Tag Archives: writing

Trauma

Wind waves pass,
Saying hello,
The house stays still,
Not wanting to play,
Ignoring the breath,
Staining the window.

Only the sound of time,
Remnants of moments,
That were once inviting,
Now covered in layers,
of distance and neglect.

A shell
Of a life once lived,
Etched with meaning,
Within its organs.

Trees are ever changing,
Waiting for a jolt,
From a storm or
An awaiting rainbow,
To bring a pulse,
Back into it’s walls,

And the wind,
Will come dancing through
As an old friend.

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Too Good

I wait for you to finish your thought,
the next one and the next,
I sit, patiently,
until my spine can no longer support my back,
I wait for you to ask me a question,
anything, just something to acknowledge,
I still exist somewhere in the back of a dusty filing cabinet.

I’m tired of leaving bread crumbs,
hoping you pick up the trail of my desperate heart,
I feel stupid needing some validation.

I am quiet, I know,
but my head is always busy, see,
I need you to help me let some of the voices escape,
One bounces off another,
I forget which one is the original,
Ask me how I am,
or how work is going, or how I like my tea,
or if i’m sleeping, if my mom is doing okay,
if I need anything, if I need a break,
if I am eating, if I am here,
something to pull me out of my own head,
maybe the voice that responds will be mine.

Ask me if I know what I am doing,
I have been doing a great bit of pretending,
fake confidence till you make it, they say,
I have been faking a lot of everything lately,
but I never guessed that I could have fooled you,

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Broken- A Rewrite

Every poem that begins,
Sounds like a eulogy
That I will have to give.

Forgive me.

I can’t paint you
Into a thousand words
Watercolors always bleed
One thought into another.

The mind doesn’t allow
The ignoring of obvious possibilities.

Imagination, a child’s play thing,
The child being my anxiety,
My mind the playground,
The ground is lava.

My hands are always slipping
Across the monkey bars.

Is this insanity?

Maybe if I will it hard enough,
Lily pads will appear beneath my toes,
Will I be strong enough to let go
And trust that everything won’t burn?

I’m pink with the rising heat
Someone has a basketball
Thump,
Thump,
Thump,
It vibrates though my body.

It is not me.
It is not me.
It can not be me.

Hanging above a deathlike pit,
Allows your mind to wander.

Imagine the tips of my fingers
As mini concrete cinder blocks,
Holding me in the air,
Like a circus trick.

I hold all my strength in my hands,
Out in the open for people to see,
If they wish to acknowledge it,
Strength can be intimidating.

Better to be left unsaid.

Better to fly across the monkey bars,
Show your flair and speed,
Those are qualities they want to see,
It is weakness to struggle.

Even if that struggle,
Means hanging everyday,
Over lava,
Thump, thump, thump,

Heart is always racing in your ears,
A reminder you are alive,
Keeping on the pressure,
With the rising heat,

That you must not let go.

Isn’t that strength?
Never letting go.
Even though it would be easier,
To get some long deserved relief.

So, my words can keep sounding,
Like a eulogy that I will have to give,
But I’ll use them as gloves,
To keep my self up in the air.

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Making a Comeback

I’m done and out,
feeling this way.
I’m gaining sensations back in my legs,
Finally learning to stand again,
I’m remembering what it is like
to be able to stretch my limbs,
Without being afraid,
That I might offend somebody
With my reaching of the stars.
Words seemed small,
Like ‘confident’,
Now I braid them into my hair,
So everyone knows that I
Give my vocabulary meaning,
No longer allowing society
To hide the brightest parts of me
In a never ending eclipse,
No longer feeling ashamed
To let my heart lead the way.
I want to shine until the darkness
pushes past the horizon,
Merely a speck of dirt on my rear view mirror,
Until it just adds character to the vehicle,
No longer deserving a second glance.

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Underneath

At ten years old
she should tuck her braids
behind her ears so the
sun can reach her face.

Her worries should be
keeping her balance
to keep her record
of perfect hop scotch.

She should feel the grass
inbetween her toes as
she collects dandelions
along the stream.

She should be asking
how she can reach
the sweetest berries
on the highest tree.

But quietly in her room
she is burdened with
asking the questions
beginning with why.

Every morning she wakes
reminded quickly of
the weight she feels
on her shoulders.

She has a perfect
record of balancing
conversations with
her younger sister.

At ten years old
she tucks the strap
of her mother’s bra
underneath her sleeve.

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Thought

Change
its a funny thing

almost invisible when its happens to you
but if you can witness it blossom

see it take root
grow and form

it can manifest into
a wonder of the world

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Honest Poem (In Progress)

If you put your arms
Around my waist, beware
You might get them back
Covered in bobby pins
I save to secure
All of my imperfections.
Someone will come,
Their hands in my hair,
Pulling each unruly strand free.

I’m told I’m kind,
But I’m confused,
I choose human decency
Over thoughts in my head.
Kindness is an obligation
Not rose colored glasses,
Not to be praised.
So when you say I’m kind,
I’m not humble,
I wonder if it just says
More about you
Then me.

I forget to speak,
Sometimes on purpose
I would rather
Not deal with disbelief
When I sprout intellect,
And I,
Could not
Possibly
Have
A voice,
Love does not fix that.

Being alone?
Probably too content,
I like my thoughts,
Yours drown them out.
It’s not your fault,
My heart, though
Craves another rhythm.
It will dance
Long into the night,
Forgetting the world,
Beats echoing loud,
No care for anything else.

(This is totally unfinished, just kinda hit a wall. Just wanted to get a feel of the poem so far out in the world in its very, very premature state. Any feedback is appreciated:)

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