and so the world worries on, with stats galore
and my heart catapults with fears I abhor
the truth of the matter is: no one’s the white knight
so let’s pile our hopes, with a flick and a flight
being alone is a heart-opening thing
and the solitary self comes alive when alone,
yet the yearning of lonely brings bitter-sweet tears
that fall on a cheek with a splash and a sting.
the bitter turns sweet when a spine feels the comb
of fingertips intent on opening the heart,
yet the yearning of lonely brings tears for fears,
and that solitary self plays a part.
My response to day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a san san
I’ve been apologising for oh so long,
as I explain and cringe my choices,
that I lost the point of me.
Born, I was too much crying,
too many nappies, too much bother
to feel there was a point to me.
A child, I was told I was far too messy,
warned to be good and stay quiet.
There was no point to me.
Teenaged, I was never allowed my style,
was asked did I think I looked good in that.
I cried and searched the point to me.
Studied, I gained diplomas, degrees,
which I thought would make me whole.
Looking back, I wonder the point in that.
Grown up, and business gave me power
to manage, to lead, to create.
My star waned: what was the point of me.
A mother, a new life with other fertile ones
I thought would give me meaning.
Playground bitches destroyed the point of me.
Stressed, I feel the yawn of my heart.
Pleasing others from dawn to dusk:
who would ever make a point of that?
Broken, a life with a faded façade
and scaffolding all torn away.
I start to vision the death of me.
Darkened, I think of ways to loosen
my grip on this mortal soil.
What the **** was the point of me?
Soul-bound, I’m saved from today’s maudlin.
Tomorrow I’m not so sure.
What’s the point of staying here?
Awakening, I take a daily breath
that surprises me each morning.
The only thing that keeps me alive
is the point one day I’ll believe in.
Take one low self-esteem
and challenge its main themes:
stop thinking ugly duck
let those bullies self-destruct.
Change the way you mirror
to see yourself much clearer.
Chuck that tired old clutter,
keep that stuff that matters.
Take a good old look
at what keeps you so damn stuck.
Let your tongue slip down a sled,
letting go all that’s unsaid.
Create a dumping ground
to feel loved, alive and found.
I can sense it coming: the second I do something
that brings you displeasure.
For want of cliché, I see your face grow dark. Your mouth
becomes taut. I feel the pressure
in my tight little tummy.
I cast around quick for what I’ve done wrong.
Was it my socks that were too separate?
Bedroom too scruffy? Homework left undone?
Or was it my breathing that annoyed you so.
You couldn’t bear noise
when you had one of your heads.
The tiptoeing I did gave me fabulous pointes,
to the stage I could walk without leaving a sound.
But what stretched the bow
to the arrow of your aim
was your tut and your sigh
like the end of world was nigh
just cos I’d pulled out my ribbon
or opened the curtains wrong.
Your rage would instantly shut out
any view that would challenge your own.
You felt the right and the need to shout
at those who needed you most.
A sigh could be on its own
but a tut would precede 7, 8, 9
and then 10. The scariest number of all,
said in the slowest of ways
as a countdown to lash out and hit
if I didn’t shape up, pipe down and sit.
And so to hear your sigh, years after the first
when I haven’t done exactly
as your vision dictates,
a terror strikes the heart of me,
takes my thighs
as my confidence vibrates.
I have no memory of what it was like
but I sense it in faces who see me with spite.
I hear it in their tut
I shudder with their sigh.
I hope this memory is a healing goodbye.
You give me fleeting hints that you’re looking after me.
You throw me toxic trails that you’re teasing me with glee.
You remind me of my sadness through scents from deep indoors.
You show me cheeky glimpses of the chance to feel restored.
I think you’re trying to prove that
I should relax and get the groove.
But I’m tussling with the tension:
is it far too late to mention
that I’ve kind of got you sussed?
In my soul I totally trust.
You’re my big swathe of cuddle,
what I missed as a babe.
You’ve cossetted me through
the cool and the macabre.
When the snow’s outside
you’re an obvious choice.
You’re generous, holding,
you’re the thing I rejoice.
But you transcend all seasons
especially in spring.
You let me feel safe
when my words are growing.
How could I write
so much brave raw stuff
without my cuddly cocoon
and knowing I am enough.
OK. So you’re on the verge. Of surrendering all the coping mechanisms you’ve ever relied on. [Full stop after ‘verge’ is significant.] All the stuff and guff of your environment – your behaviour and all the interpersonal relationships that you believe define you – are clinging on for dear life. And about to lose their stranglehold grip.
Except they don’t. At least not just yet. They’ve just been there to defend you. They think they’re saving you. But really they’re strangling you.
Having a life crisis, where you feel the entire planet is conspiring against you, is really an opportunity for you to realise this. The crisis creats porous entry points in your psyche for your real stuff to sneak in. Often before you’re ready for it. To catch you out. It has to create the opportunities it can, because you’ve been denying and dancing around the truth for decades. Tough, huh?
However, it can take some time to tune into what those signs are. They may have to really poke you in the nose before you spot them. Some people spend a lifetime oblivious to them. But there’s something about being able to spot the signs nudging you soul.
Here are three of mine from today: Continue reading
Ask any writer – a real writer – why he or she writes, and they’ll reply that they’re born to do it. It’s their destiny, and it’s a dream that they’re not prepared to let go.
I’m one of them, but I’ll only admit to that in writerly circles. While I make a living from writing – from journalism, commercial writing and copywriting – I’m kind of shy about the fact that I harbour ambitions to be an author. Of a novel. Preferably in print, displayed prominently in the front window of Continue reading
Tears streamed down my face when I read about a woman who had lost her only child chart her journey through journaling. This post is really worth reading on Life Goes Strong, entitled Writing for Life: How Journal Writing Helps Heal One Mother’s Grief.
Writing really was therapy in this case, for Tamara Thomas, and the process took her through the stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance – and the tasks of mourning: to accept the reality of loss; to work through the feelings about that loss; to learn to live without the person you’ve lost; and to Continue reading