Pen in Motion

I don’t even know how to start, 

or where to start,

or even if starting is the 

thing to do. 

People always say to begin 

at the beginning, 

but I’m still trying to find that first

set or tracks.

I know it sounds like I’m rambling, 

but maybe that’s how we 

work this stuff out. 

Maybe we have to unravel our brain 

to locate all the knots. 

Maybe we need to just pick a direction 

and follow to the bloody end. 

Or rather, 

bloody beginning. 

Sometimes we have to go backwards  

before we can move forward. 

So, where was I?

What’s that I see – 

in the corner of the mirror, 

when I look just right, 

when the lights are turned down low 

and I’m not too busy thinking 

about how complicated my life is these days. 

If I don’t blink or squint, 

I can make it out – 

hunched and twisted, like maybe Rumpelstiltskin 

or some other creature 

lurking in the origins of old fairy tales.  

I can feel it sometimes, 

breathing on my neck, ready to pounce – 

but then, 

when I glance just so 

and don’t turn out all the lights, 

it shrinks back 

just enough, 

until I pass another mirror.

Sometimes things happen — 

that’s what we say when it’s too complicated, 

or painful, 

or petty, 

or messy to explain 

and we just want to shrug it off, 

even though 

we know that isn’t happening 

anytime soon. 

Because things happen — 

like when I married the wrong man 

who bullied me 

into 

       the 

             ground 

and never thought he spoke unkindly. 

Or when I let that person 

break my heart over and over 

and over, 

like I’m not china. 

Or when the first of two monsters 

took something from me and left only scars. 

But hey – things happen. 

Yep — things.

Dear old post,
I’m deleting you today –
as in no more,
all gone, gonzo, good-bye forever,
sending you into the abyss
with the others.
You can all commiserate together over
your doomed fate
while you give me the stink eye.
I want to say that it’s nothing personal, but it is.
I don’t want to see you pop up anymore.
No more reminders of memories I want to forget
in the first place.
I know you’re probably judging me,
thinking that I should
“own my words”.
Whoever came up with that jargon
either never said anything regrettable
or has made so many mistakes
that he/she turned bad lemons into worse lemonade.
Misery loves company.
But anywho –
I won’t say thanks because it wasn’t a good time,
then or now.
Enjoy Valhalla, or wherever you end up.

(I think this is recycled from a few years ago, but I still like it)

I’m listening to this song

about the good, bad, and ugly truth.

I guess the truth is all of those

at some point.

I wish I had some good truth

to chew on –

so far, it’s just been bad and ugly.

And it hurts.

People are always sorry when the truth hurts,

but they still dump it on you.

Sometimes they even give

a “truth hurts” quip like it’s supposed to help.

Douche bags.

Yeah, I’m thinking of you right now –

all of you,

and why you ever thought I wanted

your brand of truth.

Maybe you didn’t want to lie,

but the truth wasn’t really necessary either.

I am enough –
all of me,
not just parts,
not pieces that you can pick
and choose
and patch together –
fashion into something
socially acceptable so everyone
will smile with approval.
But nope –
that’s not my bag.
I don’t want to be acceptable anymore.
I don’t want to check off
someone’s list and get a seal of approval.
I want to be me.
Just me.
No additives or fillers.
Nothing artificial to make me look right
for the pictures.
Took a while, but I finally got it figured out –
I’m totally unique and
not made to be in the regular flow.
Because I have my own,
I am enough,
and if you don’t like it,
then you’re out of luck for anything else.
I’m done moving myself
around to fit into everyone – or someone else’s mold.
Been there,
did that enough that I don’t want
any more t-shirts.
I am enough.
Nothing else to say.
Peace out.