I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless sex. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.
It was a graveyard and overcast sky
and I sat with book and accordian in hand,
hearing the world with its screams
swallow up around me.
The people whom I had loved and lost,
Papa with his silver eyes
Mama her sharp tongue and tough love
Rudy whose hair the colour of lemons
and questioned why, the living and dead,
worlds apart, yet both did not have a choice.
I stood and screamed so that everything shook
the burning rubble and ash and dust
willing my words to bring it all back
but it did not come, and my breath rose in gasps.
Death had looked me in the eye and said,
“It’s not time yet.”
I would shut my eyes to the world
only decades later.
I will understand that there was hate and pain
there was sadness
but even more so, there was love and joy.
I will know that the people I loved had reason
to kiss goodbye
whether it was their own hurt
or saw it as a necessity,
but they were never truly gone from me
always somewhere nearby,
in the thick and thin
frail and worn
I would learn
to forgive Death that day.
I will understand that
and I will be hurt,
but I will be okay.
Not all deaths are sad.
Some, meant to ease their own pain,
Are called freedom.
Meant to ease the pain of others,
Are called love.
I do not love you like the crescent moon
majestically erupting into a star filled night
nor do I love you like the pearl painted swan
gliding effortlessly across a pristine pond
Fear not for I do most certainly love you -
But my love is more like a cool crisp apple
one succulent bite bringing sustenance to life
My love lives in our fresh laundered linens
dried in the comforting winds blowing off the sea
My love is here
My love is now
It is in everything I touch
It is in everything I Do
I may not love you like the luster melting hearts
glistening off a ten carat diamond ring
but you can be sure my love lives daily
in my every breath and my every dream
It felt so unreal
but it was real
the feeling was fictional
To them it was just a feeling
that linges but really
it stays to guide, hunt
and direct them in their doings
But really do feelings die
do they fade away
or get forgotten
Of course the answer
is NO cus' as long
as you live you keep feeling
something both good or bad
But really what was
this feeling that kept
hunting them through out
their lifes as humans
Was it their conscience
their heart or their mind
that made them feel this way?
a lot of people asked them
and they had no reply
cus' they claimed
not to knw the feeling
But really they
all knew the feeling
and felt it too
cus' it was not far from them
and the feeling was no other
than the guilt they felt
and this is what hunted and guided
them through out their lifes
even to their death bed
It was something
that felt so good to feel
because of its nice presence
To some it was un believeable
to some it was a fantansy
some just loved the way
the wind blew on them
while some just loved the gay feeling
because it felt wonderful
But what was this
feeling that felt so good
and awesome that it
couldn't be forgotten
Of course the feeling
was felt everywhere
and the presence was
in the enviroment
and that feeling was
no other than Happiness
Home is the intersection of two lines – the vertical and the horizontal.
The vertical plane has heaven, or the upper world, at one end,
and the world of the dead at the other end.
The horizontal plane is the traffic of this world, moving to and fro – our own traffic and that of teeming others.
Home is a place of order. A place where the order of things
come together – the living and dead – the spirits of the ancestors
and the present inhabitants,
and the gathering up and stilling of all the to-and-fro.
Leaving home can only happen because there is a home to leave. And the leaving is never just a geographical or spatial separation; it is an emotional separation – wanted or unwanted.
Steady or ambivalent.
For the refugee, for the homeless, the lack of this crucial coordinate in the placing of the self has severe consequences.
At best it must be managed, made up for in some way.
At worst, a displaced person, literally, does not know which way is up, because there is no true north. No compass point.
Home is much more than shelter; home is our centre of gravity.
A nomadic people learn to take their homes with them.
When we move house, we take with us the invisible concept of home – but it is a very powerful concept.
Mental health and emotional continuity do not require us to stay in the same house or the same place, but they do require a sturdy structure on the inside – and that structure is built in part by what has happened on the outside. The inside and the outside of our lives are each the shell where we learn to live.
Home was problematic for me.
It did not represent order and it did not stand for safety.
Within torment, deciding if our jigsaw piece
is the right fit, we find serendipity.
For we're believers, day dreamers,
far seekers, and mind speakers.
We separate the gap
between positive and negative
For we are are the optimists
in this pessimistic world.