Poetry can be liquid fire
My poetry digs down inside of me like liquid fire. That knife that strikes me hard as I let go all the words. Unloading all that is inside of me.
I can't expect all those who look into each line and truly get what I am say. Some times the sentences are just the mix of words or sayings that may never cross the mind of another. Yet then there are those that just jump out all across the screen.
Deepening the sensation of some sort of fierce war that just unfolded. Not in the sense of a great battle nor of the violence that comes with it, but the grand strategies that formulate the grand plays. Indeed there are moments even when I go back to read and I find myself either lost or in awe of the magnitude of meanings.
Yet don't think that any part of my words are depressing. Even in the torrid darkness of all situations I chose to be a part of, I see light that paves the way throughout the deepest blackness. That is part of who I am. Never really one to see the darkness in death. I always saw a release from aches and pains.
Nor do I consider myself suicidal these days. I did as a youth. Frankly the cutting didn't leave many scars. And the ease of the anxieties of being the left out daughter. Sure we all come from some sort of dysfunction. Surprisingly there are a "small few" that haven't experienced some sort of oddity in their family life.
And still even when I thought death was knocking on my door just ten years ago, I still saw the joy in knowing that I would be peaceful somewhere. I know that sound morbid but I don't even respond to dying that way. I just don't want someone to ever say to me that God is taking me away. NO! I have no reason to hate Jehovah, God. I never will use that excuse.
Now that the rumble of words are slowly leaking out of my mind to the electronic paper, I am grateful to finally feel sleepy. Early sleep. This is grandness. All the dreams I have been having, I hope all fade but one.
No need to ask. It is just me welcoming a grand friend back into my life, years down the road. Or so it seems as though years, decades but could just be months. I don't understand time in my dreams. I just close my eyes and allow the images to play where they need to and I gather what is the height of my thoughts.
Perhaps one day I will be capable of saying, thank you for letting me go. And though I choke on some air as I say that, now, I know I will be comfortable being there. Standing and laughing. Gaining my hugs and laughing about silliness of time gone but gained.
And right now all I can say is stay with me. Although just in the dream. The crossing of dream and reality are blurred right now. The mind is slowly saying good night. And my eyes see this calming haze as the line from Bad Blood echoes in my head - bandaids don't fix bullet holes. Then the quake ceases and the hands are finding a stopping point.
Then. Good night is displayed inside my eyelids. As I type it before I shut down my laptop and turn off my light. One more time I say stay.
I don't know what it means but someone does.
I can't expect all those who look into each line and truly get what I am say. Some times the sentences are just the mix of words or sayings that may never cross the mind of another. Yet then there are those that just jump out all across the screen.
Deepening the sensation of some sort of fierce war that just unfolded. Not in the sense of a great battle nor of the violence that comes with it, but the grand strategies that formulate the grand plays. Indeed there are moments even when I go back to read and I find myself either lost or in awe of the magnitude of meanings.
Yet don't think that any part of my words are depressing. Even in the torrid darkness of all situations I chose to be a part of, I see light that paves the way throughout the deepest blackness. That is part of who I am. Never really one to see the darkness in death. I always saw a release from aches and pains.
Nor do I consider myself suicidal these days. I did as a youth. Frankly the cutting didn't leave many scars. And the ease of the anxieties of being the left out daughter. Sure we all come from some sort of dysfunction. Surprisingly there are a "small few" that haven't experienced some sort of oddity in their family life.
And still even when I thought death was knocking on my door just ten years ago, I still saw the joy in knowing that I would be peaceful somewhere. I know that sound morbid but I don't even respond to dying that way. I just don't want someone to ever say to me that God is taking me away. NO! I have no reason to hate Jehovah, God. I never will use that excuse.
Now that the rumble of words are slowly leaking out of my mind to the electronic paper, I am grateful to finally feel sleepy. Early sleep. This is grandness. All the dreams I have been having, I hope all fade but one.
No need to ask. It is just me welcoming a grand friend back into my life, years down the road. Or so it seems as though years, decades but could just be months. I don't understand time in my dreams. I just close my eyes and allow the images to play where they need to and I gather what is the height of my thoughts.
Perhaps one day I will be capable of saying, thank you for letting me go. And though I choke on some air as I say that, now, I know I will be comfortable being there. Standing and laughing. Gaining my hugs and laughing about silliness of time gone but gained.
And right now all I can say is stay with me. Although just in the dream. The crossing of dream and reality are blurred right now. The mind is slowly saying good night. And my eyes see this calming haze as the line from Bad Blood echoes in my head - bandaids don't fix bullet holes. Then the quake ceases and the hands are finding a stopping point.
Then. Good night is displayed inside my eyelids. As I type it before I shut down my laptop and turn off my light. One more time I say stay.
I don't know what it means but someone does.
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