Is this what you, indeed, wish?
The feel of some bold mystic chaos
Contained within the fire of kisses
Traveling along the boundaries
Where lived an identity
You lost long ago—
To feel that chaotic fire
Burn away the identity
You wear today—
Feel passionate softness
Twist within and around
Leaving bruises unseen
And you undone
In twisting mystic
Chaos of fire.
I am unsure how this happened, but the stone grew, encasing me, protective and cold, a walking grave of comfort for many years. Now, having grown moss over the passing of so many seasons and used to the weight of stone I carry into the calm of night, blossoms burst forth from this tonnage of comforting cold stone, this grave of a home I have known. I would like to twist, turn away from such blossoms, yet find I cannot. I cannot gather dust to me, creating stone again. Cannot piece shards together for there are not enough left in this remaining dust. As I rest in this place, I will tuck these blooms away-- Until they bear ripened fruit, Readied for picking. Fragrant blossoms that they may only be for now.
Its flow
From the tip of my fountain pen—
Not smooth enough–
Fails capturing anything
Within this labyrinth of senses
Now alive
Like some ancient voodoo priestess,
Fears sits and smiles from her rocking chair.
Tilting her gray head to her work at hand,
Fear embroiders in red thread
The narratives of my old scars.
She stitches in orange and green thread
The flowers of my poorly made cobwebbed choices.
She stitches in black thread
The vanquished vines of all my loss and pain.
She stitches in yellow thread
Her flowers of caution at the edges,
All the while chanting an ancient spell,
Giving her stitched yellow flowers
Magic to steal any power in the air,
Paralyzing– daring the pulse.
Fear stitches away in red thread
On the last cloth of daring I’ve left,
And I, I am paralyzed by the stitching made.
Today’s prompt: Write a poem that uses the words “weary”, “nails”, and “mind control”
I weary.
Weary of the white noise
Spitting out layers
Striated stone
Of itching mind control,
Of mica and gypsum
Rough, itchy flakes
Others carved out for me
To keep me in what they
Saw as my place.
My nails worn down, bloody raw
To relieve the itch from time to time
The itch that speaks the words
I know are not true
But still have the power
Of stone to crush the ribs
Of my soul with the weight
Of their damnable tonnage
That I am not enough of anything
Not smart enough
Not pretty enough
Not thin enough
Not good enough
For anything or anyone
Yes, I know—
None of it is true—
The stone skin
I’ve worn down
Over all these years,
The itch rarely there.
But sometimes—
Sometimes—
The itch returns—
Vicious, relentless
Until my nails,
Bloody and raw,
Leave me weary.
Yet still,
Still, I now create
My own place.
I gather hardened scars of loss and damage
Braided into keloid beauty
That are not blossoms of bitterness,
But fragrant beauties
That make me who I am.
Even the bars of your barren garden
Called love could not steal away
The essence of my hope.
Instead, the black, barrenness
within sugar syrup words
Of one never able to love
Contain no acid
To eat away
My skin of hope.
Winds and rains came today.
I tried to follow the trail
They made.
But on this first day of May,
I was not strong enough–
To let the wind take me,
To allow pelting rain to abrade away
All my accumulated grime.
No freedom could I find
Within this day of winds and rains.
I clipped away dead branches
From the living shrubs today.
Not an easy thing,
But a thing that must be done.
Strange it is how dead things
Will cling so tightly to the living
As if to squeeze
The last remaining bits of life away
And thus, have company in death and dying.
There is yet more to do
So only the living things are left
To flourish in the spring sun.
Walk with me among the ruins
I will show you the points of interest–
Notice the weeds grown up
between the cracks of stone,
the chambers filled with mold,
the temple fallen, the altar cracked,
seeming to fold.
Imagine who may have walked here
once so long ago,
wracking havoc with fire
upon those who called this home.
The fires burning to spite
the cold winter rain.
Those who survived left
staring into winter’s
icy back eyes
in the heart of it all.
I tire
Slaying demons,
Not my thing.
I’ve chased
Misplaced
Braced
For the reckoning
Of evil deeds.
I’ve offered up my neck
To bring utter happiness
And still—
Nothing would do
Till cutting myself in half
To dig, dig, dig deeper,
Bury the self beneath the soil–
The dirt of need, want, desire
Lay it all to rest in the infertile
Grime, the level of your rule,
To be consumed by rot
Of prayers you pretend to answer,
But you are neither God nor Goddess,
Despite all your pretentiousness.
In this, this turning away,
I offer up prayers
To God and Goddess that truly be,
And I do lay down the sword
I used in battle with myself:
Thus, I become the warrior
I was meant to be.
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