It’s funny how a family grows
in newly cutely ways.
my one of origin hurt me raw
tipping through the centuries.
the new family I’m creating now
is startling me anew
i have so much love around
a fresh purpose to pursue.
That sense of dread, that
pull in the depths of
my stomach that
absorbs my days and steals my nights, that
smothers my thoughts with a heavy
blanket of angst. That
happy life that eludes me, that
love that never truly feels
real, only that dread that idles and
festers is solid and true.
All the work I’ve done on myself:
the therapy, the healing,
the certificates I’ve gained,
the triumph of Masters degrees.
And still I’m blocked.
All the promises I’ve made,
to stay true to my talent,
seem to land on fertile turf,
yet remain fallow, dry, non-manifest.
And still I’m blocked.
All the years I’ve passed,
with fresh intentions each Jan
that fade to grey, nudging into Feb.
In March it’s as if they never began.
And still I’m blocked.
All the distractions I excitedly seek.
New garden: tick. Weekly weeding: tock.
Jobs to take my mind off the task,
decade after decade. That’s the shock.
And still I’m blocked.
All the futures I’ll never achieve:
what will be my hand-me-down glory?
A creative life chronically unlived?
Or trusting what’s for me won’t go past me?
Knowing all of this… and more.
And still I’m blocked.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/KROMKRATHOG)
head in noose
wishing someone could tighten the knot
melting my feet from beneath
alone in dilemma
an over-thinking hell
i seek solace under random lorry wheels
caught in a block
seeking release from within
i instead feel lost and without
age has caught up
i have the tears of a frown
etched on my disappointed face
no eyes turn my way
avoiding glance, discovery:
i’m just a forgotten yesterday
She made my favourite the times I came to visit:
lamb steak, succulent and softening in the oven;
glass of red on the side, slinky in finest crystal.
It was the only way she showed me she cared.
My response to Day Six of NaPoWriMo 2016: write about food
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.
I looked to without, instead of within,
the buoyancy aid that no longer swims
an external holding that was
just an illusion
a made-up craft, a
fake sense of inclusion.
So why hold on so long to an aid
that clearly no longer served me?
Was fear of drowning
the option that made
me feel I should adapt
and, probably, pervert
my core value?
Or was it the fear of feeling adrift
in a dark ocean of lonely:
that swaying sense of sad, of swirl,
afraid to let what is, unfurl.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/fantasista)
