I Do Not Regret

I wish not for just a moment
with that child of me,
with her hair tied up and a disguise of a smile
that would echo that whispery breeze of truth
that so eluded and so ill to believe.
And in that moment I would spill
the circumstance of every day to pass
and every moment that she would cry
and the fewer moments that she would laugh.
And I would ask a selfish plea to her
that she would dare not undertake,
I would ask her to keep that life she lives,
to remain every piece of the girl she is
and write her story the same way.

And that selfish child that I used to be
would refuse all that I’d ask.
She would demand every detail full and stolen
from what has been for me, would be for her,
our present and future past.
She, in every right of hers,
would change what she would do,
and everything I love and cherish
is everything that I would lose.
She would suffer no hell that I
have taken to bruise and scar.
That child of me, despite my plea,
would refuse everything we are.
She would take no lessons
and end with some other kiss
from some other love, from some other man
far differing of this.

I wish for never a moment
given to my past,
because I love this life that I have been given,
and I love this man I have.
And had I just one moment
with the child I have been,
I would lose what I love so
and what blessings I’ve been given.
I cannot regret the pain
that has since brought me here.
For this life I would have suffered all the more if needed,
and taken every tear.

Woven Tapestry

What tapestry on some crumbling wall
had that sad misfortune
to steal its threads from my repertoire
and weave into unsatisfaction.
And spill upon it blood and ink
of those that I’d forgotten,
and wipe away what stains I left
when I had still been broken?

And why should seamstress continue working
on an artwork solely done
and forsake that which she reprimanded herself
to walk dark the side of sun.
And weave ribbons of silver
into her once youthful hair,
why should she scar every finger
with needles that don’t care?

And then pass blind to some weak soul
as if I had some clue
how to rescue my small part of this world
with needle, thread, and rue.
And use that which enslaves my tender
heart beneath a womb
to believe that this sweet tapestry sanctuary
will someday become my tomb.

And the sun stops tanning pale, burned shoulders
and my face so gray beneath,
I fear that I shall meet this woman,
as sparsely as I believe.
And should I have that audacity
to believe that I cannot serve;
well what course shall Karma serve to me?
Something less than I deserve.

And should I stop weaving, stop spilling blood and ink
and erasing my own stains,
surely the beasts of otherworldly hells
will shoot poison through my veins.
But I have aged, as others in youth
have never in their time.
I’ve no ill will, no broken past,
so I replace those pains for mine.

I reweave every strand of hope,
recleanse every heart,
but when did I become this guardian
that is tearing me apart?

Burning the Shards

I swore,
beyond my hastened, stoic belief–
bereft that I might stand some motive
to mirror that girl I see in the glass
of silver, that she might someday be me.

I promised
that I would shatter every last piece
of every past insecurity,
that had stolen some sweet identity
that cursed ill into my name.

And I knew,
beyond doubt, or power too strong,
that I would not shatter my life.
The moments captured beneath glass and bone,
the scars I etched into piece of stone,
the names I carved, that guilt I own
that she is who I cannot be.

I swore,
that I would burn every last shard
silver, golden, or intangible.
That I would sever every stitch
that held me too close
to the things that I wish
I had never known.
Once, I was ignorant–and pure.

I promised,
that I could let it go.
That I could watch the flames and smile;
that this would disappear,
that nothing would remain of me
before him.
But everything remains.
It is who I am.

And I cannot vow
or tell tale true;
I’ll pretend I never knew.
As if, I never once stopped to care,
but that treacherous book of words
is still there
and as much as I do not want it to be,
those words were once what defined me.

He was not my life.
Once.

Thief of the Moon

I whispered soft to the night, and came upon a thief of the moon;
he had in his hands all his loot, each pink blossom that could bloom.
His fingers were bleeding and scarred, white stripes that had been there too long,
the seared teeth of the thorns and the burrs, and the shards of petals still hanging on.

The man held his hands out to me, asking what he could not say.
His eyes shone the moon and the stars, his lips formed the words, “don’t turn away.”
The streetlamp flickered above us, the crickets sang some sweet chirp,
the grasses whistled with the breeze, and the silence haunted some unspoken words.

I fell to my knees on the ground, took his broken hands into mine,
blew away every petal, plucked away every thorn, washed the blood away with red wine.
The blood and the wine seeped into the mud, and saturated the homes of the small.
The autumn spilled into the colorless leaves, and as days passed, they started to fall.

Snow whispered past, a moment in time, the theif’s eyes upon mine never left,
never blinked, never cried, never betrayed but a word, and slowly once more turned to theft.
Slowly my heart faultered, slowly it rose, I lost sight of where it might be,
and behind rosy glasses, I never noticed the binds, or the cuffs on my wrists keeping me.

I watched helpless as he stole my heart, took from my chest still beating strong,
it pulsed in his hands, soft, fragile, and glass, but tainted with undue and unforetellable wrongs.
The flesh walls fell to bricks on the ground, leaving it vulnerable.
Beneath walls, beneath brick, behind the bone of my ribs, a blossom so small, so beautiful.

I reached for the bloom with my hands, grasped soft and gentle but came back empty,
the thief staked my shackles in stones that hadn’t been there before, and held my heart too far from me.
His eyes flashed some chronic alleviation, of some poison that slowed in his veins.
His scars healed as if cured, his voice whispered some relief, and the blood disappeared from his stains.

But above us the rains had come soft, too soft to hear beyond settled mists.
The dam had run full, streams slid down the edges; there would be no surviving through this.
The levies cracked and broke down, shards of stones fell to muck and the river flowed out.
The flood scoured every nook, caught every last soul, caught us last, and spilled over our mouths.

I closed my eyes and dreamed of some other place, far and away of this sea.
The thief caught my lips, and placed on them this kiss that scattered and disoriented me.
I opened my eyes, frightened and confused, caught him staring into my eyes, the thief.
I opened my mouth to say anything and choked bubbles of rainbow when I noticed I could breathe.

My shackles and chains disappeared, my heart glowed this golden aura,
of every other heart and soul, tainted by ills too sour and unkind, I’d survived some new Sodom and Gommorah.
The thief told me that love made one pure, that seasons had passed with me remaining here,
that in my happens to stay, my actions had sold my heart, that I loved the thief, that much was clear.

That perhaps it was not such a crime, to steal blossom of heart behind wall,
that I had held no resistance, ’twas no thievery, if I had already forgiven this fall.
That he had his right to my heart, only for him had it bloomed,
the other buds came with thorns, but mine not a one, and that I loved my thief of the moon.

Beauty Chained by Beast

We stand on some corner somewhere,
the aroma of your spells in the air.
The mist settles upon stones,
every evening, every morn’
and the phantoms continue to stare.

Your hand is in mine and I dream
fantastical, miraculous things.
What God has my favor
that I might have that which I savor?
What karma has misplaced its laced seams?
That life in my heart blooms and spills,
but my fear wells and burns that I’ll wilt.
I feel as I if am that woman
too privileged.
I am chained in this silvery silt.

I fear more than death a repeal,
that I’ll lose what I’ve had this past year.
A whispery veil
fell as sharply as hail
guiding views rosy blue of so dear.

I hold his hand in a grasp
reliving every moment thrice before it’s past.
A prince on his steed, and I am but lesser breed.
Little more than a maid of outcast.
The beauty held chained by a beast,
or girl scarred by scalpel, at least.
He cannot see
that girl others know of me,
but I see what I must in this sea.

I temper no blade to shimmer bright
that he may not see mirror in respite.
I fear I may never be
that woman he sees in me.
Just some rose born of shadow rather than light.

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Names Written in Pen

All of these nameless faces, in this vast, ever-shifting crowd,
some ghost of vacant spaces spill into eyes of those around.
They try to say they’re broken, but they’ve never shattered true before
because they aren’t neck-deep in ocean, crying that they won’t do this anymore.
These people betray deception as if it were some frolicking fool.
Paying tribute to this poisoned resurrection, etched into mind of stone as some steadfast rule.
And to this devil lain in hammock woven by silver thread dew-stained by self-wrought tears,
an occupation that has been stolen, to lay in that barren waste cleared out by human fears.

These people tell me that they are broken, that I would never understand.
But with faith and risk I evaporated my ocean, and retaught that simple way to stand.
And these nameless faces in this shapeless crowd, risk nothing, pay no toll,
would not give life, give voice or sound, would not give up each piece of their soul.
They would not bleed their hearts for love, cannot drown in their mistakes
because they have sacrificed or tainted dove, nor written his name in pen that cannot be erased.

This poem is meant to illustrate the idea that without risking everything, love cannot exist. I truly do believe that is true. Love is not easy. It does not come gift wrapped in a nice little box. It is hard. And too many people walk away after one little thing. Love is worth fighting for but you actually have to fight. Risk everything. Dive in head first. If you drown, so be it. You’ll come back up hurt, yes. But you tried, and it wasn’t meant to be. Then you try again. And again.

Some people get hurt and never try again. But love, true love is worth getting hurt a thousand times.

Persuasions and Dissuasions of Poetry Blogging

I have been around the blogging block a few more times than I would care to say, and every time I try to convince myself that I need to try again, the question reappears in my mind: Why? I have failed more than a few times before, what makes me think that this time will be a success? I have a terrible habit of quitting everything that I start, not limited to blogging alone. I just can’t keep myself motivated to keep things going.

But in the same way, when it comes to writing, I have the same problem with. When I want to write, be it poetry, fiction, or journaling, there is little I can do to keep myself from a computer keyboard.

However, before I dove head-first into poetry blogging again, I decided to go over a list of the pros and cons. Why do I want to do this? Why don’t I? And which one is more prominent in my mind, not just at the moment, but in the general span of my life? As I wrote the list down, the words flowed with more fervor than I have had the pleasure to feel in a long time. Slowly, that motivation crept back into my mind, clenching jaws on what I wanted and didn’t want.

All the same, I had the list to consider before I did any real planning or unplanning.

Persuasions:

  1. I love poetry more than anything in the world. It is the one thing I have always known how to do. The only thing I have turned to consistently, no matter the situation. If there is any constant in my life, I am both sad and happy to say that it is scarce more than the written word.
  2. What’s more, I’m good at it. That is not to seem arrogant. It is just the truth. I have no fondness for people with an ego, but everyone has a talent. Some people have useful talents such as math, calculation, common sense, or singing. Alas, I have the talent of the written word. Perhaps not a useless talent, but it is a hard field to break into, all truth be told. I have never heard of a rich poet save for Shakespeare. The era of prose and poetry is long past.
  3. I will never lack for content. Anything can be turned into a poem. Something as seemingly insignificant as grass can be reappraised as the most important thing in the world, for however short a time. In fact, one of my favorite poems is Grass, by Carl Sandburg (you can click this link if you would like to read it: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grass/).
  4.  This would be a wonderful chance to meet and greet fellow poets. When I was younger, all of my friends were poets, but as the years passed, everyone slowly stopped writing. There was always something else more important, always something else to do. And when my friends stopped writing, I stopped feeling welcome to show them what I had written.
  5. Where else would my poetry go? If my friends don’t listen, and I don’t show anyone else, I suppose the words would just fade away, to be found long after I die. Even then they would not have the significance that they have now. No archeologist thousands of years from now will pick up old pieces of notebook paper that I scrawled a few lines on and shout, “inspired! Take this to the museum immediately!” It’s not as if I want fame, I just don’t want my words to die when I do. On the internet, nothing ever seems to die.
  6. Using poetry, the blog will be that much more personal. There is only so much I can say in ordinary words before finally exposing too much of myself. Too much emotion, too much passion and this is just a diary that I have the nerve to post online as if someone cares. With poetry, I can say as much or as little as I want, and for all you know, the subject matter might have happened to my mother’s cousin’s step-sister’s neighbor’s kid.
  7. Complete, and utter anonymity. Now granted, yes, I have a picture posted. Anyone searching for me will probably find this. But the truth is, no one I know will search for me. Who is to know that I have a blog if I tell no one? I may end up telling my boyfriend should I judge the content well-written enough, but he is a different story entirely.

Dissuasions:

  1. Who in the world cares what I have to say? Out of all of the blogs in all of the blogosphere, why would anyone stop in to give a care to what has gone wrong or right in my life? Or my mother’s cousin’s step-sister’s neighbor’s kid’s life for that matter? I mean, it’s not as if I am hilarious. I don’t set out to make people laugh, or cry, or think. They are my own emotions, not intended to set forth anyone else’s. And I have the audacity to think that someone else should care? Why?
  2. I have so many other things I could and should be doing with this time. I’m moving out in a few weeks, I should be getting ready. I should be spending time with my friends before I have to give over my schedule to college. I should be studying for my finals, and taking care of my cat. I should write that book that I have been planning for almost two years. I don’t exactly have a ton of time.
  3.  What happens if I get writer’s block? Well then what? Then I have to go through all of the usual tactics to get through it and those never work for me. Then I’m letting my readers down, and letting myself down.
  4. How am I to know that this is not an attempt to simply show off my lexicon? Okay, so I don’t really speak that way, throwing around words that half of the English-speaking population wouldn’t understand. I was just making a point. In fact, the only time I ever write like that is in fiction or poetry. Even this post is written in stream-of-consciousness form.  But I have to wonder if, despite my distaste for arrogance in any nature, I am becoming the very trait that I hate most. What if I am just flaunting my vocabulary around? Sometimes, I think that is my greatest fear when I write—that I will come off arrogant and self-assured.
  5. After this, my life only gets busier. When this summer ends, I begin college. I won’t have the time that I have now or over the summer. For the next four years, I will be trapped into more homework than I can imagine, a part-time job, and a social life. I’m worried that I won’t have time to keep writing.
  6. Nothing I say or write will ever change any part of the world. So why does it matter if I write at all? Sure, it is a stress reliever for me, but is it worth going through all this hassle to keep myself at peace? Knowing the sort of person I am, I could write as much as I want and never be at peace. So who am I writing for? Myself? The future? My audience? I guess that’s a question I’ll have to answer at a later date.
  7. Once again: complete and utter anonymity. No one I know will read this, except perhaps someday the man I marry. What if I want someone to know? What if I deep down want people to see who I truly am, but my surface self is hiding everything? It’s not as if I’ll tell anyone of this blog, so I will continue to go completely off the radar. I guess in a way this is both a pro and a con.

I ran over the list a few dozen times in my mind, and I suppose you can guess which I finally decided outweighed the other. I mean, after all, you are on my poetry blog, reading all of the reasons I should and shouldn’t do this.

In the here and now, I think this will be a good thing for me. Perhaps it will teach me a sense of responsibility. But in retrospect? Well, I guess I’ll look back a year from now and decide that.