To my younger self I gift
a sense of knowing I have a right to exist,
imperfect and scared as I am
it’s alright to be me.
To my younger self I gift
a trust that life gives as well as takes,
that the blows and hurts won’t destroy me,
but will make me who I am.
To my younger self I gift
a self-belief that’s humble as it’s confident,
that the words I eventually write
will soothe me and touch others.
To my younger self I gift
a pen that scribes my truth.
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.
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
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)
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?
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?
I’ve always been afraid of you,
since you first terrorised my dream,
sank your teeth into my innocent forearm,
leaving droplets of freckle blood.
I always leapt onto my childhood bed
knowing you lay beneath,
ready to reach out and swipe with a paw
any sign of vigilance weak.
The cool of your eye made me fear my blue
avoiding it as alien to me.
Better my red, to warn you off,
keep me safe from your knowing prowl.
And yet you haunt my waking life:
on your hind legs now, you smirk at my work.
As if you can’t bear for my truth to break free
you keep me caged in your mockery.
If you were my friend, I’d keep you my pet
to bite at my enemies instead.
Yet that’s what I let you do to me:
keeps me superior, smug, lonely, apart.
Wolves are meant to hunt in packs
so why did I get you alone?
Why are you lost, tormenting me so?
Do wolf and go howl at the moon.
(pic courtesy of nixxphotography/freedigitalphotos.com)
inktuition 