Posts Tagged ‘hope’

I want to believe.
I think I belong,
I’m not really sure,
I’m scared of the words I put on this page,
fearful of the direction my thoughts will go,
unsure of the meaning,
avoiding the necessary pattern,
constantly questioning my motivation,
my sanity,
my ability to get you to hear.
… am I speaking too softly?
… have you tired of my attempts at clarity?
… could you see when I was weak?

I think I belong,
I’m not really sure,
I can’t find the brevity needed,
stringing words together so fast even I lose track,
my mind wanders from present to future to past,
randomly thrown together in a delicate mix,
waiting for a sign that you heard,
hoping my courage is safe,
hidden in an ornate metaphorical phrase.
… which words did you hear?
… am I still brave?
… are you leading the naysayers?

I think I belong,
I’m not really sure,
these words are neither black or white,
the picture they paint is in clear gray,
the mind they reveal is focused,
the beautiful disillusion of purpose,
pull it all together,
sit up straight,
breathe — become.
… are we safe in each others hands?
… does the sparkle still show?
… is a smile hidden inside?

I think I belong,
I’m not really sure,
moving away from concrete ways,
a chattering mouse quieting herself,
a novel destined for publication,
always becoming better,
welcoming revisions from a soul-filled author,
a story that needs to be told,
a song you will always remember.
… did I make you stumble?
… will you hear my melody again?
… am I learning who I am?

I think I belong,
I want to believe.

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this is the poem i didn’t write.

it put me on a collision course with all the stones i threw.

it pushed me within inches of the blue part of the flame.

it made me hold my gaze so long my eyes burned.

it tied me to the tracks and walked slowly away.

it cut my anchor and left me drifting from the shore.

it opened the door and locked it as i passed through.

it cringed when i sang out of key.

it left me stranded on this page because you were afraid to acknowledge it.

it whispered in my ear all the ways the pain would go away.

it thundered around in my head not letting me sleep.

it clinched my jaw so tight it ached for days.

it held me under the waves until i quit struggling.

it confused my mind with a race track of thoughts.

it hummed in my ears at a deafening silence.

it filled my pen with angry words and sneered when i couldn’t let them out.

it laughed when the words went astray.

it proudly held up another rejection note.

it jarred me awake just so i wouldn’t remember.

it convinced me that breathing was bad.

it gave a fleeting thought all the power.

it lied and said there’s no room for any space between.

it told me you read it.

it pushed dysfunction to the front of my head.

it made me look ridiculous for pressing publish.

it promised it would all be clean slated.

it yelled when i tried to start over.

it ripped out my heart and wiped it on this page.

it cursed me with a year of silence.

it jumped from the highest cliff to the jagged rocks below.

it smiled at me from the murky bottom.

it complicated the words i wanted to say.

it dared to think i wasn’t strong enough.

it quivered when i said “fuck what you think”.

it shook in fear at my determination.

it laid prostrate long enough to write it down.

this is the poem i didn’t write.

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Hi kids…

I’ll be playing in someone else’s sand box this week!

Follow me, as today I take on rejection and Alexis Stewart — 10/30/11

Craving Rejection

Today, a poem — 11/01/11

Today, I am small…

Today, some fiction — 11/03/11

Wrap You In My Arms 





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I see you… standing there on the corner.

A cigarette hanging from your mouth, your fingertips are yellowed by the repulsive habit. Your hair is dirty, there is no color… just the color of alone, empty, left-over. You’re clothes are disheveled. I imagine you sifting through the pile of used clothes, strewn across a cold concrete floor –piece milling your outfit together, hurriedly before anyone else joins you. Then you pick out your mat and place it in a spot close to the bathroom, you think you have a better chance of sleep with the faint light creeping under the door — the complete dark of the large room scares you.

I know this about you… I can see it.

Once your mat is in place you sprint to the front of the line for food… you know you have a better chance at seconds if you’re at the front, you know this because you watched the others those first couple of times and the power of osmosis gave you the knowledge to survive these nights. When you have your food, you pick the table closest to the front… closest to the line. You can gauge the quantity of food left and when you need to get back in line. Your eyes dart back and forth between the line and your food only you can’t even see your food — you don’t care. It’s hot. You eat. You look right through your plate to the memories of a life you think must have been lived by someone else.

I know this about you… I can see it.

I can see the baby being held by a mother — love in her eyes, a smile on her face. Her hair falls gently past her shoulder and tickles your cheek as she sings Van Morrison and there you are… into the mystic. Dancing around in her arms, clinging to the warmth of her breath, inhaling the sweet scent of her dreams — the dreams she had for you. The report card she knew she would frame, the touchdown she knew you would catch, the college she knew you would attend… she knew you would have her gypsy soul. And she danced and she twirled and you closed your eyes and…

I know this about you… I can see it.

When the morning comes you gather your things… a backpack with clothes, a toothbrush, a marker, matches — your cigarettes. You stand in the line again, waiting for your breakfast and the sack lunch for later. You put it all in your backpack and you wait outside for the van to leave and carry you back to this corner — this corner where I pull up to everyday and I watch you put that cigarette to your mouth and I see your yellowed finger tips and I wonder if anyone ever held you in their arms. I wonder if you ever knew the hope of someone who believed in you. I wonder if anyone ever gazed down on you while you were sleeping and wished you dreams of unicorns and bunny rabbits and clouds shaped like hearts. I wonder if anyone ever stood up for you — I wonder if you remember.

I see you… standing there on the corner.

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I’ve been sitting on these thoughts for about a year now… a year because I didn’t think I could put my thoughts to paper clear enough to be read and understood. Then I decided, yes… I could. An indication of what a difference a year can make in the evolution of a person.

I recently read a post over at Zebra Sounds and the author made the comment that we are “complicated beings”. I thought to myself, “Right?, Please explain it to me.” I think you really have no idea how complicated we are as humans unless you take the time to try to figure yourself out — to understand your own evolution, as women, as mothers, as daughters, as friends — the friendship of a woman is like no other. I’ve been making a conscious effort to figure a few things out this year. I think to say the last three years of my life have been stressful would be the understatement of the century. I knew where I was emotionally was not where I wanted or needed to be, but, I was stuck… unable to move forward. Stuck is scary.

I had a friend who mentioned therapy, she thought, maybe, I should try it (I was, admittedly, holding her captive in the rabbit hole with me) — I scoffed… not me, never. This friend said she thought I was one of the bravest people she knew and asking for help would just be one more example of my bravery. I didn’t really believe her, I should have. But I was stuck.

My world crashed.

I was not only stuck but lost.

I needed help.

There were a few days last September that completely rattled me, tossed me around like a kite in a tsunami. I was thrashing about, confused, disoriented, struggling to stay afloat when I could feel the tug of the under current dragging me down — but you would never have known, you would never have suspected.

I am a woman.

I am a mother.

I am skilled at the fine art of outward appearances.

When I say there are things I don’t really remember, it rattles me even more. But, thanks to google, I discovered that memory loss or memory confusion is a by-product of stress and anxiety — not an excuse for ill-behavior, just an explanation for a rational being having irrational behavior.

I think to try to describe depression would be too difficult, there aren’t enough words to paint a picture of the truly eery poetic thoughts and feelings that swirl around — it all makes sense, it’s so clear — the storms are beautiful. Then, the sun comes up and you see the illogical process of your thoughts and this continues… over and over, it continues. All the pieces fall into place and then they clang to the floor in a discombobulated mess of utter confusion… then, once again — clear.

All the while, you go to work and you drive the carpool and you pack lunches and you cook dinner and you have lunch with friends and you clean your house and you do the laundry because we are women, we are mothers, we are skilled at the fine art of outward appearances. This “thing” that had me in its grasp could not leave a smudge on my bubble.

I contacted a therapist… eeny meeny miny moe — that one will do, after all… I only wanted to pretend to seek assistance. I still didn’t think I needed help, I thought that if I went to therapy then I could steady myself enough to regain my shiny outward appearance — I, as sometimes happens, didn’t care about the turmoil on the inside. I was the only one privy to that information and I could handle anything. Several sessions went by, I did a lot of “uh huh”ing, a lot of head nods. I thought to myself that my therapist was really pretty and smart and compassionate and caring… she must be good for her clients, not me though. I was only here to get my outward appearance back —

I am a woman,

I am a mother,

I am skilled at the fine art of outward appearances.

A month went by, or two or five. I began to look forward to my sessions with my therapist, I began to trust her, I began to tell her the things I needed to tell her and I listened to what she had to say. I started to feel better. I slept… for the first time in several months, I slept. I started being honest with people, but mainly with myself. I started therapy for all the wrong reasons, because, when you suffer from stress and anxiety and depression, thinking clearly is not one of the benefits. But I continue my work because of the most important reason of all, me.

We are women.

We are mothers.

We are skilled at the fine art of outward appearances.

We are complicated beings. We mess up and we try to fix. We say the wrong things and we try to shove the words back into our mouths. We love and we let go. We laugh and we collapse under the weight of a shattered heart. We dream and we face reality. We hope… we hope that our hearts lead us back to the friends we’ve lost and lead us forward to those we have yet to meet. We hope the cracks let the love in. We believe in each other and we believe in ourselves. We are women. We are mothers. We are complicated beings — reaching out, holding on, surviving, loving, hoping. Hoping that we can guide each other past the murky water and the glass cage hearts, hoping you understand I’m a complicated being, shattering the outward appearance… reaching my hand out, hoping you’ll grasp it… again.

Because we are women,

we are mothers,

we are complicated beings.

Image from Kind Over Matter

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I refuse to believe the thoughts you think about me.

I refuse to listen to your inner voice when mine is so much more viable.

I refuse to hide in the shadows of this broken heart I carry around…

… barely beating.

… barely breathing.

… barely surviving.

I refuse to stop following my gut.

I refuse to continue to apologize for a wrong I’ve righted over and over and over.

I refuse to walk away silently…

… whispering.

… whimpering.

… wishing.

I refuse to hear the whispers surrounding my thoughts.

I refuse to give up the fight because no better cause exists.

I refuse to be anything other than truthful and honest and hopeful…

… especially through the pain.

… especially through the thickness of those walls.

… especially through the confusion of why.

I refuse to let myself down.

I refuse to give up on me.

I refuse to accept I’m unworthy…

… even with the proof.

… even with the consequence.

… even with the pounding of the words on my mind.

I refuse to let go of my life.

I refuse to creep around in this rabbit hole.

I refuse to not get pissed off and scream at the top of my lungs at your closed off heart…

… but it would be so easy.

… but it would be so painless.

… but it would slip away like a kite string in a strong wind.

I refuse to stop waving my hands in front of your blindness.

I refuse to not care.

I refuse to give up on hope…

… because that would be giving up on me.

… because that would be proving you right.

… because I’m better than that.

I refuse to live my life quietly.

I refuse to be closed off to love.

I refuse to stay in the pits of an ebb when I should be soaring with the flow.

I refuse.




A little bit of pissy angst for Jingle’s Poetry Potluck and Thursday’s Poet Rally. Check out all the great things happening there.

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This is the story of a girl,

she cared for you until she couldn’t anymore.

she danced in patent shoes until her feet were worn.

she always waited for your lights to shine through the door.

This is the story of a girl,

she wanted to get your attention but you were busy fixing the world.

This is the story of a girl,

she saved the whole world, but submerged deep inside,

she stayed too long when she should have run,

she listened to you when you thought she wasn’t around.

This is the story of a girl,

she crumbled a little and was scattered on the floor,

she begged and pleaded and cried, “please, no more!”

This is the story of a girl,

she unstuck her feet from the hardened feelings all around,

she stood on the tracks with her fist high in the air,

she jumped on the train and was carried away.

This is the story of a girl,

she broke into pieces at the dawn of each new day,

she forced the air into her closed off lungs,

she pried open the gates of her bordered up heart.

This is the story of a girl,

she moved but she wanted to freeze,

she talked but she wanted to remain silent,

she stayed present but she wanted to slip away.

This is the story of a girl,

she thinks of you when she thinks about hope,

she kept saying hello to a closed shut door.

This is the story of a girl,

she is tired,

she is hoping,

she is floating,

she is continuing.

This is the story of a girl,

she was longing to belong but finally realized she already did.

This is the story of a girl,

she became a basket case but only for a minute.

This is the story of a girl,

she wanted you to believe in her as much as she believes in you.

This is the story of a girl,

she tried to rush the ending but it’s just the beginning.



Check out Jingle’s Poetry Potluck this week for some wonderful reads, as well as One Stop Poetry, home of One Shot Wednesday!

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Pieces of me are scattered around,

jumbled on the mind like a puzzle strown across a hardwood floor on a cold winter night…

everyone gathers to piece it together,

everyone grabs a piece and they know exactly where it goes,

everyone sees the end result and how to get there and how beautiful it will be when it’s complete.

Pieces of me I don’t recognize,

like the tiny circular glass left across the road when two cars have collided,

the glass merges all into one heap of unknowing,

the beginning of one car is lost in the ending of another, take a broom and sweep it all away and then it’s gone,

no more pieces.

Pieces of me torn out and handed to you,

just to see what you’ll do,

just to see if you care,

just to see if you stole a piece and want to put it back,

just to give it to you…

Pieces of me all tattered and torn,

ripped wide open like the sky after a storm and a rainbow dares to show itself to the world and scream to be seen and laugh at the dark clouds on either side because there,

there in the middle,

there in the spot that was ripped open,

there is a piece of hope.

Pieces of me,




Pieces of me tossed into the air like confetti at a celebration,

sparkling and shimmering and floating gently down to the soft ground making a beautiful pattern as they land…




I offer this for the “One Shot Wednesday” event at One Stop Poetry, which each week invites poets to share and read each other’s work. Be sure to visit the site late Tuesday afternoon and every Wednesday for links to the many contributors’ poems. As well as Jingle Poetry Potluck, and Thursday’s Poet Rally… explore the wonderful world of poetry waiting for you.

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I’m not trying to pull you back,

Read between the lines and you’ll see.

That would mean I’m back there too,

Waiting for company.

I’m not trying to pull you back,

Not now, not this time, not at all.

That would mean I’m stuck with no way out,

waiting for a superhero.

I’m not trying to pull you back,

It’s about moving on and taking in and understanding the past.

I’m not trying to pull you back,

I don’t even recognize that space that time that person.

I’m not trying to pull you back,

I’m showing me there’s hope and friends and forgiveness and redemption

and acceptance back in to the fold.

I’m not trying to pull you back,

I’m creating and letting go and moving on and learning

and feeling and understanding and being and loving and hurting

and missing.

I’m not trying to pull you back,

I’m propelling myself forward.

I’m learning to walk not fly.

I’m learning to leap not drop.

I’m learning to talk not demand.

I’m learning to listen not analyze.

I’m here…

moving, hoping.

I’m here…

wishing for a voice.

I’m here.

I’m not trying to pull you back,

I’m un-sticking my feet from the messy past

and treading on a hopeful future.

I’m here.

Just me.

Naked and exposed.

I’m here.

Not pulling.

Not pushing.

Not proving.

Not consuming.

Not drowning.

Not flying.

Not waiting.

Not contemplating.

I’m here.

Surrounded by my hope.

I’m here.


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