Pen in Motion

I am a pretty piece of flesh –
but do I really think that?
Do you think so?
I know I’m not supposed to care
what you think, but I do.
I might even admit that I dress
for you,
just in case you decide to tell me
that I’m lovely.
Hawt, even.
I could get used to slang
if it means
that you want me.
But if not,
maybe I can eventually get used
to the idea
that I’m beautiful.
That pretty piece of flesh.

I don’t have the prettiest hands-
they’re scarred from sores, insect bites,
cuts and scrapes,
and that pencil that attacked me
in middle school –
left a dark spot that still freaks me out
when I think about the dangers
of lead poisoning.
My nails often break,
and the paint is perpetually chipped.
Maybe that’s why
you don’t want to hold
my hand anymore –
too rough and scarred like yours.
Too much like the past.
They’re not different enough
from what you remember,
even though we joke
about sharing a brain cell and your
ex isn’t anything like me
except that we’ve both loved you.
Sometimes I wish my hands
looked different, looked better –
daintier, prettier, softer.
Maybe you want someone with
girlier hands,
even though you mock those
kinds of girls
and you always offer to warm
my hands
when they’re cold.
I thought I loved your hands –
but now as I wait
to see if you’ll remember to say hi,
I’m not so sure anymore.

Listening to Taylor Swift
and thinking about you,
about us,
and how we definitely have our own thing.
We never go out of style.
But ever think that maybe we should?
Maybe a little?
We’re like a broken record
and just keep doing the same thing
that never leads anywhere –
we go crashing down.
And then we’re back.
Not unphased, but still moving
and back to the same thing:
Madness.
Bliss.
Confusion.
Cohesion.
Stagnation.
That’s us – just here,
styling,
in our pea pod
where we kicked the others out.
We could change,
but no one else really gets us.
Maybe someday we should fix the record.
Fix our style.
Or just stop –
the crash,
the “thing” that no one gets but us.
Maybe someday.

These shoes don’t go with anything

but themselves.

They’re lovely and I want them to work,

but none of my dresses

will have it.

And they’re not comfortable,

which makes sense

because I paid a ton for heels

that are useless.

It’s like some people.

Or parts of them anyway.

They look great

and you want them to fit

in your life.

You try different ways

to work it out

so it doesn’t hurt too much,

but the rest of your life just won’t have it.

He says I should know him by now,

cause it’s been over a year

and we’re something like soul mates.

But how can I do that with

all this sameness –

same looks,

same lack of words.

Or few words.

Not the right words either.

And his looks always

have the same expression.

I know him as best as I can.

And he knows me more

than anyone who decided to break my heart

really should.

Catherine and Heathcliff –

more myself than I am, and vice versa.

Two peas in a nutshell, he says.

His other self, he says.

So maybe the words aren’t so bad.

(So it’s a “two poem post” kind of day…)

I wish we could turn back time

to the good old days.

Maybe the young kids

think that,

but they just don’t know better.

Or maybe their “good ol days”

were a lot better

than most.

More technology anyway –

more things to keep

them entertained and distracted.

Depends on the day

for me,

which ones were good

and which ones I want to keep on forgetting.

But either way,

I wouldn’t go back, not a single second –

however I got to this place,

all the good and the scars too,

I’m here and all I can do

is go forward.

Onward ho and all.

Leave the “good ol days”

for the kids would don’t know better.

I’m good.

Mammoth structures of the modern age,

metal and wood, bolts and ties –

made to carry the world

along faster as steam and coal engines

churned out a new era.

End of the peaceful prairie,

but beginning of a new life.

Looking at that mighty metal beast –

so strong and sure,

carrying the weight of society without faltering.

Maybe it can carry me too,

take me some place where those memories

that become ghosts can’t follow –

where the sun fights back the darkness.

This book! To quote my dear friend Andrea – “oh my goodness!”

It’s been a while since I have read something (outside of the Bible) that affected me so deeply. But this book…the beauty and elegance of the author’s statements almost makes me cry. As a writer, I am affected. I am changed.

Archipelago by David Jacobsen (Excerpts of foreword by Bret Lott)

“Literature’s purpose: the reader will, if the author has been honest enough and written with enough Artistic integrity, find within the work at hand his own life.

I have written elsewhere about creative nonfiction that the form is something akin to Russian nesting dolls, one person in side another in side another. But instead of finding smaller selves inside the self, the opposite occurs: we find nested inside that smallest of selves a larger self, and a larger and side that, until we come to the whole of humanity within our own hearts.

But I believe that all of literature, not just the essay, must accomplish this. That whole of man’s estate ought to come springing forward from the page, the words, these least bit of Ink on paper, yielding for the reader a burst of self-awareness that gives that reader, through the work of the author, himself back to himself.”

—————————————–

Remember those stories? There has to be at least one story/book that has uncovered something about yourself to you. And even though the author highlights nonfiction, I have had more instances of finding some part of myself when reading fiction. “If you want facts, read nonfiction. If you want truth, read fiction.”

I have another book from my MFA classes – about poetry – that states that a poet/writer’s job is to make the reader care. If we (writers) have done that, then we have done our job. Even if it’s just one person, we have succeeded.

To you, whoever you are out there in the world, I am writing for you. Well, I’m writing for us. You and me. I’m not worried about affecting to world – just you. And I truly hope that I have succeeded. If you are changed, then so am I.

I sat on the edge of the cliff

and stared into the abyss,

only it didn’t stare back because

it was too busy moving on.

I could have kept looking down,

but there was nothing

to see except some dirt, rocks,

and a bottomless bottom

that didn’t want any spectators.

Sure there was an end,

but not for a really long time.

So I looked up instead,

and for the first time ever,

I saw the rocks –

gargantuan structures

with layers of red and orange.

I suddenly forgot why

I was on the edge to begin with.

Your heart is a weapon –

I was an easy target

with those parts of me

that are still

just naïve enough

to want to believe people

instead of questioning

every word,

moment of silence,

stressed syllable,

and broken date.

I wanted to not be jaded,

so I wasn’t with you.

I could say that I learned

my lesson,

but it’s not like I won’t

ever try again.

And I think I had fun,

but I’d have to remember

everything else

about you

to answer that question.

So, no thanks.