My name dances pulsing cadence in your words wake me from an inescapable nightmare and I swallow the whole universe with my morning stretch. You shine down on me beams of light brighter than Helios, and seer away the chill of night. I pull your rays around me unwilling to abandon this bed of warmth.

You, my sun.

Hours shift you anxious urging me ablaze into my day. Reluctant I lumber down the hall beckoning you like moths. Story the whole of everything grooved permanent in my hands, read me like a favorite book again and again. And watch spellbound my departure culling your return.

Open wide the window and summon sweet the chickadee’s song drift us intoxicated. Swoop in the crow to eat you whole and darkness rains upon me once again. The night terrorizes me silent frozen statue I will not move forgotten. Petrified dreams bronzed curls rise above my head spiraling crown and mimic you.

You, my sun.

I am not good sharing my thoughts with others, not in a deeper sense. I tread lightly in this world as I know we have all suffered too much and I wish to cause no more, for others, for myself. I have spent far too much time staring at the past recently. It is not like me. I have never been a past dweller. I have always focused forward with hope filled eyes.

Have you ever stopped everything and just sat down refusing to move completely disregarding the inertia of things and people around you urging you desperately to move in some direction? I have done this in my life, in every single way, recently. I am all but holding my breath to not move in the slightest way just to avoid doing the wrong thing. I am paralyzed by a lack of will to move on, even if it is all that I am supposed to do, some act of willful defiance within refuses to allow me to budge. I spent far too much time picking my every emotional wound trying to goad myself onto a new path and I find my fingernails littered with bloodied thoughts of useless futility. I shall not move on, not today.

I’ve cried so many tears my eyes have evaporated and I no longer see who I am anymore. I can but make out a vague recollection of pieces of who I once was and I disappear into this unmovable version of me and grow thick an alabaster column cementing me to a statue of a memory.

Since I love poetry so very much, I think I will share some of my favorite poets and some poetry/prose I’ve written. I will try to share some every couple of days. Remind me if I don’t!

To start I will share with you Sylvia Plath.

Mad Girl’s Love Song

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

And one of my own…

Short

We are all of us bound to something, some one… many things. No matter how far away, we still feel the never ending pull. We try to mask it with white noise, with others, with go, go, go but still there is no severing some ties. We are bound to those we shared a little too much of ourselves with even if we try to pretend otherwise. We are bound to ourselves, even the darkest meanest self-critic within. We are bound to our pasts like rotting roots waiting to crawl through us and petrify all that is good, all we have overcome. We are bound to our sadness, to our will, to our weakened or refreshed strength. We are bound to the strangers around us. We are bound to the person starving or crying or celebrating millions of miles away, the one we may never meet. We are bound to the buildings with the paint chipping off and the glass towers built to last forever. We are bound to the oiled birds of the Gulf Coast. We are bound to the missing in Japan. We are bound to the fabric woven throughout humanity to all its imperfections and to all its beauty. We are bound to everything, and I am bound to you.

Bound to you by Christina Aguilera (from the Burlesque Soundtrack)

Wave Goodbye by Sophie Madeleine

Autumn Art in a Puddle, originally uploaded by Batikart.

I feel thick the tears swelling my troubles
to the most incredible proportions.
And I am parched for self-love.
Teetering on the edge of apathy and overwhelm.
I am anything but balanced.
I want not to dwell on the dissected parts of me.

Oh please!
Sketch me the tiniest wings of hope,
and I will take flight in a positive direction.
I will pack my displaced courage,
Leave behind the sentimental suits
Of guilt and disregard.
Stuff fat my pockets with every memory,
And I will be on my way.

beautiful silence, originally uploaded by CrazyFast.

“Silence is as deep as eternity; speech shallow as time”
-Thomas Carlyle

Sometimes silence is like a warm breeze, enveloping you in its tendrils, sheltering you from the harsh weather waiting, aching to consume you. Sometimes silence is like a raging ocean pushing you under its shiny blue into the vast darkness, forcing you down to its unending depths while you try in vain to hold your breath and watch the surface, the sky…your entire world disappear into darkness. And you die a thousand watery silent deaths for no one can hear your muted, drowned out cries for help. And sometimes silence teases the air from your ear, leaving in its absence a strange pulling sensation that makes you doubt everything you ever known.

And sometimes silence is a traffic jam of words, so many words, rushing to and fro, all at their leisure… in preparation of something grand guesture, preparation for whats to come, some overwhelming emotion or thought… stuck firm upon your palate just so… and in the delightful confusion the brain does not, will not supercede in the chain of command, by taking control. And the words they dance stupid upon your tongue until you fall fast asleep, weary from anticipation, and each word you swallow like silent snores never to escape upon your baited breath. Never to reach their destination.

(written by me this weekend)

“He cannot mess it up, not this one, not her. He doesn’t know why but he recognises that this one is different, this one is necessary to him. It’s an unaccountable thought.”

 — Maggie O’Farrell The Hand That First Held Mine

I am reeled in and cast off, all by you. And I know it is not intentional. You are but a carrot dangled before me, and I, a starving soul, am conditioned to follow nourishment. Are you a figment of my imagination? I cannot tell anymore. I know logically I did not make you up but didn’t I? Fear of this causes me to dig in my heels and stay silent, still…unfettered by the obvious, needed, lure before me. Perhaps they will not notice me following. Perhaps, they will stop urging me towards their versions of reality. I cannot be tainted more than I am. I was already headed in this direction… that you are before me is a fortunate coincidence, serendipity.

Synchronicity.

And so, I ingest each word you write but fear sending my replies. I feel you are a trick, a way to prove a point… to validate some negative verdict about me. To invalidate a thread of good seen in me. They are probably right. They are probably wrong. It is all a matter of perspective. We are as a society so willing to prove the frailty of others… the wrongs… that which is discardable to us. Relegating a person unsuitable of our time, of our compassion. We want so much to prove the rest of the world is just as unworthy as we feel. And I want no part of that. I will come just as I am and be wretched and beautiful, imperfect, me.

“She’ll have many incarnations in her time.”

— Maggie O’Farrell The Hand That First Held Mine

I am fallible. I do not trust easy, perhaps not at all on some levels. I am emotional, embarrassingly quick or painfully slow to react. I expect immediate responses and take offense when I do not receive them but think nothing of my own folly in the sense of timing, though I do none of it out of mischief or malevolence.

I have caused my fair share of sadness, anger, pain in this world unintentionally, but if whomever is holding the stick that dangles you before me thinks they can pass sweeping judgment on me for sharing love, for being who I am… they are mistaken. I am. I always have been and all emotional crimes—all life crimes have been self-punished many times over.  I have already played unrelenting the judge, the jury and the executioner… I am punished without mercy within the imprisonment of my thinking, thinking, thinking—constantly thinking—mind. And I suffer… and I repent. And I survive.

My weakness for words, for raw emotions gets the best of me. You feel that. You crave that part and get the worst of me. And I still exist somewhere in the middle… two blocks west of left field, in a town we both could navigate with our eyes closed… and still, I am lost and unsteady but I cannot help to follow you, if you are going in the same direction.