from my broken heart

I said I was going to start posting my old writings here, but that last time I did that was in February in this post here.  I am nothing if not inconsistent.

So here’s a couple of poems.  I’m not sure when they’re written.  I think one was probably one of the last poems I wrote, sometime in 2004.  The others were probably written sometime in the late 90’s.  They’re not award winning or anything, but I like ‘em.

untitled

how does it change

without anyone ever knowing

one day you wake up and realize

the love that burned so bright

has died

there are no harsh words

or acts of infidelity

there is only nothing

yet here I am

holding onto nothing

as tightly as I can

there is a silence

that neither will breach

not one word of comfort

is exchanged by either

we stay here only because

we know nothing else

there is a hope that lives

inside us both

things will go back

to the way it was before

and maybe it will

but no one has built the bridge

that will fill the gap between us

so for the moment we stand

at opposite sides of a river

filled only with regret

with fear that jumping in

will drown what little we have left

how much you don't know

she laughs out loud

knowing you don't understand her

although you think you do

her insanity bubbles through her body

and no one knows how close

to the surface it is

she implores you with her eyes

please help, they cry

but you only see the green of her irises

and you think you find her beautiful

while she calculates

how much weight she may have gained

and how she can scrub the dirt from her fingers

to finally cleanse them

from the evils she has done

she wishes for nothing more

than normalcy

but at the same time in her mind

she giggles at herself

how pathetic can one person be

sometimes she wants to scream

she likes the way the demons

scratch her throat on the way out

but somehow they always find a way

back into her soul

precious years

it seems i spent my whole life

searching for happiness

like it was something i could buy

at a low, low price

or now, with shipping and handling

delivered right to my front door

it seems no matter what i tried

or where i went, it wasn't to be found

and then it came to me

that happiness was these

precious years

these dreams that i have dreamt

the tears that i have cried

and the smiles that i have smiled

and all i had to do was

look inside myself and see

how i shined

Happiness Stumps Me

The other day I was talking to one of my besties, Kiersten.  She recently got married and knocked up and is currently residing in Deliriously Happytown.  We talked about how happy we are with our lives and who woulda thunk it and all that jazz.  How nothing about our lives now would our 10 year younger selves recognize as being theirs.  The one drawback we both agreed on was the disappearance of our creativity.

I’ve been a writer my whole life.  I started writing short (dumb) stories really young and then in middle school started writing poetry.  When a friend I’d known since kindergarten passed away in 8th grade my poetry became an obsession.  It was surely my way of communicating all the things I could never say out loud.  So I stuck with it and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote and filled up those black and white composition books, pouring out all my angst and heartbreak and later my depression.  My deepest, darkest thoughts about myself are in those books.

But now, happiness and contentedness has sucked away all the darkness in my soul so I have nothing left to write about.  Sure, I could write about the sunshiney-ness of this life, but to me writing poetry was always an outlet, a way to get the hurt out.  I always felt better after getting those words out of my head and onto paper.  And I don’t need to do it anymore.

About a week after talking to Kiersten about our loss of our muse (Depression) I thought I would pick up my old composition books and see how ridiculous my poetry reads to my older self.  And you know, I was pretty good sometimes.  But that’s not the point I’m getting at here.  Looking through the first book I found on the last page a note I had written to myself, or rather a contract.  On the inside of the back cover I had written ‘I promise if I ever fill up this book with my poetry I will try to get it published.’  I filled the book on February 22, 1999, almost exactly 12 years ago and I have never once tried to publish anything.

So maybe I’ll start ‘publishing’ them here, my new writing journey.  Some will be the silly thoughts of a teenage girl and others will be the words of a soul who had yet been found.  Not everything was about me and how I was feeling.  Sometimes I would write for friends or sometimes something else would inspire me.

When I was in high school my friend’s mom knew I was into poetry and gave me a book called The Best Loved Poems of the American People.  I still have it and I still love it.  Thank you Mrs. Katai. 

This poem from that book is by an unknown author and I read it countless times and wished I knew who was behind this story.  I start off my poetry publishing party with the one that inspired me to do better.

If You But Knew 

If you but knew

How all my days seemed filled with dreams of you

How sometimes in the silent night

Your eyes thrill me with their tender light,

How often I hear your voice when others speak,

How you 'mid other forms I seek - 

Oh, love more real than though such dreams were true

If you but knew!

Could you but guess

How you alone make my happiness

How I am more than willing for your sake

To stand alone, give all and nothing take,

Nor chafe to think you bound while I am free

Quite free, 'til death, to love you silently

Could you but guess?

Could you but learn

How when you doubt my truth I sadly yearn

To tell you all, to stand for one brief space

Unfetted, soul to soul, as face to face,

To crown you King, my King, 'til life shall end,

My lover and likewise, my truest friend,

Would you love me, dearest, as fondly in return,

Could you but learn?