Crying a flood of tears,
Always having those fears
Of trusting others.
Life still dissatisfying even with brothers.
Cutting one self open,
Writing with blood.
Always feeling lonely and homely,
Hopelessly waiting
For the one & only,
So hurt...
Believing that everything is deceiving,
Thinking that she's only dreaming...
Killing just to see if she
Will go into her true awakening.
Bloody writings,
Left behind,
Writing in blood saying,
"There is no point in living."
She was one of a kind,
So now they wonder,
Why writing in blood
Was all she left behind.
Poetry missing,
Words in my mind scattering.
Stories incomplete,
Scenes in my mind animating.
Drawings dissatisfying,
Visions in my mind manifesting.
Artistry depletes,
Ideas in my mind revitalizing.
Dreams shattering,
Thoughts in my mind realizing.
Creativity fading,
Feelings in my mind restoring.
There is nothing selfish about saving yourself.
It is called self-preservation.
I do it all the time.
There is something empowering about doing what your heart says.
I do not let others pressure me, persuade me or provoke me.
Their ideas are not mine, and I feel no need to live my life their way.
Once upon a time I was a woman who tried to please everyone.
Remember the old story about the man who was carrying the donkey?
Because people shamed him into doing it, rather than letting the donkey carry him?
I used to be that person.
It is a sad life, to always try to please others.
Totally dissatisfying.
It is not selfish to save yourself,
To live your life your way,
and to follow your heart.
It is empowering.
I say do that.
I did not wish to sleep with old gods
that stand trying to evoke the grey skyline of modernity
That preach on hummingbird wires
that murmur telemetry through echoed iconoclasts.
And as the aging blue repetition spatters on a new cosmetic smile
that fades with its bedfellows in the eons of perfidy,
despondent windows (oh so many will be seen in the unseen) ,
and the lost scribes of what needs to be forgotten
(our oh so necessary important leeches) .
I remember that this always relieves me of something.
Something
Such a natural and dissatisfying word.
A word that reaches sadly for itself.
That this now has a home.
A breath, a birth.
This moment lives somewhere.
It did not ask me of anything.
Only to discard memory for, again, something beautiful.
Beautiful and forgotten.
The last leaf that clings to its creator.