Tag Archives: poetry

Landline

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How do you explain to someone that they’re your life line?

A physical cord, as if it were a landline.

I feel as if I don’t care about any other calls I may receive.

They can listen to a busy tone.

Sorry, not sorry, but I’m unavailable.

Codependency? I don’t believe so.

I talk to others all the time, mainly in person.

But his calls? Those intimate late night talks?

Those are the ones that fuel every bit of my broken soul.

It’s in the small details.

The intricate yellow spiral spanning a few feet long.

Nothing grand, nothing glamorous, but it’s sturdy, safe, and reliable.

Sturdy, safe, and reliable.

How sad that these were qualities in past relationships I had never seen, never heard of; simply never knew they existed.

This landline feels like the newest cellphone on the market to me.

It’s a discovery I wouldn’t sell for any amount in the world.

They can have their shiny toys,

ones they pay extra for, monthly,

just to repeatedly break and replace.

That’s their version of reliable.

A backup plan they continuously invest in.

I don’t pay extra.

I don’t think of the newest model, an “upgrade.”

I don’t purposefully destroy.

What I have…

What I have is timeless.

What I have isn’t as easy or convenient,

but damn, does it always work.

What I have is forever.

Each spiral pulls a little further,

expanding itself to reach whichever new rooms I may venture into.

What I have is perfection.

What I have is real.

The laying on your bed and

kicking your feet in the air, 

with your fuzzy pajamas on,

venting about the mundane, 

and gossiping about all things spicy and juicy.

It’s nostalgic, yet fresh.

It’s peace, yet chaotic.

It may require a little extra maintenance, but we willingly do the work.

We don’t pawn it off.

We don’t hang up the call.

This is what I hold the closest to my chest.

This phone hears every beat of my heart,

and I deliberately pause to pay attention…

to hear the percussion of love on the other end.

I’m in love.

Deep, burning, indescribable love.

Lucky me, 

I get to hear that baritone voice on the other end for the rest of my life.

The Waiting Room

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I had a dream the other day.

We were in a doctor’s office.

Perhaps it was a metaphor of a true check-up.

A storm was coming,

and the predictions were egregious. 

We chatted about our preparations,

and held small talk about how we were doing.

You haven’t crossed my mind in years.

Unless I’m drudging up mistakes of the past, or the love I’ve lost,

I simply don’t give you access to my mind.

You’ve already done enough damage,

and my rental has been finishing repairs.

I love the reconstruction, honestly.

I’m finally being booked at a higher price, 

the one I should’ve charged for you.

My love met me at the office and you shook his hand.

You watched us leave and I looked back.

I smiled, and could feel my hand grip his a little tighter.

The healing, the growth, the success, the unconditional love, and the value…

I have that. I did that.

Everything you once told me that I couldn’t be or couldn’t have…

here I am, and I have it all.

You’ve crept in the background, 

and don’t feel surprised,

because I saw you.

This dream granted you full visibility.

For once, we shared true transparency.

It was invigorating.

It was powerful.

After all this time, I’ve still held a small amount of pain and anger.

Not necessarily because I’m thinking of you; don’t let your ego get inflated, 

but rather the situations that involved you.

The trauma showed itself in the unexpected. 

Cruel, bent, rusty nails that just wouldn’t budge.

I finally got to tell you how I worked hard to be where I’m at today.

Incredibly hard.

I deserve this life, this love, and this healing.

I deserve to walk away with this smile.

I earned it.

I hope you’re in a similar place, truly.

I think that was the point of the dream.

I’m finally strong enough to wish you well.

54321

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I feel a detachment.

One so sharply edged, that I’m bleeding.

I feel a panic.

One so numbing, that I’m floating.

I feel a fear.

One so horrific, that I’m hiding.

I feel a confusion.

One so obliterating, that I’ve entered a delusion.

I feel an emptiness.

One so hollow, that any remaining feeling is simply the negative reverberations of my thoughts.  

–

I see a void.

Yet, it’s all consuming.

I see colors.

Yet, they all fade to a grey scale.

I see flames.

Yet, it only lingers as ash.

I see a pillow.

Yet, it provides no comfort for my head…

only anguish.

–

I hear my own echo.

It’s haunting, and there’s a crew of spirits.

I hear a slow drip.

It’s an attempt at keeping the faucets of my ego from freezing.

I hear white noise.

It’s the only way I can stay sane.

–

I smell an overpoweringly nauseating aroma.

The one that makes you ill.

The one you can’t escape.

The one that can’t be cured.

Even time has to wait.

Once you’ve inhaled the suffering, you cannot forget it.

I smell morbidity.

The one that seizes your brain.

The one that turns joy to mold.

The one that crumbles to a shady blue in your hands.

Even wine won’t pair well.

Once you’ve inhaled the doubt, it becomes your captor.

 –

I taste a bitterness,

but the longing for peace remains sweet.

The Gardener

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Many years ago,

I had a garden.

It was exquisite,

it was nurtured;

and it was vast.

I became a masterful gardener.

From the placement of the seed

to the trimming of their leaves,

I studied and learned how to properly tend.

Sunflowers, tulips, and orchids

lined a winding path.

To one’s surprise, 

they’d even find cacti, dahlias,

and roses,

all blended and alive.

I felt a sense of pride as I watched them grow, blossom, and even begin to die.

I knew they’d soon return,

the cycle would continue,

and there was simply not an end.

However, one day,

perhaps within minutes,

they all seemed to fall ill.

I did my best to help them,

to restore and see them rise once again.

That day never came.

All this time and beauty, wasted.

My vision went from a bright and beautiful color of hope

to a blackened blur of betrayal.

How? Why?

I left the garden, but still viewed it from my window.

The sun rose and fell, over and over again.

The moon provided an eerie silver glow upon the fields.

It appeared as a false shimmering gleam of hope,

of desire; of desperation.

I began to dread the night.

The ending of my day;

the battering reminder of what was

and what will never be.

I left my perch upon the window and drifted to the solace of another room.

One without a view.

I pondered what had happened,

many times.

A pest? A lack or oversupply of water?

Were my hands too tired?

Was my mind too empty?

Or had my heart shrunk a size too small?

I gave, and gave, and gave some more.

I did what I could.

I did my best.

I, I… I.

It was then I could pose the question…

Who tended to me?

It was I who stopped growing.

It was I who had been dying.

It was I who lost my way.

I thought I’d lost my garden,

but I had lost myself.

Slowly, I creep back to my window.

I give another look, or two.

I ask myself if I’m ready.

If I can bare the pain of growth and loss

yet again.

One day, when I feel whole,

I’ll plant a few seeds again.

One day, when the trust of reciprocation 

feels present,

I’ll tend to my garden.

More importantly, I’ll tend to the gardener. 

When

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when your heart is hurting,

do you scream in pain,

or do you cry in a whisper?

when your mind is racing,

do you grieve the sane,

or are sheltered in the twister?

when the burden is strong,

do you seek weakness,

or do you shine in resilience?

when the tears have fallen,

do you show meekness,

or pour them into your brilliance?

when the days feel darker,

do you look for light,

or find safety in the shadows?

when the nights feel longer,

do you gain new sight,

or are the demons now exposed? 

when balance starts to shift,

have you misplaced weight,

or was that with full intention?

when the truth is shown,

can you now accept,

or do you prefer omission?

when has become the choice.

when is where, what, and why.

when is the guttural voice,

and when will stay until you die.

Contained

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I live in the loneliest world.

Not a soul in my corner;

I can vent to no one.

The pressure is building.

When I try to have some of the air escape,

I’m faced with ridicule, criticism, and dismay.

I’m always there for others.

I always offer an ear.

But for me?

It’s the worst, I fear.

I feel minimized and neglected.

Oh no!

The wrong emotion was selected.

I am not to show concern.

I am not to disagree.

Heaven forbid!

I must bend the knee!

I’m over it;

I am done.

When those ask why I’m silent,

maybe they should look at who’s holding the gun.

I give you permission to be dismissive.

Matter of fact, I’ll be entirely submissive.

Offer no opinions,

just reassurance that you’re right!

My hands are tied behind my back.

I’ll no longer throw a fight.

I’ll live to appease;

I’ll close my eyes and no longer see

the damage being done right before me.

A puppet in your show,

I offer you control.

Say goodbye to me.

Safe House

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I got a safe house,

and it’s not what you’d expect.

It’s made of paper,

and it’s hidden underneath my bed.

I got a safe house,

and it calls to me.

When I’m in the dark and all alone,

somehow it sparks a fire in my soul.

I got a safe house,

and it wraps its walls around me.

I’m on the sacred ground of poetry.

No lies, facades; it’s purity.

And when I’m at my lowest,

sinking down beneath the floor,

I ask God to come and save me,

but he gives me something more.

He gives me talent; He gives me a voice.

It may not come from my throat,

but it sure as hell speaks more.

Yeah, I got a safe house,

and I’ll camp out until the day is done.

I’m losing all my wars,

but the battles are always won.

Meet me at the safe house.

I’ll put the fire on.

We’ll get warm and settled,

and forget we are someone

who has doubts and problems.

Don’t worry, my safe house will solve them.

We’ll be okay,

in the arms of these words.

They’ll hold on and won’t let go

until we are ready and we know

that we can always come back

to the safe house.

Addict

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Let me tell you about the sad life of a sad addict.

She still seeks it, even when she has it.

And when she’s had it, she wishes that she hadn’t.

But when the sun rises, she’s right back at it.

She’s not addicted to the drug.

She’s addicted to the escape.

Depression is her catalyst,

and it’s fueling her mistakes.

For those who care to unravel it,

they’ll soon be able to see her fate.

A long, dark, and winding path.

She’s lost all vision and heading towards a crash.

When it’s all said and done,

she’ll have gotten what she wanted.

The death to her depression,

and another wasted lesson.

She chose it first, and it chose her last.

A downward spiral that happened all too fast.

Love is lost, and love is broken.

Her wants and needs will forever go unspoken.

It takes strength to tell another;

even more to ask for help.

Release the burdens of a mother,

and all the pain she has felt.

An impossible task, perhaps out of reach.

With the right support,

addiction might be beat.

Stay clear, stay healthy, and stay wise.

You’ll never know when there won’t be a next time.

Message in a Bottle

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Can I bottle up this stress?

Place it in a bottle and seal it tight?

Can I drop it into the depths of the ocean

and have it gone overnight?

Unload my burdens and my heartache,

and watch as we part ways?

If I had to write a message,

I’m not sure what it would say.

Probably reference a perfect storm,

one that wouldn’t drift away.

Although this seems ideal…

how would someone else feel?

When they open up this bottle

seeking treasure or hope,

only to find complaints, worries, and woe.

It’s the easy way out.

Staying on the shore while your pain sets sail…

off into the sunset; watching as they fade away

onto another person, onto another land, onto another sea.

As long as they’re gone, they won’t affect me.

Right?

Is it emotional immaturity, naivety, or insecurity that’s bringing me down?

Financial instability, lack of growth, or is it my loss of creativity

that’s hurting me the most?

Either way I spin it, I can’t seem to land

my feet on the ground.

No bottles, no life rafts, not a single soul around.

I can’t save myself and I can’t sink others.

I know that storm will linger.

I’ll stop running away and just take cover.

Vacancy

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I started writing this way back in January of this year. I finally finished it not too long ago, in June. Honestly, the delay is very fitting considering the theme of this poem. It’s been a struggle to declutter my head and the detrimental negativity that’s clouded my life. I’m here. It’s getting better. More rooms are opening up for bigger and brighter things, and the anticipation is extraordinary.

Cheers.

I’m in need of some vacancy.

My mind has been too full lately.

My trauma hasn’t paid a dime.

He’s committing theft, amongst other crimes.

My tenants have tunnel vision.

Endless sorrow, that’s their mission.

Depression occupies the big suite.

Anxiety rests on the balcony.

Paranoia guards the front doors,

with desperation as its floors.

Joy has been begging to come in.

The other tenants simply won’t let him.

They fear he’ll set the house on fire,

and he will leave no survivors.

What can I do to sneak him in?

I’d light the match and start over again.

I’d have love stay in the big suite;

creativity on the balcony.

Aspiration guards the front doors,

with motivation as its floors.

Joy fills the air in every room.

Finally, my soul will begin to bloom.

The fire that caused death,

bore life.