These Skin and Bones – poem

I could write a million poems
Crafted carefully of words so old
Speak softly in the voice God gave
But still my truth would not be told

Some things we simply can’t convey
That dwell within our heart and soul
Pushed in this world, alone we bow
With endless longing to be whole

I heard her say that happiness
Is waking joyful to exist
Oh love – the only key to this
My eyes are shut when I am kissed

We’re people made of candle wax
Though light I shine is wasted here
I long to just be noticed too
I dance around but hide in fear

Let’s sing a pretty song to end
Sad notes and painful undertones
Hope someday through the mist of time
You’ll understand these skin and bones

Crashed

Bored, lonely, frustrated, scared, depressed, hopeless, vulnerable, angry..

I look in the mirror, I hate what I see. I hate who I am, I hate being me..

I crash down hard upon the sand

I bubble, froth and then disband

You cannot hold me in your arms

I am not real at all

I’m like a beam of light that flashed

Before it screeched its breaks and crashed

You cannot love a wreck like me

I am not lovable

Stand up upon the edge of time

And find a fragile dream of mine

You cannot make this one come true

I am not saveable

The Stranger. Poem

We walked in the cold as the sun turned its back
One magpie looked on, flashing white, flashing black
Dim light up above where the sun had once shone
And memories of things that had been and then gone

The building was old, it had seen better days
But still stood up proud through the rain or sun rays
I flirted in shadows of my former self
Her trampled old heart on a dusty old shelf

And there in the window, a stranger I saw
I didn’t know where, but I’d seen her before
She wasn’t the same, she had changed in some way
But there I was seeing myself on that day

Dormant

I have played out my life in a dormant state for so long now, just hoping and longing that something or someone would come along and stir me to life. Then, and only then, my existence would matter. I would finally have value and purpose. But no-one ever came and nothing has ever been enough, nothing has ever been right or as it should have been.. and nothing has ever mattered, least of all me. Not the little girl who walked alone in a noisy playground, nor the seven year old they said they didn’t like. Not the quiet, uncomfortable teenager at the back of the class or the one who, after being removed from school because she had stopped eating, discovered that alcohol – whilst not completely removing the pain – at least numbed it somewhat. The lost little girl who tried and failed so many times at being a grown-up.

 

 

Being sort of dead and yet alive is a peculiar state to find yourself in. On the one hand you are cold and unfeeling, yet on the other, your utter longing to reach out and touch the beauty and joy that life can possess, makes you warm inside. You look at those other lives from the outside with your eyes, but you feel them deeply in your heart too. You long to become a part of that world, to experience things the way they do.. and you search for ways that might bring you closer to their reality and further from your own. It is a dangerous game to play – separating yourself from who you are, because there then lies a person who is just an empty shell and one which may quite possibly be sucked up and molded into something quite unrecognisable.

 

 

I have played that game, I have danced with the devil and I have stared blankly back at myself wondering what had happened to the person I once was. The person who was brought up to have morals and to believe in one love within the sanctity of marriage. The person who truly believed in and longed for that kind of lifelong partnership. The person who waited.. and waited.. and waited.. and then finally wilted and died. That girl was no longer me. No, she was but a corpse laid out on a platter that night.. and he treated her as such.

Again in poetry 

Tiny droplets fall into this tranquil pool

I’m looking in, I’m looking out

I’m holding back so not to shout

It’s not a dream, I want to scream

I want to throw me down in pain

Again.. Again

I dip my toes into these pure still waters

My feet are wet, my heart dried cold

My youthful ways becoming old

It’s not the end, I can’t pretend

I want to run out in the rain

Again.. Again

Across the Salty Horizon 

She sat and looked out across the salty horizon, sea spray gently cooling her face. The sky was breathtakingly beautiful this evening. Shades of orange and pink melted into each other, wispy clouds looked like they had been painted on in delicate splashes and strokes. A few birds glided and looked as though they were loving every second of the wind carrying them.. like nothing else mattered but the joy in that moment. And nothing else mattered to her.

How she longed to be them.. to reach out, like she could touch and become one with this distant beauty. It was almost tangible, it seemed like it might heal her, heal the world.. but then it subsided and disappeared before she could get to it. In the blink of an eye it was gone and all that remained was light fading into darkness, leaving her exposed, vulnerable and alone in a messed up world. 

She lay in bed that night, reminding herself of that image. She tried to feel how she had felt, peaceful and in wonder at how such beauty could coexist in a world of scary things. It was this beauty that wouldn’t allow her to let go of God, it could not be an accident. It would never allow her to completely give up, and she knew that if she ever lost sight of this image she would be dead inside. So that night she flew up with the birds and soared.