(At least it isn't raining.)

I know no word,
no word, for this feeling--
a bit lost
a bit sad
a bit hopeful
as if you see the light at the end of the tunnel,
but it's the sky, and you're falling into a well.

And when you land its cold, deep,
but you can swim.

(At least it isn't raining.)

And you realize you can just barely grip the sides,
to pull yourself up, out of the water.

So you begin, hand over hand, pulling your own weight up, towards that light.
And even at night, its brighter above.
And sometimes you slip, caught on algae (and lichens alike) falling back to the cold below.
But slowly, slowly, you pull yourself up,
and once on solid ground you begin to walk
towards the rising sun.

(history)

papa.
don't run.
don't cry.
don't lose yourself behind your eyes.

History
dredged from the deep
vaults buried long ago
hold memories, time sealed
cracked open and relived (revealed)
as penance for some
sin
you won't forgive (of yourself)


I'm here.

and

I'll stand in the way,
fighting your demons day to day.

Sure, time goes by,
and I'm sure in your eyes
I'm still your child,
dancing barefoot at sunrise,
not scarred by life


still.


I'll  carry you, this time.

Poetry I Love: Walt Whitman "O Captain! My Captain!"

O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

spiteful indeed

It breaks my heart to watch as you struggle with yourself.  

What is it that I’ve done that can possibly make you feel such hatred?   You say I am a spiteful creature.  How can this be?  Is looking to find a place where I feel at home, where I feel loved and safe and accepted a spiteful act?  

Is it spiteful, to wake up one morning feeling happy for the first time in years, all because you know you’ve found a place where you can be yourself and NOT have to apologize for it?  It’s true: I DON’T know who I am yet.  

At twenty one I still feel as misplaced and insecure as I did at thirteen.  And I’m tired.  I have been battling my own demons, you see.  I’ve been fighting with depression for at least five years now.  

Obsessive compulsive is, apparently, the ‘label’ for my habit of anxiously replaying every detail of a social reaction in my head, and wondering if somehow something I said was imperfect, offensive or just plain stupid.  I’m also dealing with hormone and metabolic imbalances due to a disease only caused by faulty genetics.  To this you simply say it’s another case of ‘wandering womb.’  

You  are certainly no doctor, sir.  You offend me, with your refusal to at least acknowledge the pain and worry I’ve had to work through on my own.  Your dismissal of this as just the result of a ‘poor mind’ has hurt me.  

Does a poor mind excel in academics?  Does a poor mind actively work to overcome any mental blockages that have occurred?  I’ve been actively working for a year now to fix my poor self image, to become more conscious of my own mental health and to work towards living a healthy, active and intelligent lifestyle.  

Is that spiteful?   I think not, but who am I to say?  

I’m just another one of those lost women, what with my poor mind.   

Sure, it hurts.

Descending into this mind, 

Struggling to mend fractured bits of memory, 

long buried beneath shame. 

Armed only resilience, the battle begins. 

Fear pushes, in an attempt to overrun determination, 

Doubt pulls, in a tug of war with against quiet conviction.  

(These demons got nothin on me. Sure, it hurts.)

Love holds on, still.  

Past long buried memories wrought with fear,

despite the evidence laid before tired eyes.  

Love holds on, still.  

There were good days, 

spent laughing in green cathedrals, 

sunshine blinding any hindsight.  

And now?

My heart breaks, for you.  

Poetry I Love: William Blake "A Poison Tree"

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

Poetry I Love: Shel Siverstien "Where the Sidewalk Ends"

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.