if he were to show up on her doorstep with open arms and a fistful of red roses…..

death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

image via Pixabay; written in response to Mindlovemisery’s First Line Friday prompt

Remain

My mother. 
These choices, this behavior. 
Why?, I ask myself.

But, it’s been there all along 
in some form or another, 
I just didn’t want to see.

She doesn’t see, or chooses not to;
maybe she never will.

There’ll be no comforting –
it is what it is.

Now, again, 
the child becomes the parent. 

I am breaking the cycle, I say.
I promise myself. 

Mother may I?
Yes, I answer. 

Mother I am,
mother I will remain. 

-image via Pixabay

Landscapes

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
using a palette made of sand

pigments extracted from fruits of hope, 
each stroke with an unsteady hand

I sometime paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
eyes closed as I take it all in

possibility unfolding behind wishful lids,
planting seeds deep within

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
and watch as they wash away

sometimes hope goes only so far,
and seeds don’t see light of day

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
they the predator, and I the prey

-image via Tumblr, original artist unknown

(Re)Visit


I don’t visit often enough.
I tell myself it’s the distance,
work, time’s pull, insistent;
my schedule is rough.

But there’s unrest in my heart
that tells me that’s not true.
Instead of feeling closer to you,
seeing you only rips me apart.

Every time I see your face,
a little piece of me dies;
I feel the sadness you try to disguise,
the years of running a losing race.

I see too much
I see how you might look on my face.

-image via Pixabay

Hooked

below them,
the dark streets beckoned
with crimson light,
come dance with me
in the pale moonlight

as their eyes vibrated electric
in fight or flight,
with hair drenched in sweat,
whole-body tremors,
and no appetites

hooked, no money in their pockets,
they hunted like wolves
in the night,
lines so bent and blurred,
wrong looked a lot like right

they did what they must
to feed the hungry demon’s grip
all day and night –
ain’t no sleepin’ tight tonite,
out there, the bedbugs bite

-image via Pixabay; created in response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie First Line Friday, where the First Line was ‘below them the dark streets beckoned with crimson light’