NaPoWriMo Day 2: soul recipe

My gluten-free pot

creates a stir –

and why not?

The heart of my dish

stirs the soul:

sprinkle what’s forgot.

 

pic credit: yayyayoy

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the conflict of lonely and alone

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

my emptying out

inktuition emptying out

 

no more clinging on to the person I was –

in a clothed, hidden, impersonal place,

out of step and out of touch,

yet blessed within ignorant bliss –

I’ve shed the very skin I was in.

becoming conscious is a contract

you sign with your knowing side,

but if you knew what lay in advance,

you’d rip it up, run away and hide.

having pledged my soul this journey

to become more present, more true

I know there’s no return to shore

just the endless ocean to endure.

how I’d love to bring back my false self,

let her dance and laugh with such ease

to shine against the surface of life

and see reflected the mask she believed.

hollow it was, but what’s left in its place

is a sense of being completely alone,

robbed of charm, of all defence,

my ragged heart is, reluctantly, free to roam.

discovering the point of me

inktuition the point of me

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.

I can’t find my mother

I can’t find my mother in work,

but I can locate her

in the deepest of hurts.

I can’t find my mother when I drive,

as people cut me up, in the

conflict they contrive.

I can’t find my mother when I cry

for what I’ve lost

and my lungs are turned dry.

I can’t find my mother in love

that’s pretend; a glamour

that’s just a rubber glove.

I can’t find my mother when

betrayal means bereft.

There’s nothing left then.

the illusion of control

Control was my calling card,

what everyone knew me for.

Control was my comfort,

a way to keep the score.

Control took my humour,

replaced it with sour lips.

Control was my defence

against the highs and dips.

Control and I had a battle

until I learned who was boss.

Control gave me power

that was way too easily lost.

Control I gave up

when robbed of those I loved.

Control I still explore

through story, rhyme and word.