Dec 2013
The problem wasn't the money
or the fame,
not the taunt, ripe bruises
shining from her heart
or the painful creak of her
hip bones when she moved.
No, the problem wasn't
the seeping words or
the tightness in her chest
every time she passed a church.
It wasn't the way the holiday lights
made her head dizzy or
the floating sensations
in grocery store lines
and it was definitely not
how her associates nonchalantly
patted her back in passing,
blatant excuses to walk on.
It wasn't the smell of soap
or the staring for hours
at the ceiling.
It wasn't the long, smooth metal
of the numbing pipe or
the sweet taste of Sangria wine.
It wasn't the many times
she'd been used or
the indignation that set in
when the walls were quiet.
It wasn't even the tapping pipes
that kept her awake at night
with their torturous monotony.
The problem was not the comparisons
or the dismissive tendencies,
the disconnections,
the draining of her energy
or even the isolation.
It was not the quiet meditation
or the constant spirit guide speak,
not the unpaid bills on the mahogany desk
or the whirring sounds of
a radiator about to explode
in her only transportation.
It never was the monetary lack
or the diseased reality
she was never given
the choice to escape from.
No, the problem was the sadness,
living there in the base of her spine
like a tall, thin castle
spearing up into her vertebrae
until her whole being ached.
It was the way the sadness
made her muscles swell,
and her face become pasted
to cotton pillow shams,
the frown lines starting to
make their way to her chin and
the visuals consistently invading.
It wasn't the crass indifference
piling up on her skin like bones,
the remains of every person who
had touched her and left,
leaving another layer
added to the angst.
Instead it was the secrets
housed inside the sadness,
catacombs of skeletons
break dancing in her ballast,
as if her tears were raindrops
and the sobs a symphony.
So no, it wasn't the way she
robotically moved through her day
or the smiles she feigned,
not the haze in her eyes
left by too many nights of crying
or the sleep where memories faded.
It was just
the sadness.
{recorded version https://soundcloud.com/venniekocsis/the-sadness}
v.k poetry
copyright @ dbv publishing 2013
or the fame,
not the taunt, ripe bruises
shining from her heart
or the painful creak of her
hip bones when she moved.
No, the problem wasn't
the seeping words or
the tightness in her chest
every time she passed a church.
It wasn't the way the holiday lights
made her head dizzy or
the floating sensations
in grocery store lines
and it was definitely not
how her associates nonchalantly
patted her back in passing,
blatant excuses to walk on.
It wasn't the smell of soap
or the staring for hours
at the ceiling.
It wasn't the long, smooth metal
of the numbing pipe or
the sweet taste of Sangria wine.
It wasn't the many times
she'd been used or
the indignation that set in
when the walls were quiet.
It wasn't even the tapping pipes
that kept her awake at night
with their torturous monotony.
The problem was not the comparisons
or the dismissive tendencies,
the disconnections,
the draining of her energy
or even the isolation.
It was not the quiet meditation
or the constant spirit guide speak,
not the unpaid bills on the mahogany desk
or the whirring sounds of
a radiator about to explode
in her only transportation.
It never was the monetary lack
or the diseased reality
she was never given
the choice to escape from.
No, the problem was the sadness,
living there in the base of her spine
like a tall, thin castle
spearing up into her vertebrae
until her whole being ached.
It was the way the sadness
made her muscles swell,
and her face become pasted
to cotton pillow shams,
the frown lines starting to
make their way to her chin and
the visuals consistently invading.
It wasn't the crass indifference
piling up on her skin like bones,
the remains of every person who
had touched her and left,
leaving another layer
added to the angst.
Instead it was the secrets
housed inside the sadness,
catacombs of skeletons
break dancing in her ballast,
as if her tears were raindrops
and the sobs a symphony.
So no, it wasn't the way she
robotically moved through her day
or the smiles she feigned,
not the haze in her eyes
left by too many nights of crying
or the sleep where memories faded.
It was just
the sadness.
{recorded version https://soundcloud.com/venniekocsis/the-sadness}
v.k poetry
copyright @ dbv publishing 2013
