a boundary and a butterfly

you mess me about, afraid to commit,

and I let you get away with it.

 

I’m scared that if I pin you down

you’ll punish me by flying away.

 

So do I let you flit among my flowers,

skim the best of my summer blooms,

 

while deep in my roots I feel unrest

as I’m sapped of what keeps me whole?

 

Or do I insist you choose a stem to sit on

that won’t always bend to your whim,

 

and risk losing your custom for good –

though at least I won’t be short-changed?

when people compliment my writing…

 

I shrug and say it’s normal:

what’s so special about what I write?

I also kind of feel a fraud

‘cos it comes so naturally to me.

I just sit at the laptop and type,

without having to re-read back.

I know that what’s come out

is final, total, complete.

So, when people add me to writerly feeds

I wonder what they see in my words.

It’s as natural to me as breathing and dressing.

So where’s the speciality in that?

clawing the courage to say no

The agony of my indecision

had done my head right in.

The hurting of my inner child

had left my true self wilting.

The logic part had made up its mind.

The fragility, it was a fraying:

teetering in, about to give way

a lifetime battle drilling.

So, where could the courage come from,

to say a crucial ‘no’ some time?

Perhaps it stemmed from dark-down stuff

that finally said ‘enough’.

Reasons to stay, urges to go

Reasons

Walk in, chat, feel welcomed and held.

I’m rated by bosses, part of the meld.

Means a lot to belong, when everything else

could be me, alone, days become dense.

 

Urges

It’s regular work, though boring old admin

that takes me away from what I’ve been yearning.

Bored. Hate it. Feel something else is calling.

I can teach, write, blog, and be free.

 

Reasons

Fear of unknown is what keeps me here

and a deep-down blankie of safety.

If I leave, what’ll become of my time:

squandered, wasted, wishing-well drowned?

 

Urges

I can meet new people, be open to new things

Be alert and fit, not a slave to alarm rings.

 

Reasons

Can’t trust myself to follow my dream.

End up bereft, broke, regretting my tears.

 

Urges

Run out of urges. Can’t remember the pull

to be free of misery, detached from the dull.

 

Reasons

Perhaps there’s a part of me that isn’t done yet.

Maybe a lesson to learn, an unspun pirouette?

 

security versus story

How much longer will I pad the dreams

of others who pay me daily.

 

Why is my vase full of distracting sand

instead of pebbles that count, that matter.

 

My true life skills, my singular gifts

are stifled in admin, thoughts of bills.

 

Striking out, writing stories down

feels impossible, crazy, waste of time.

 

And so I count, I help, I fix, I support

the sorry souls of others.

 

But when will it dawn that I could die

with my stories still inside me.

can’t or won’t be helped?

Your sigh is deep, you bleat your woes,

dump them at my feet

expecting me to pick them up

and hand them back, all fixed.

 

Something in the line of jaw,

desperation in your eye,

that carries age-old, deep-set wounds

I can never hope to heal.

 

I protect my ego’s sacred part

from your needy, devouring stare

forcing me responsible

for making you feel whole.

 

If I do that, it’s me who’s sucked

of life’s enduring force.

I trust that you can find within

a healing, hopeful resource.

 

You’re waiting for me to say the ‘right’ thing

while doing nothing yourself,

except switching off every light in the room,

shuttering your self from earth.

 

What sits in your impatient pockets

is an urge to cover your scars.

You expect me to be your fairy truth

and to wave a wand of stars.

 

But my truth is, honestly, more like the moon:

a beam in the night field of doom.

Take your needs, your pitiful looks:

sit, and transform them alone.