These words
have been made by people
who were born with their own lives.
My words
are not the same as the words
that other people have made.
Using their words
is not the right thing for me to do,
but I’m still trying to find my own.
I write
a lot on the subject, but I’m
not sure how to make it any easier.
My stories
come from a different place than I do,
but I’ve always thought
it would work
out.
Borrowing these words
only means I can’t afford
to use my own.
Filling in the blanks
was my original
goal, but I’m still not sure I understand
what this means.
Someday
I might make my own words to say
Something
I want you to hear,
But I think
you should know
that this was made
from someone else’s
words.
Poetry
Captured in Words
Once, I wanted to try to find
The words to say how I felt.
All I found were little phrases
That didn’t serve my needs
And quiet thoughts that lived
Past the edge of speaking.
I would have liked to continue,
Trying as hard as I could,
Just to see,
If I could have ever figured it out.
I never could find a way
To talk about the wonder
I felt when I looked at you.
I wouldn’t have minded
Spending the rest of my life looking.
Now, all I have left are memories
Of what I once wanted
And echoes of a feeling
I once felt resonate.
Maybe, if I can capture this in words,
I can stop feeling it
And finally let it go.
The Weight of Air
Invisible clouds on the hidden horizon
Press against silent hills and tall trees,
All blended together by the unseen sun
And a moon too furtive to show.
The dusky sky delays dawn
As a shimmer of heavy grey haze,
Stale moisture that rose to rain,
Rules on high and patiently presses
On a world whose bated breath
Mocks the still waiting wind.
Falling drops playfully promise
Relief from the weary weight
That clings to sticky skin
But, like a kiss that never comes,
Remains only a half-hearted hope.
Sleep Deprived
I no longer sleep because I think of you.
I can sleep no longer
because I think of you
My weary eyes refuse to shut again
And all my dreams reach fever-pitch
Before I lurch awake
clutching sheets
That have tangled me in my sleep
Weary eyes with constant crusts
forming at the corners
Unblinking and blankly stare
At my desk while I try to work
I speak in stifled yawns to my own hands
As my bleary eyes plod through the day
and bits of conversation
lose all
connection
and meaning
I speak in stifled yawns and bleary eyes
As I vaguely try to find my notebook
So I can write down each of the replies
I’ll no longer remember tomorrow
No one knows what to make of this
And all I can tell them is it will be fine
at some point in the future
For now
I trace big lines on paper
where I was supposed to write words
And drift away until I can leave
To find myself a moor for the evening.
Tell Me A Story
Tell me a story that I want to hear,
Of bravery and valor, lands far and near.
Tell me a story, one I do not know,
Of grand sweeping valleys, mountains with snow.
Tell me of strong Lords, great Kings and kind Queens,
Of their glorious deeds, those seen and unseen.
Tell me of magic, of powers renowned,
Of trickster faeries and great demons bound.
Tell me of Dragons, great magical beasts,
Of great treasure troves and bounteous feasts.
Tell me a story, tales fun and tragic,
Because hearing these tales, that’s true magic!
Self-Harm
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
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?
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
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
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.