Poem

Self-Harm

Chris 1 Comment

Sometimes, when you’re having a rough week and trying to deal with something really upsetting, you write really emotional poetry that exaggerates the reality of the situation because you just feel so wretched. That’s what this poem is. A mixture of metaphor, over-exaggeration, and the desperately awful way I feel sometimes. It is also rather old. I wrote this a while ago. It is not about anything going on in my life today, though I do feel a certain attraction to the dramatic pain this poem displays.

 

Daydreams of what I wish could be
Shatter in the thunderous sea
Of impinging reality
While all my hopes so quickly flee
My every desperate plea
To stay a bit longer with me.
Now all that there is left to see,
In all of its banality,
Is the somber painful decree
That what I want can never be.

~ ~ ~

Every lesion in my head–
So sharp and sweet in welling red–
Suppurates as hope is bled
In the face of rising dread
Now my dearest dream is dead.
Is every single blood-stained shred
Of the wishes I have shed
Crushed beneath my drudging tread
As I pursue the truth instead
Of allowing myself to be misled?

~ ~ ~

Self-flagellation at its best
As I put all I am to the test
And face the truth that I detest.
I laugh and say that I’m just stressed,
To worry not and get your rest,
As I clutch the truth to my chest
Hoping that you never guessed–
Those few words we never addressed,
Memories you’ve all but repressed–
Are a big part of why I’m depressed.

Filling

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When the days are long
And everything turns to ash
At your touch;

When your favorite things
Are just another way to forget
The march of time;

When you pour in words
Or images like an alcoholic
Pours drinks;

When you escape with
Fleeting success the drudgery
Of your life;

When you are simply
Trying to fill the hole inside
With anything, like dropping coins
Into a well–
              Coins carrying dreams
              And whispered prayers
              As if the weight of each
              Did more than weigh
              Down your soul–
Hoping that the next one
Is all that you really needed
To fill it up;

Do you ever fill the whole inside?

What Do You Think Would Happen?

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What do you think would happen
If I stopped restraining my tongue
And voiced my inner thoughts aloud:
­             If I put aside all the careful filters
             And ignored all sensible precaution,
             Telling everyone who can hear
             What I felt or thought
             Instead of what I knew
             Was the correct thing to say?

Would people know the difference
Or am I the only one who spends
Most of my time in silence,
­­             Weighing every little word
­­             On a set of scales
­­             I’ve spent my life constructing
­             To be fair and just to all?

Would anyone but me even care
Beyond the initial shock
Of a direct response
In a culture that values
Hidden agendas and vague
References to minutiae?

If I told you what first ran through my mind
When you told me your story,
Would you have listened to me?
­             Or would I still have to spend time
­             Learning to phrase things so your mind listens
­             Even when your ears refuse to?

If I spoke more truthfully of my mind,
Would you value my silence less
And decide to come to me for more
Than just the slice of my truth you need
­             Or would you learn to value my truth less
­             Because I was dispensing it
­             To anyone who was near enough to take it?

If I stopped restraining my tongue
And voiced my inner thoughts aloud,
­             Would people finally hear me
­­­­             Instead of just the words I say?

 

Lost for Words

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What do you do when you’re a writer and you’re lost for words?
What do you do when every word feels empty and flat:
When your lexicon fails to provide
And your tongue hangs in your mouth, empty, sluggish, and fat?

What do you do when you’re a writer and no word fits?
What do you do when you have a hole in your heart:
When you can’t fill the space
And every single page, paragraph and sentence falls apart?

What do you do when you’re a writer and you can’t explain?
What do you do when you can’t seem to speak:
When the air hangs empty
And yet full enough to make even the strongest person weak?

What do you do when you’re a writer and your tongue is tied?
What do you do when the words are there but cannot escape:
When you know what to say
And yet the words hide inside and refuse to take shape?

What do you do when you’re a writer and you want to quit?
What do you do when the words stop coming:
When you want to work
And thoughts in your head will not stop running?

So what do you do when you’re a writer and you’re lost for words?
When the words are stuck, do you start writing?
Do you stare down an empty page
And, with words that feel like drops of your own blood, keep fighting?

It was a Beautiful Day

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Today was wonderful. A hike with good friends, followed by a cookout and then swimming in the lake with the same friends. It felt amazing to finally be out and about, doing things I love with people I love. I wish I had more to write, something I’d been thinking about to share, but today was all taken up by loved ones and thoughts of loved ones.

Instead, have a poem.

 

“Who are you and what do you do?”

We often ask this complex question-
Without even the smallest suggestion
Of malice or hint of aggression-
And expect answers without suppression.
We want nothing but a full confession
That includes every single transgression,
Whatever is your chosen profession,
Have you suffered manic depression
What is your favorite possession,
Do you often have indigestion
What you did during the recession,
How goes your latest obsession,
And we listen to every digression
Hoping you fit in a single expression.

Whenever this question is asked of me
I have an answer I give with glee.
“I am me; I just be;
I like to live my life simply;
I am often sad and often happy;
I live according to no decree
And I will not change myself to be free
Of your ceaseless inquiry.”
I will ignore insult and injury
And every single desperate plea
For me to conform to your would-be
Celebrated normalcy.
Instead, I will sit beneath a tree
And continue being me quietly.

What You Like

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I want to like the things you like.

When I see the glow in your eyes
And the way you get so excited
I want to burn with the same passion.

I want to feel the blazing light
That shines from your face
Whenever I let you run away with the conversation.

So I try to like the things you like
And warm myself in your glow.

The magic you see in children’s books
Reopens my eyes to the way
The world looked when I was small.

The walk was an easy one to make
But not one I’d thought to start
Until you bridged the gap between
The books I love and the worlds I left behind.

The unattended care of movement
Made in sync with loud music
As you cluster with your friends,
Never seeing beyond the circle
Of smiling eyes and laughing lips
Which only care that you are there.

It was never something I cared for
But I find myself there with you,
Forgetting my elbows, for once,
And the rest of the world, too.

Pastimes set aside as I try to stay
On top of chasing all my dreams
Are things you like just as well
But which were wasting my time
Until I could do them with you.

Any chance to spend some time
On any activity with you
Seems like a dream I can chase
A bit more literally than the others.

Things about myself that I can never see
No matter how long I look in the mirror
And the way my words come out,
Often halting and slower than I can bear,
Without ever doing justice to how I feel,
Earn that special smile you show me
When you want me to know you like me.

I was never something I cared for,
At least not in terms of “like” and “dislike”,
But I find myself wanting to start
Because you like me and I want to like what you do.

Keeping Up

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I live in a hole that fills with water
And all I have are my two cupped hands.
I can keep up if I constantly bail,
But a single falter is all it takes
To watch the waters slowly start to rise.
I have no time left for thoughts of escape.
I’m not even sure that I would want to.

Breathe. Hold. Scream.

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Breathe, in deep then out,
Against the coming dark.
Breathe, in deep then out,
And watch the lightning arc.
The storm, the end, comes swift
And ebbs away your will.
So breathe, in deep then out,
And let your pulse grow still.

Hold your head up high
Against the wind’s onslaught.
Hold your head up high
So they will see you fought.
Out-matched, out-classed, out-run
But not ready to die.
So stare into the gale
And hold your head up high.

Scream into the storm
To prove you’re still alive.
Scream into the storm
And maybe you’ll survive.
Broken, beaten, bloody
Of body, of soul and mind.
So scream into the storm
And pray that fate is kind.

~~~

Breathe, a gasp for air
Against the rushing rain.
Breathe, a gasp for air
To flush away the pain.
The Storm, the start, is here
To wash your will away.
But breath, a gasp for air,
Your will is here to stay.

Hold your fist up high
And scream into the sky.
Hold your fist up high
To prove that you won’t die.
Unmatched, stand tall and see
The storm begin to die.
So stare into the sun
And hold your fist up high.

Scream with all your heart
To prove that you’re alive.
Scream with all your heart
To prove that you’ve survived.
Still whole, but bloody,
You won the fight today.
So scream with all your heart
As the storm fades away.

Setting the Scene

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This scene is not mine.

Don’t ask me whose it is, I just wandered through.
My life is elsewhere, but don’t ask me that either.

If you find it, let me know.
I’ve been looking awhile.

 

My aesthetic is rainy days and dark roads.
Fresh, rain-churned mud and speckles of water on glasses.
Music whose notes and words are engraved on your soul.
The patter of rain on glass; window and windshield.

A heart made of tangled knots and too many nots.
A soul pierced by a spike of its own design.

Weary eyes, tired bones, and joints that predict the weather.
Soft smiles, gentle kindness, and world-weary wisdom.

 

Don’t ask me who I am, there’s no answer to that.
If answers are all you seek, maybe your path lies elsewhere.
                                                   All I have are questions.
                                                   I will share those, if you want.

                         Please don’t go, though.
I don’t know where I’m going but I’d like to not be alone.

 

Maybe, if we stick together you’ll find your answers.
                                                   Me?
I’d like to know when I’ve got enough questions.

Where I Am

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I watch them grow
And I see them change
­                           Here where I am.
I see them move,
With great breadth and range,
                           Here where I am.

I saw them fall
And get up again
                           From where I am.
I watched them learn
What we might have been
                           From where I am.

They walk away
While I stay quiet
                           Right where I am.
I watch them go,
Filled with disquiet,
                           Right where I am.

I’m still standing,
After all these years,
                           Stuck where I was.
I’m stuck standing,
Rooted by my fears,
                           Still where I was.

­