Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
This poem is not inspired by a tragedy,
It is inspired by lives that lived,
Albeit shorter than expected,
Lives that lived
With truth and love and conviction,
In innocence,
This is for their individual lives of uniqueness,
That inspire still
Even once their visible light
Goes unperceived
By human senses
I try to remember
Who I was
Before I started this journey,
A journey of journeys,
where I have left what I know
And found gems along the road
With each step;
Fallen,
And scraped more than my knees,
Scratched beneath my
Surface,
And looked to see who I am underneath;
I wonder and look back to find
Who I once was,
I know she would not recognize me now,
And at times I worry, of sharing all on this path with others
But deep down, I know,
Damn!
How proud She–me of the past—
would be
if she
knew
All I’ve traversed,
The hell and high water I have overcome,
And still come out able
To find beauty
In the crocus of Spring
In its vibrant yet gentle purple petals;
That crocus
That is me,
Having pushed up through toughened winter dirt,
Broken free,
To not just be beautiful,
But to welcome others
Out,
And to be amazed by their own epic journeys.
Try, I do;
Try, I did;
And the rug keeps slipping
Under me,
Know I am no stranger
To the impossible,
And so moving,
Running,
Racing
I try again,
Upon this endless carpet;
This treadmill of
My life.
I am not sure who
I am
Sometimes,
For I lose myself
In loving others
Selflessly,
Only to be the
Battered for
Their ram
My salty,
solitary tears
At times help,
Help me float
As I drift out,
Away,
always
Alone;
Lonely
I can not do it all,
Never was meant to,
I am tired
Of hurting,
And of being alone,
This way,
I fear
my heart calcifying;
And still of me
Demanded
Blood,
From this stone
Here,
In the dark,
Dear one,
There is peace,
And most often quiet,
But you are missing nothing,
But my audible silence
As I write this poem,
As I think these thoughts,
As I coax myself toward slumber
And alas,
Once my eyelids have grown heavy,
And my writing utensil drops,
I close up “shop,”
And I too
Go
To sleep
“I can,”
She said,
And she did;
When believing
The first line
She spoke,
Even at this end.
She of Letters 