For the love of us, we’re
Always there:
Mummy, Daddy.
In a perpetual state of
Love osmosis.
You know what that means.
Perhaps the line missed its cue
Or I didn’t follow the Strictly rules.
Rather than feel I played the part,
Tapping into my falsest heart,
Reality veiled. Somehow I’ve tripped,
Although I convince, I fake, I vow,
I continue the line, dismayed somehow
Trying to make sense of the now.
The winds can whisper.
Waves can roar.
My soul’s still alone.
This is my response to Day One of NaPoWriMo 2016, where we’re challenged to write a lune.
my creative heart has been
beating but not seen,
patiently not known,
hoping, lying in wait
that one day, like this,
I would notice its pulse
and take heed of its sounds
listen to its beat,
see all its signs,
act on its guidance.
Create, at last,
what makes it sing.
A full-hearted swing
at life’s infinite joy.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/cuteimage)
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)
You don’t get to blow out my flame
when you huff and you puff.
You don’t get to turn down my glow
when you’re feeling bored.
You don’t get to shame my spark
Into snuffing itself out.
You don’t get me to dim my light
so yours can shine brighter.
Shade
The only metaphor that works, right now,
is a plant in a corner of the garden
that’s always known its inner-most colour,
kept secret, to adapt and fit in.
This plant isn’t stretching to reach the sun.
It’s been content with its lot on the lawn,
accepting that others will burst and bloom
while it keeps to itself, forlorn.
Imagine this plant could transplant its space
to a patch that was easily lit,
giving a chance to grow like the rest.
But it flinches, retreats as though hit.
Why would a plant not take a chance to grow?
‘Cos it’s forgotten it really can?
Or has its true nature been buried beneath
those decades of soul-sucking soil?
Sun
What if the gardener was calling time
on the plants that had real worthwhile?
What if there was a ruthless deadline,
on the blooms with a chance of life?
What would our shady plant have to say
about the finite – the limit of time?
Would it continue to rot in the safety of shade,
or risk the scrutiny of sun?
Given a push, it will feel the sense
to die, to shift, or move out.
What’s no longer left is the chance to risk
the outcome of years of self-doubt.
So, time to make a shift towards
a sun that could no longer steal.
Trust the gardener of this gorgeous space
where the thorns could ultimately heal?
Tell me when you want it to end.
Don’t just gift me, compliment me,
and say I was brilliant, while it lasted.
Then leave.
I need a beginning,
middle,
end.
I trusted you, felt we had a connection,
built part of my diary around you.
To deprive me of my wind-down time
feels cruel, unfair.
And honesty was your core value,
so why not square up to me
when endings are why you came
to help you find your answer.
Leave me without a proper ending
and I hold the unprocessed story:
wondering about your (and my)
happily ever after.
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?
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?
inktuition 