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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 ***. 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.

But you,
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.
OK, I know it isn't Christmas so please excuse me for either being late or a whole lot early... So keep it mind this was just for the fun of it!

*Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the foreclosed house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings weren't hung by the chimney with care,
It was too late for St Nicholas, this year he wasn’t there.

The children weren't nestled all snug in their beds,
There were no visions of sugar-plums dancing in their heads.
Mamma on the park bench and me in my box,
I wished that Saint Nicholas had brought me a new pair of socks.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my box to see what was the matter.
Away to the curb I flew like a flash,
Tore open my snow mask and threw up last night's hash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snows
Gave the luster of mid-day to my frozen toes.
When, what to my watering eyes and runny nose should appear,
But a pimped out sleigh, and eight filthy rich reindeer.

'Now Donald! Now, Mike! Now, Hillary and Bill!
Oh, Soros! Oh, Al! Oh, oh George and Barack!
To the top of Wall Street! To the Banks and their vaults!
Take it away! Take it away! Take it away alt!'

With a little old lady, not so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment she wasn't St Nick.
Slower than snails with curses she came,
And then she whistled, and shouted, and called us bad names!

As dry heaves after the wild turkey does fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, to the nation's coffers they cry.
To the house and senate they quickly flew,
Mortgaging the sleigh full of Toys and Saint Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard all the proof
The scribbling of something horned with a hoof.
As I put my snow mask back on my head turning around,
Down the street came the old lady with a single big bound.

She was dressed all in fine fur, from her head to her foot,
And her clothes were all diamond with glitter and loot.
A bundle of tax returns she had flung on her back,
And she looked like a peddler, just opening her pack.

Her eyes-how they twinkled! Her dimples how merry!
Her cheeks were like roses, her nose like a cherry!
Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the hair on her head was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pen she held tight in her teeth,
And the stench of her breath encircled her head like a wreath.
Se had a long nose with a huge wart on the end,
It shook when she laughed, on that you can depend!

She was chubby and plain, a right ugly old elf,
And I cried when I saw her, in spite of myself!
A wink of her eye and a twist of her head,
Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.

She spoke not a word, but went straight to her work,
And pulled out my return, and then turned with a ****.
Laying her finger aside of her nose,
And while giving me a nod, she stomped my frozen toes!

Then she sprang to her sleigh, to her team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the curse of a missile.
But I heard her exclaim, ‘ere she drove out of sight,
'Unhappy New Year to all, and to all a good-friggin-cold-night!'
Sand sifting gently through my fingers,
A dedicated time ‘til my body lingers.
Oh, to know the smell of the center of your hand,
To see into those eyes -
To feel those sighs.

Sometimes I don’t think I can wait
But then it’s too late.
How can all this be real
When I’ve not even a finger to feel?
Visions of heart – remembering soul –
Up to now that is all that I know.
I'm lost in this moment,
Chained to the sweet torment.
Inside a fire is burning
Hotter than hell – so full of yearning.

Maybe the wrong place -
Maybe the wrong time.

Is it a crime
To watch the sand as it falls?
Measuring time ‘til my body lingers
And I have you - lost in my fingers.
There is no such thing as time until you find love.
Find your abundance, your radiance, your nourishment,
For in you lives a God or a Goddess lying dormant.
Be reverenced – that is the key of life -
Dance on your grave in your own behalf.
Do not live in fear for fear is like death.
Fear will return you to the soil without a breath.
That death, a compost for the new generation.
We hold the key to eternity in our outstretched hand.
Be courageous and face yourself and be annihilated
By your own light – your love – and be not rested
For rest is a kind of death absent of your essence.
Whatever death can take it will take – so be salient
And find that which is unborn and undying.
Life will knock seven times at the door to your heart,
Searching for the indestructible part of you to impart.
We are the King and the Queen of our own desires.
Dancing together with the world as our Kingdom’s choirs.
Rejoice in the world for here we are - we have come.
Let laughter be the nature of our bodies’ home.
A home where laughter defies death and love defies reason –
There our consciousness sits broadened
By the dance we dance – forcing death to be dethroned.
I have defied death no less than twice in my life and in some ways I defy it daily. Yet death I do not fear. Neither should you.
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