I wanted to write a poem about the silence of a snowy walk. I wanted to talk about the feeling of cold air on clean skin and the serene silence when no cars dared to crunch the quiet. I wanted to write about something quiet. Something calming. Something that folded nicely into prose and laid out before me on paper.

Instead, I put pen to paper and found anxiety along with that silent walk, and I remembered the opposite of what I wished to incite.

I remembered instead the coldness sharpening some mascara clouded
tears and a walk to escape.

I remembered the cool air fueling an anger and the glimmer of hope that someone would rescue me from the cold that was melted away by a silent phone and continued footsteps up the hill with none behind.

I remember a girl sitting under an outdoor roof, shielding her face from the falling ice, all the while realizing that escape would mean a return to fear.

I remember that you have subtly ruined happy thoughts: a family vacation, Christmas-time, snowy walks, the summer sun's now dismal rays.

And thought of all the whimsy, wonder, and excitement that left with the snowy days.

I cannot describe the
anguish
uncertainty
frustration

That I feel every
motion
step back
wave

That cycles through at the beach
with a gush and a rush
and a tumble and a blow
that knocks me down
only so I can stand back up
and feel my knees crack
beneath my own breath.

And I look back
towards the carnival and
watch as people jump on
the Ferris Wheel

As if this were a cruel
joke
game
ruse.

And they still laugh as I
circle
back
the same.

I guess this serves as a warning.
To the friends and the loved ones
members of an active social order
wanting a life of something more than disorder.

Poetry is not a breath.
It is not an escape into a lesser abyss
that leaves you scratch free.
Or an opening and interesting guarantee.

Instead
it grabs inwardly at you.
It coaxes the trolls from the deepest
corners of the forest that you had
long since banished and left behind
and wanted to rid your mind of and
never wanted to see again.

The fire that had been stomped out
is reborn.

The crashing waves that broke the ship
fight again.

And poetry reopens the wounds
that you had hoped would heal
with time and with suppression
that had once filled and consumed with aggression.

Poetry is anger.

Poetry leaves the poet
drowning
in a river of currents when it flows
but out in the baking sun when
it stops.

The issue is
for a poet to be happy
with her work

she must also feel the
unhappy in her life.

There is a box titled
"useless"
that has been pushed into
the deepest
darkest

loneliest

areas of my brain.

Where silver lights
and crisp images
force me to think of a
better passed and fuel a
sense of want

with the life I
used to live
and the people always
are smiling and I am always smiling
and the resolution is so clear you
can barely tell it's fake

fake.

But there is a box titled
"memories"
that my mom keeps in
the room adjacent
to the fire

And inside are pictures
that are grainy and yellowed
but they remind me that memories
are not perfect.

The blurred image of my
brother's smile reminds me of
the hurt that was building up
and would explode.

The worn candid of my mother looking
upon me as a baby reminds me
that even the perfect memories
are not perfect and the past is no

goal.

It was simply there and now
it is gone.

I am ready.
Ready to be alone.
Ready for the hug of
myself to rush from the
gaping mouths of those

who hate me.

who wronged me.

who left me.

I am ready.
Ready to be enveloped.
Ready to drift
in a cool pond of dark
rooms empty of those

who judged me.

who mistook me.

who made me unwell.

I am ready.
For what else I do not know.
But, what I do know is that
to fill my own heart is far safer

than to fill others.

And oh, the city
was not left in the flames.
the jungle and the savanna
no longer rose tall and red.

The Devil never liked
them very much. He didn't
appreciate that they have in to
his fire and succumbed to his
drought.

For instead he was seeking
vengeance. He was seeking
something to hate him
to scorn him.
Something to fight.

Instead, the jungle had
let the Devil win
and the savanna cared
no more.
So the Devil

Did what he thought
would cause the most pain.
He left the burn
but took the flames.
He left the sting
but took the warning.

No one came to the rescue
of the antelope and
snakes. Instead,
outsiders went along
unknowingly.

But little did the Devil
know
that out of the flames
rose something
strong.

For the Ember Lion
does not run from
her pain. Instead,
she carries its essence
with her.

Basically the meaning behind my pen name... I had this written on PoetFreak, but the site was sadly shut down so I am reposting it to you as a means of reintroducing myself.

Oh, my.
have I just realized
why I feel my chest
deepening into chasms and

Oh, my.
Can I now feel
the cold approaching
my spine and

Oh, my.
Have I now discovered
the reason everything seems
so unjust?

You see,
you have had time.
You've healed.
You've been able

to choose how to
heal and who can help
you along because
you're the giant.

And me?
I'm the dwarf who
has been stepped on
but never heard.

You get to watch the
town in the distance rebuild
and you have been able
to gain support

for what you've done
by booming your large
giant-voice to them and
begging for support.

But not the dwarf.

And Oh, my.
Oh my, am I
finally too small

to hear.

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