Old Stuff

[Originally posted to my blog ‘Point of Tears’ on Mar 10, 2005.]

 

I haven’t written any poetry or even any really decent prose in a long while. While perusing some of my old Live Journal posts I found the following and thought I would share. The pieces picked range from short poetry to longer freethought pieces pulled directly from my mind. Each piece was picked mainly because I like the sound of my own writing. Partly because I’m trying to remember how to fucking write something after having my brain turned to math mush twice a week. Please be warned that I did not pick one piece. I picked several pieces that I have enjoyed. I hope you enjoy them as well.

 

3000 miles away
you hold my heart
precariously in
your hands

3000 miles away
my blood frantically
pumps along my veins
without it

3000 miles away
you hold me captive
with who
you are

3000 miles away
I struggle
with invisible bonds
of my own creation

3000 miles apart
we endeavor
to lay a foundation
through a phone line

no chains
to bind me
to you
only words
twisting around
my heart

I AM NOT BOUND
I AM NOT TIED
FOOTLOOSE AND
FANCY-FREE

HEART FLIES FREE
SOUL WANDERS LOOSE
YOU CAN’T
TREAD ON ME

MY MIND & BODY
ARE MINE
TO DO WITH WHAT I WILL
TO GIVE TO WHOM I PLEASE

HERE I STAND
NOT BOUND
OR TIED
HEART FREE
WANDERING SOUL
MIND & BODY MINE

STANDING ON THE EDGE
WANTING TO GIVE
IT ALL TO YOU
TERRIFIED
IT WILL FALL
TRHOUGH YOUR FINGERS
AND I WILL BE GONE

I live in a world of emotion. My emotions like the wind in my mind. Following the contours of my thoughts, rushing through the cracks of my life able to permeate even the tightest closed door of my mind.

If I close my eyes and put my fingers to the keyboard, I can tell you all about the walk I took today. I can, without looking at anything except the pictures behind my eyelids, tell you how the pavement steadily met my feet, one by one thump thumping in what seemed an endless walk to nowhere. I can tell you about the smell of anise, growing thick along the path and the wafting scent of the never-ending raspberry thickets falling down the side of the hills down to the small stream under the trees that beckoned me to clamber down and sit along it’s side and listen to the water move merrily down it’s bed to a place that exists only in my imagination.

I can tell you about the trees reaching gracefully to the sky, taking a twisting, turning path with it’s branches ending in small berries interspersed with long, oval, dusty green leaves. The darkening sky, wisps of clouds riding the invisible currents of air. The lowering sun reflecting blue, purple, pink and green of all things off of the windows of an office building I could see over the fence. I could describe the sweat sliding down my skin, puddling in the middle of my back and into my eyebrows and the slow burning heat of my muscles as I pushed harder with each step…imagining the body I WANT coming out from under the body I HAVE with each and every step.

There are so many things I could tell you..if I close my eyes and put my fingers to the keyboard. Problem is, what can I tell you when I open my mouth? I can’t. What is it that makes it so my brain and fingers connect, but not my brain and mouth? What is so much harder about opening your mouth and saying words to another human being? Does anyone out there have any ideas? Cause I know it causes problems for me…not being able to connect brain with mouth versus brain with fingers. Well, brain connecting with fingers in certain circumstances can be a GOOD thing…like…English class for instance! (What were you thinking?!? Geez! Get your mind out of the gutter!)

I sit here in the night, the place and time I am most comfortable. No people except myself. My music, words and sounds combining in never-ending ways, evoking emotions, sights, tastes; moments of my life that have been, might have been, will be, may be or will never ever happen no matter how hard I wish it to be. The only light coming from the screen in front of me, white and unforgiving; and the moon outside, it’s soft light filtering through the trees outside my windows.

I think I am most comfortable during this time of day, night..whatever, because it allows me to be me. Not some person that the world expects me to be. Not the person *I* expect me to be. Just me. With my geek glasses sliding down my nose, sloping slant of my back because for the life of me I can’t seem to sit up straight when I type, light tan bra digging into my shoulders pulling at the middle of my back holding me in and up, ear popping, foot tapping, body sagging, knuckle cracking, talking to herself just to hear how the words on the screen *really* sound…it’s all just..well, me.

Yesterday I watched with a smile as a kindergardner and his father sprinted down the sidewalk, trying to get to class before the bell rang. The look of micheviousness and fun on their faces had me wondering if that same little boy would remember that day, years later. I also started wondering what days/hours/moments my own child would remember when she was grown; and I began trying to remember what moments I remember with my own parents.

Unfortunately, the majority of memories that filter to the surface are not good ones like a parent and a child running in abandon. It wasn’t my dad pushing me on a swing, or my mom teaching me a new skill. My memories are of screaming matches, and fingers gripping my throat tight until I couldn’t breathe…every muscle straining to pull them away. They were of arguments on our front lawn, as we packed the car to go on another trip..each moment tense with anger and tears…my brother and myself cringing into the backseat…hoping they forget we exist for just one moment more. It is objects whistling past my head and bouncing off the walls..leaving a dent in it’s wake. Screaming at my father one more time for calling my mom a “bitch”..and having him turn his anger to me rather than her…only to find my hair in one of his hands, my neck in another..and my mom beating his back trying to make him stop. Eyes full of hate, veins popping full of blood coursing adreneline through his body, muscles tensing for that moment of release…and me hoping beyond hope that I could distract him long enough so that he wouldn’t touch my brother. The day I held a knife in one hand, that same blood of my father’s coursing adreneline through my veins, muscles tensing for that moment of release..and barely being able to mutter under my breath, “if you want to live…run….” to my brother, who stood..so young and oh so frightened, not knowing what to do…until he got it..and ran for his life. Sitting on the side of my mother’s bed…dispensing tissue for her red eyes and dripping nose…listening to my mother wail about my father leaving her. Something I already knew…because he left me and my brother too…but she had forgotten that..forgotten us in her sorrow. My mother screaming at me from the other side of the door because I understood that he was not coming back…and she had yet to understand.

I have to stop. Too many memories overflowing into my NOW.

This explains a lot..don’t you think? My inability to share my emotions…these are the reasons why it’s not “safe” to share. Just bits and pieces. Just moments that I lived…all of them added up together are only a small small portion of my time on earth..but each one has been indelibly etched upon my SELF. Of course, for this small portion of my life, there are thousands of other moments I don’t remember. Birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings, Easters, summer vacations…and all those moments inbetween.

Out of all of that something positive? I remember growing up my parents having a secret language all their own. Each card signed with acronyms…and never would they tell me what they meant. Not even to this day do I know what all of it means. S.P.O.O.K…..that’s the one I remember most..there were about 10 more that they etched on every card they’ve ever given each other.

Always made me want to find someone I could have my own secret language with that no one except the two of us would ever know. Therein lies my romantic nature..watching two people who loved each other so much..so deeply. Even through all the anger, tears and fear I saw that.

Reading through all of this it makes me wonder once again what moments my daughter will remember when she is grown? And while I can’t change what memories she already has…I can be cognizent that each moment we are together we are creating a memory together..and hope that there are more good ones than bad.

WARNING! This last one is not for the faint of heart. You have been forewarned.

NC-17

slide it home
slam it hard
and ride it to the apex.
semen drips down my leg,
sly smile upon my face.

I possess only
his body,
but am searching for
his heart
from the inside
of my cunt.
[9/2003]

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