I always loved reading poetry more so than I did writing it.
Don't get me wrong,
I can be a hopeless Romantic weaving her way through
the transcendental woods in search of my truth.
But the way some folks can paint their typewriters
to cover up the stains of the pain they shed into
strumming these words and these words and these words
into soft waves on warm beaches.
My heart is welcoming,
it hears and it listens and she smiles.
But my pain is only watered down by tears,
suspending my bed load of muddy thoughts
into a wave of destruction.
My words are strong and tear the page.
I wait for the waves to die down, but they don't.
I wait, suspended in my own darkness.
I sit and I pace and I run,
but I can't run.
So I pass the time by thinking,
And when I think, I stop seeing the flowers
But I feel the blooms and the I feel the thorns.
I dissolve into my darkness, an ion in the ocean,
a suspended load, a weight.
I drown.
I swim, but I drown, and I float but I cannot see the sky.
I see, but I am blind of any light.
Why does the sun set earlier?
I stride slower, carrying myself along.
I remind myself to keep going, I can't stop now.
There's ice and I am reminded of myself.
Crystallized thoughts frozen together,
Too weak to stand on their own.
Ice needs other ice.
I need another I, but not me,
I have another me, myself, I live with her.
She follows me when my shadow is gone and the sun is down.
Am I the shadow?
Who is the girl?
She wants to know, but I want to know.
When my thoughts are thought, does she feel the hurt too?
When I can't see, does she?
Should I stop looking in the mirror now? People are staring.