My friend Dariel once asked me if I ever write anything happy. I DO, here on the blog you can read countless entries which are positive and “happy”. Poetry and prose for me though are about finding an outlet for the thoughts, ideas, and pain that I don’t seem to be able to fit into my plucky everyday positive attitude. So here is another twisted bit of writing, based on hurt feelings and the clustered firing of synapses which resulted in the following creation. This writing does not adequately explain how I truly feel about what precipitated the hurt feelings, but it IS a little dark package of ugly truth, where my mind can go in an instant when I am feeling hurt, when I want to lash out and protect myself. I lash out instead here, on the page. I will eventually gain clarity about the hurt feelings; maybe even go have a grown up discussion with the other person involved. That he will read this frightens me, that he may decide it is my all encompassing big kid truth is scary, but I will give him more credit than that. As the poem says “This is who I am”, I trust that this is enough; more than enough, it is glorious.
Endless possibilities exist in those first hours, days, weeks.
Slowly the side which is shown the light, the side which is tanned and coifed can no longer stand the spinal torque required to play these contrived antics.
The hips seize, the knees won’t track properly, as the forward walk into relational oblivion breaks into a run for the finish line.
Who can finish this first?
Who can walk away saving their face, a face which never really saw the light of day, but festered under the mask.
This is who I am! Fuck you if it is not good enough!
Who are you to judge me anyway?
You think you don’t have glaring holes? HUH!
Chest puffed out, hands on hips, seized hips.
I can feel the twisted flesh of this angry face, remember through countless generations the mask of hatred worn by so many womyn,
maidens, mothers, lovers, crones.
A mask I am told was forced upon me by men, men who are now here to say they are sorry, to save.
Well no thank you! I don’t buy your story, I am not a victim, and if I am then I chose this, I am NOT yours to save.
I got myself in, I can get myself out.
Don’t come to me wanting tender touch, open heart, open eyes, windows to my soul.
You can not live inside my soul if you will not cross the threshold.
You can’t have it, you can’t save it, you can’t own it, you can’t create life in it.
I will not allow you to be disappointed by me,
I will not be your “not enough”.
Look me in the eyes and tell me it is not true, that you were predicting this failure all along?
Because if it is me then it is not you,
Dear god don’t let it be you!
So ask about my dreams then tell me they are banal, and like the rest.
I will turn my head to the side, walk away.
and in this way we will begin to plant the seeds of silence together,
And they will grow into a mangrove of soiled possibilities and stinking rotten fruit,
hardly recognizable as descendants of the first hour, day, and week of possibility.
I am going to write one happy one before this commitment is over....I think.
“Do you have a positive outlet for your frustrations, sadness, anger and or pain?“ is the question in 12 days journal #113
Writing and music are my positive outlets. They help to keep me sane by giving roaring, raging feelings a safe harbor.
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