Shame is a man that I know well He lingers near my bedroom doorway Watching me undress Scanning my movements He documents my every transgression So when the time is right My guilt can be displayed Shame is cunning that way
Shame is a woman that I cannot relate to She calls me a **** Woman attacking woman Mocking the concept of sisterhood Spitting on the idea of love Destroying the human in all of us
Shame is an infectious disease That I caught as a child Deadly, contagious Telling me lies, brutally outrageous Like I am ugly and worthless Like I am not enough Shame is a toxic addiction That we should all try to give up
My life has become a bit like a fishbowl: the glass is thick and durable, it's supposed to be smudge-proof, but you never fail to leave your finger- prints behind. There are rocks at the bottom, a blend of neons: blue and orange and pink and green and yellow, painted with the cheap kind of paint that eventually chips away and gathers at the tip-top of the water...always mixing in with the the flimsy food flakes you toss in at mealtimes before watching with disinterested fascination as I swim to the top and sort through what's edible and what's not, as if the food is much better than the chips of paint and the dust bites that gather after a few days of sitting on the counter. My bowl stays in the sun as though the pink and purple fake plants you've given me require time spent in the light to grow and prosper, although it is fun to check every now and then to see how much you really care when I let myself drift to the top of the water to bask in the glow of either the sun or the artificial lamp that's been placed next to my bowl. Some nights you forget to turn it off, but I don't mind so much because at least then I can watch over you at night the way you watch over her, instead of me.
The horizon took a smoke break at sunset And 7 hours later she's still gone No doubt sleeping with the breeze I stand on the deck in the darkness Leaning forward My hands on the rail Gazing at the infinite mirror, reflecting The air is as still and cold as the water Just like the man next to me He sighs but no vapor forms He's cloaked in a blue shadow Like the bottom of the ocean A darker blue I've never seen But in a voice clear as ice he asks 'Do you love me?' I nod 'Not talking tonight?' I nod He rests his stygian blue fingers On the back of my moon-light hand And we kiss Enjoying each other Until the sun clocks in in the morning
2/1/21 The personification of the moon and the sea. Look up stygian blue it's very interesting and helps with the visual. ((This is also my 4th attempt at uploading this poem idk what's going on with the site but whatever))
I hope he knows that I feel the stress vortex banging against his cranium. even with my welcoming surface, he struggles to let go.
I hope he knows that it is not I that needs replacing, but simply his way of thinking that needs readjusting.
A new year A mindset anew
- a.r. Camm
I know that you’re going to bring some more bullsh** my way. Just to let you know now, I’m mentally preparing myself for you. You won’t catch me off guard like 2020 did. I’m ready for you. Bring it on.
Hope and Dream are two sisters: Bickering and quarrelling all the time. Neither believes the other is better. Neither trusts the other to the machinations Of time. Self-dependent and codependent: Such an odd duo they are at times! They are their worst accusers by nature, Yet they are partners in crimes. Hope often puffs up the dream, While Dream takes Hope seriously. Both sisters then fall out suddenly In the aftermath of a confrontation With reality. But when Dream is broken Hope picks up the pieces Joins them up with broken shards Of a resurrected self.