art

Raw

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I am deathly afraid you will strike me down

for opening my mouth

I sit frozen, shaking

an inner-earth-quaking

What if you spear my careful words

crafted from my great need for acceptance

I admit it!

I have crossed the bridge

and put myself Out There

Will I be crucified

Or stoned alive

Each step has led me here and I feel desperate

to take each step back now

What if I have doomed myself

Ruined everything again

Wanted or Needed too much

What if they tell me just to shut the fuck up

And Quit being so stupid

And We can see through your frantic attempts

You silly, useless fool

I cry out

I am so afraid

I am so eager to take-back

But I let it sit

Out There

With all of them

my throat choked from the waiting

Silent judgements killed me once

But I have to Stay

I have to hold strong and steady

I have to brave total annihilation

and trust that the world I knew once

has changed

And the terror just sits in the air

and hangs

 

Answer to Rejection

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You want some robot “poetry voice” to come out of me

Knowing about things like stanzas and haiku

How can she, like, not know haiku and call herself a poet?!

But I can only write using This voice

And that fake shit don’t fly here

Maybe it’s Real to you –

“shimmering lakes” and clichéd-a-million-ways-to-say autumn leaves –

and that’s ok

But Real to me is just…

being free enough to be me

To let out my truth

Imperfectly

This is my poetry.

This is my art.

This is my voice.

You can reject it for its lack of “poetry-ness”

Or say anything you wish, really

I’ll just float along with the smile I feel forming on the inside

Because, well…

I don’t write for you.

Black Poetry

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Brainwashed-2

Black Poetry beats in me like a painful yellow fog

Murky, pungent, sucking life

This is garbage, you think

(Or maybe that’s me)

For Poetry is the thing Dickenson speaks of!

Hope singing, and the like

I bring a different kind of Word

Self-indulgent, maybe

But not if you really knew…

Well

Some of you do

Some of you do

We are the artists, yes the long-suffering Clichés,

Whose works, year-after-year-after-millennium,

Somehow still rings True

Life strikes down her yellow-gold-silver-blue

Splitting us all open, cracked as we already are

Shattering and shattering

You can almost here Zeus laughing in the skies while

Children are dying down here in spades

While so-called Gurus spew

Unrelatable but somehow edible

Spiritual vomit

People sinking knee-deep in it

Eyes wild, wide

Heads nodding, bobbing like Robotrons

Mouths lapping up regurgitated chunks

Hungry

Starving to ingest the One-Sided

Disguised as Salvation

Hands dripping with acid stench

Shoveling, scooping

Inhaling someone else’s excrement

Proclaiming it delicious

Denial is a Siren

A sweet Goddess of affliction

Who is so annihilating-ly believable

We all think we’ve got gold in our palms

Ever-fooling ourselves

So I take on the role of The Outcast

I must

This painful yellow fog beats out of me

(Go ahead and find it disgusting)

Not because I wish to be different

(Though, fuck you, I’m different)

But because mainly

I must be a Counter

To all the golden puke we cling to

Pretending that it is Soul

This Lonely “I”

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Tried to love you a thousand times
But I gave too much of myself away
Been scrambling like a maniac
To get all those precious pieces back
Slow-going though
(And some decayed)
They tell me out of rotten things…
Yeah I’ve heard that out of death?
A brand new Something’s born again
Better than what’s left
I wonder though – about those pieces
The ones I’ve tried to grasp
And breathe life into once again
Make meaning of my past
Is it worth it when I’m so alone
While my heart just hopes and hopes
Going on and on like It don’t see
The rope around my throat
I tried to love you a thousand times
And a thousand more than that
Was I doing Love all wrong?
Have I given This for That?
I have no answers as I move
Step-by-adjective-Step
There are no fairytales, methinks
Oh, what a crushing childhood lie
No prince
Nor knight
Nor one true love
But only this lonely
“I”

Ebb

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The long drought is over.

The Dry all dried up.

The water spills over

My parched, thirsty cup.

Inspiration, She fills me –

Quenches my fires.

Dehydration – a Teacher –

Who finally retires.

I waited in the desert.

I stayed with my pain.

Knowing the suffering

Would one day bring rain.

My soul sings again.

Her Lover returns!

The blaze of Creation

Brings Life as She burns.

This Thing I can’t Own…

But just let it pass through

Til the last embers die out;

Til flood turns to dew.

Then, dried up again.

Inspiration, She’s gone.

I wait in the desert.

She’ll come back along…

 

The Heavy

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It is back – it is back:

That heavy, Heavy Black.

That feeling that Hangs, everywhere.

That lifeless Black Heavy in the air.

Like barren days preceding rain,

Gray-cloud Apathy masking Pain.

Oh, yes, Those Days –

You know the kind –

Seeking something you just can’t find.

You try to Try but the Heavy wins out.

Smashing your tiny, pathetic ‘try’ all about.

So you stop the fight, you put down the try.

People, they judge you, they can’t figure out why.

They whisper and snarl, say, “Depression’s not Real.”

This coming from people who never learned how to feel.

Not deep down in their souls in the Dark Birthing Black

Where the pains create life and the joy cycles back.

Oh yes, that part we forget when we’re stuck in the bog,

When that Nothing feeling hangs thick as the fog –

That if we can Hold On and just get through the black

We might say,

“The joy! The Joy…

It is back.”