I recently found this post in my old drafts. I don’t remember why I wrote it, but I like it.
It depends on the day how I feel about us; about you. There are so many secret complications, internal struggles, that it’s enough to make it all not worth it.
Can I trust you? Can you trust me?
Can I trust that the future will be better than today?
If I need to vent or cry or worry, will my words reach your heart? I have darkness inside me, you know, black and heaving and hungry and cold. Maybe I will never lose it.
Can you love the darkness in me? Can you love my sadness and my pain? Can you accept the ugliness, or when I feel ugly? Can you accept my beauty, even when I see it clearer than you?
My mind is a mess of mistrust. I know what you want me to feel but you have to understand, lots of times I can’t or won’t. This is reality. This is me right now. I can see so much of myself that you will never understand or appreciate, not the way things are right now.
I bottle my emotions. I splatter my emotions across the pavement, bright and wide and red enough for helicopters to see.
I am tame, quiet, so soft and meek. I am wild, annoying, prickly and harsh.
I doubt you can handle me.
I don’t know if I will keep you.
It’s Not Supposed to Be Funny
It’s not supposed to be funny.
It’s cresting again,
the dark tide rising inside,
and the outlets are closed, rusty,
marred by disuse.
Black thoughts run free—
yet free in my mind.
I laugh but only for the fix.
The darkness feeds me,
and the mystery inside
finds voice to paint the
summer air with howling cries and sobs,
flower print covers,
latching to loneliness
like a starving babe.
It is late but technically still Friday where I live so I’m posting this Poetry Friday! I recently found this poem in a stack of my old papers from July. At first I thought it was really confusing and pretentious, but I had a good time trying to decode its meaning. Now I just think it’s pretentious. Enjoy!
The engaged girl’s eyelids droop with black goo, a flat smile taped on her mouth. She leans against her boy and determinedly suppresses her building scream of frustration as well-meaning women’s words entrap her in a room of polite, civilized people.
Conclusion: The only thing worse than a wedding shower is planning one.
Late Night Poetry
Late night poetry
up with the full moon
quite house, quiet girl
so lost in worries
little girl with a lover
one room lit in a dark house
wide eye stares in the night
window to a soul
heavy with life
little girl lies in darkness,
the eye closing for good
lifeless shell without a name.
All your friends look just the same.
simple curves and heavy base.
Flowerless, you hide your face.
round a finger you would cling.
Unworn, you don’t mean a thing.
White swirls down in this
stone and crystal atrium,
a life-size snow globe.
If this is all we come to,
it will be okay.