Monthly Archives: February 2018

Rules

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for as long as I can remember,
I’ve lived by a self-inflicted set of rules –
in the absence of consistent models,
I developed a series of rules to serve as my compass

those rules kept me safe –
they helped me to feel like I belonged,
helped me hash out where I stood,
find who I was,
and where I wanted to go

but when I met him,
I found myself beginning to question some of those rules I once held so close;
I suppose my love for him became more important to me than my need for the rules

I began to slowly break free of them –
and the thing about rules is that when you break one,
it’s only a matter of time until you break another,
and the fierce structure that once protected you is destined to come crashing down around you

thank goodness

-image via Tumblr, original source unknown

Nothing

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she sunk to her knees,
the outline of her ribs a desperate whispering
against the smooth cloth of her shirt,
eyelids closing over foggy, tired eyes,
like haunted marbles lodged into two deep, dark sockets,
and she cried,
a brittle bird bone cry,
futility whispering against her ribs,
just as her ribs whispered against the flawless fabric;
she was withering away to the nothing she always felt

-art via Pinterest, original source unknown

Masses

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I won’t speak to the masses
or bleed lyrical to please
this ain’t about fame
or coins jinglin’ to my knees

I won’t speak to the masses
or go beggin’ for ears
I ain’t tryin’ to be a cool kid
cliquin’ in, sippin’ beers

I won’t speak to the masses
I’ll use my voice when my spirit moves
it’ll find the ones it’s s’posed to
it’ll dance to its own grooves

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

Martyr

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stone-faced, she stood there,
loading the dishes for the second time that day,
mind a cluttering of thoughts,
and she sighed,
a bone-weary and exhausted sigh,
checking boxes and crossing things off a mental list that never seemed to end

it was like every other day –
she’d just cooked dinner,
readied tomorrow’s lunches,
laid everything out for tomorrow’s breakfast,
tidied the house,
worked ten hours,
slept too little,
dreamt too much

she heard his footsteps behind her,
and with a tender hug from behind,
his arms came around her as he whispered,
’I love you’, and asked if there was anything he could do to help,
as he often did

of course, she said no;
she always said no

she knew it was crazy,
but she’d rather be the martyr;
she always was, she had to be –
it was this black tar that surrounded her heart and made it unable for her to accept help or choose herself above any other,
to let go and trust

she simultaneously didn’t feel worthy of the help, as if she had to earn love,
and didn’t actually want the help,
because he’d do it wrong anyway

so she was stuck,
always playing the martyr,
with the tar in her chest that made it difficult to breathe,
made it feel as if she were on some overbearing and perilous journey that went on and on and on,
and if she stopped,
even for a moment,
if she needed the help,
deserved the help,
trusted enough to accept the help,
if she sat down and allowed the black to crumble and wither to dust –
if she allowed herself
a breath –

she might never get up again

-art is The Martyr of Solway, detail, by John Millais, 1871.

The Wind

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22

I cannot control the wind
or it’s constant metamorphose,
I listen to the rustling of the leaves,
and watch the tree tops sway,
I feel it’s force against my cheeks
as my heels dig into the ground

I fight achingly against each sudden surge,
and lean in with all my might,
while it gainfully gusts,
and steadily swirls,
any way it chooses,
with no conscience, no regret

until I’m left squarely standing,
slightly swaying like the tops of trees,
I close my eyes, feet firmly planted,
listening to more than the leaves

I hear my inner voice, shouting,
‘I have not acquiesced’

for, I know,
I cannot control the wind,
nor can it control me

-Image credit rhads.deviantart.com, a beautiful piece of art!; reworking of an older poem, one of my favorites

Fraudulent

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she often had this feeling in the pit of her stomach,
more often than she cared to admit, actually

it was this marrow-deep disconnect,
this soul-withering fear,
this uneasy sense that she was somehow faking a life for them,
giving them a pretend childhood

instead of listening to her gut,
instead of allowing her soul to speak,
she often asked herself –
what would others think?,
allowing that thought to guide her actions

and that left her feeling like
she was wrapped in cellophane –
this protective barrier meticulously put into place,
meant to shield her from the hurt she so intensely feared,
but that barrier was useless,
a transparent facade

because no matter how hard she tried,
there it was –
the fear, throbbing behind her eyes when she knee-jerked a guilt-inducing reaction,
tingling in her fingertips when she felt the anger hide the fear,
an empty feeling thrumming in the center of her chest when she resisted her true self

and she couldn’t stop the constant
real of regret that played over and over in her mind –
there was something so fraudulent feeling about this way of behaving

the rituals weren’t real,
the smiles weren’t real,
the kisses weren’t quite real

real was right there,
in front of her face,
but she couldn’t (wouldn’t) quite reach it

and worst of all,
she sometimes felt like they were going along for her sake;
they could see right through her

and they knew they were being shortchanged

-art by Johanna Harmon

Grace, a Quadrille

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I don’t know if I can go on;
your words haunt me,
a constant murmer,
ringing in my ears

I miss you –
the world has dulled,
and everything has gone gray

I just keep thinking –
true strength paints itself
in the colors of grace

-created in response to the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge #201, as well as the dVerse Poet Pub’s Quadrille Challenge, Murmur; image by Kyle Thompson