Whoyouneed

I’m not writing
what you see,
this shell with ink,
it isn’t me

it’s my stand-in,
Whoyouneed,
while the real me’s wounds
humbly bleed

-image via Pinterest

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Little Things

I don’t wanna talk about the little things;
I have too many things to say
and not enough energy to say them

it seems so futile,
speaking in this hypothetical past present,
the tense of lost chances,
while these Groundhog Days days go on and on,
sticky and thick like syrup

I don’t want to talk about the little things,
so I hang on to shards of hope,
turning them over and over until my mind is smooth

-image via Tumblr, original source unknown

Lemonade

when life gives you lemons,
make lemonade,
they say

but what if life gave you
a lemon tree,
and the lemons just keep coming?

what if, try as you might
to take in stride each bearing of the fruit,
and you make and make and make
lemonfuckingade,
but you just get tired?

you tire not only of the lemons,
but of the knowing more lemons
are surely going to grow,
of the knowing that you’re just going to have to keep on making
lemonade?

I suppose you should accept
that this is your tree,
and it’s yours to harvest whatever
may come from it,
whatever blooms from the manner
in which you fertilize it

but sometimes,
it just sprouts unexpectedly,
and you just want to throw lemons

look out

Sea

the words blurred into one another,
every yellowed page like the one before,
every phrase becoming more foreign,
each syllable more severe

so, I walked away;
I sank into the wordless sea,
sight distorted,
down to where the light
was but a glimmer up above,
where the cold encased me,
welcoming,
a soothing balm against the burning
of the sun

I sank into the wordless sea,
breathless,
enamored by the consuming silence,
by the thrum of my own heart,
a metronome for the endless swaying

I sank into the wordless sea,
but I was not drowning

I heard the sound of my own voice

-artwork via Pinterest, by Jael Segura; written in response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie First Line Friday, where the first line is provided, and you must devise the rest

Wood

her heart was hand hewn,
a butchered block of aged wood –
heavy,
weathered,
cracked and dry

it no longer beat;
it only pained her,
its weight a foggy barrier,
keeping distance or closing in –
she wasn’t sure which

all she knew was that it hurt,
its splinters scraping against its walls,
gnashing at the soft tissue,
tearing through

and flooding her chest with dust

-image via Pixabay

Fight

the walls are closing in,
they’re closing in,
and my elbows are buckling
against their weight,
the balls of my feet are raw
from the force of pushing back
against them,
my head is one thumping pulse
of pain after another,
a constant, unwelcome rhythm,
a reminder that I’m still rigid in the
fight against it

but, I’m tired,
I’m tired of the fighting,
and lately I’ve been catching
glimpses of the truth
in random, slicing throbs
behind my eyes

I see myself,
somehow on both sides
of the walls,
simultaneously helping in the closing in,
and desperately fighting against it

after all this time,
after all this fighting,
the knowing and the unknowing,
the accepting and the cracking open
of my core –
what if I’m still the wall itself?

oh, God – what if I am the fight?

-image via Pixabay

Weary Bones, a Quadrille 

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 the slap-flapping of valves
   working overtime,
     ‘cuz they’re leaking

I feel the slowing tempo
 of waves receding,
   the acquiescence
     of my spirit weeping

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 but I can’t give in –

my soul’s still seeking

-image via Tumblr, source unknown; written as part of dVerse Poet Pub’s Quadrille prompt

Storm’s Eye

oh, divine, insidious pull
help me please, my soul is full

my shallow roots are tattered and splintered
my tired heart has been battered and wintered

your cradled strings strangely unbind me
and your wistful cloud holds some mystical key

I’ve try to stay grounded, but the din is too heady
I’m already rising, I think I’m ready

into storm’s eye, allow me to fly
will it unwind me?
I’m willing to try

do I get to return?
or should I say goodbye?

*written as part of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge 104