Work in Progress

I can stare at the mirror and never see my own face
because I never see past
the scars and the wrinkles and flaws.
Over and over, I’ve torn myself down
and sat brokenhearted on the ground,
looking for someone else to come pick up the pieces of me
and put them together in a way
that might make me feel
p r e t t y.

I’ve neglected my body and burdened my soul
with the weight of my own indiscretions.
I was given a blank canvas and with my own two hands,
in every pure, white space I scribbled a mess.
And once the ink dried, I added a layer,
and on that foundation I’d build
for the next twenty years.

Until one day, I realized the portrait I painted
was nothing but pigment caked onto a page,
haphazardly slopped into indistinct shapes
and the colors had melted into dark, murky gray.
So I stepped back to evaluate the masterpiece I’d wasted,
and the time that it’d taken to
reach a point when I could admit that I was just as lost
as the missed opportunities behind me.

And as someone who hates to admit fault,
it’s hard to admit all the wrongs I’ve done
victim and actor were both myself, but the self-harm
I inflicted wasn’t the kind done with a blade.
It was with
my
    own
          two
              hands.

I’ve spent over half my life as my own worst enemy
and the decision to try and repair what I’ve done to me
will take just as long as the journey to get here,
I know that better than anyone but, now, for the first time,
I’m ready to try.

Because somewhere from the depths of all of the gray,
a beautiful pigment of blue was created,
it brought more than just color to the miserable page,
it gave it a reason.
She
     gave
           me
                a
                   reason.

So now, I work slowly, but out of determination,
I chisel and scrape with my own two hands
at the canvas before me, layers of bad decisions
flake off all around the place where I stand.
Progress is slow, and at times, frustratingly so,
and I mind my steps down the line as I toe
between pride for my efforts and cringing at flaws
that I notice much more now that I’m trying to make...
a r t ?

I’m as much a work in progress now as ever before
but now there is an active attempt to be more
than just a photograph of a woman standing at the back of the group,
hiding herself from seeing her own truth
and living each day, hiding insecurities with laughter.
I’ve made myself the punch line for so long, it wasn’t until after
I faced the fact that everyone can already see the flaws on the surface,
that I accepted that those cannot be changed until I fix what’s below it.

This time, there is a story to be told
of a woman who learned how to finally be bold.
I’ve focused my mind, set my sights on tomorrow,
I’m scraping and painting away through my sorrows
And while I cannot erase all the damage I’ve inflicted,
I can paint a whole new picture.

So I’ll spend some time picking up pieces of myself, long abandoned
and put them together in a way
that makes me feel
w o r t h y .

Atonement

It starts with
one thing, a feeling, just believing,
breathing, focus locked on succeeding
on reaching the buried source of the feeling.
I take a step back, let my heart take the lead
and then it just flows,
rows and rows of black ink on a white page,
memories engaged, inhibitions uncaged,
nothing to dissuade, no secret left safe.

All I've ever wanted was the chance to be
the second chance for someone needing someone else to see
that pain is more than sticks and stones and broken bones;
it's 3:00am, at home, alone, when panic reaches danger zone,
and all you hear are overtones of every doubt you've ever known.

See,
I've got nothing to hide,
I've put twenty thousand words here in front of your eyes,
every bump or bruise encountered, documented in time,
from Misery and through reflections, every verse, every rhyme,
even my crimes. And I'll continue to write.
I will share my every story just in case that I might
give someone light or a reason to fight, maybe I
might never reach that destination, but dammit, I tried.

When I was sixteen, I thought I had a plan,
I raised my voice, never feared to take a stand.
It's funny really, how much has changed since then,
and just how much I truly didn't understand,
I criticized feeble men, lost more than one of my best friends,
some victim to my harsh demands and some I deemed mannequins.

Man, I can't deny, I'm a hypocrite.
So fake some days, I feel like a counterfeit.
I've spent the last ten years trying to blend into the crowd
Can't be too loud, take credit but don't seem to proud,
look at me, now.

That's why I write what I am feeling,
my self therapy, but left in a form so revealing,
no self preservation but the world can be so fleeting
that I don't really mind the thought of strangers reading.

Just think about it. When we're gone, what have we left?
At the ending of a chapter, we all so easily forget
the tiny details that captivated, only for the moment.
We turn the page and the memories, they fade,
so this is my atonement.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Things aren't the way they were before, you wouldn't even recognize me anymore. Not that you knew me back then but it all comes back to me in the end." -- Linkin Park

Wanderlust

Her eyes are as cold
as the December snow
but her arms are warm.

She's in for the season,
but give her a reason
and she'll be gone.

She's as free as the wind blows,
a falling star's best friend
as they shoot through the night until
their adventure ends.

She makes it a point not
to stay in the same spot
for very long.

And she'll steal the show,
but she won't stick around
after the lights come on.

Though many have held her,
she cannot be held in place.
She isn't afraid, no, she
just loves the thrill of the chase.

A collector of hearts and pins on a map,
she acts as her own compass.
Her only destination is anywhere else,
they call her sweet Wonderlust.

She's as fierce of a lover
as she is a runner,
but she'd never tell

that the path she has paved
are stones of remains
of her past self.

Her heart, it was shattered
by a broken soul, but then
she picked up all the pieces
and scattered them into the northern winds.

A collector of hearts and pins on a map,
she acts as her own compass.
Her only destination is anywhere else,
they call her sweet Wonderlust.

Oh, she doesn't want pity, she needs not your money,
but if ever you call her your own,
She's in for the season, so don't be defeated
for when the snow melts, she'll be gone.

End of the Rainbow

My heart wants to love you 

but my spirit,

it just can’t take the pain. 

For the longest time,

I put no one above you,

not even myself 

but it’s time for a change. 

And we’re standing here

at the end of our rainbow,

a last attempt 

and you still say it’s my fault. 

But I can only bend until I break 

and I can only give until there’s nothing left to take. 

Down on my knees, I finally see the truth,

I can’t fix you. 

I can’t sleep for all the memories 

attacking me 

for the ways that we went wrong. 

Why couldn’t you 

just be the man that I needed

and loved someone

more than yourself? 

But I can only bend until I break 

and I can only give until there’s nothing left to take. 

Down on my knees, I finally see the truth,

I can’t fix you. 

And you’re sitting there 

reading every word I’ve written,

my last attempt 

and you’ll still say it’s my fault. 

Reflections

You like to say I’ve got a lot of anger.
I guess that could be true but what is stranger
is you would even make that declaration
when you’re the reason for my agitation.

You’re the one who blows at any second;
who no one even ever wants to mess with.
You’re so worried all about your reputation.
But turn and act crazy, no hesitation.

Must be exhausting just to think about yourself
and spent more time avoiding anybody else
than to feel a tiny ounce of compassion
because then you might be forced to make an action.

You shirk responsibilities like they’re a burden
and treat your family and friends like they’re just vermin.
Running your mouth about how everyone has wronged you
and now you family has all but disowned you.

Your only friends are chicks off dating applications,
you only want them there to feed you acclamations.
In just a short time they’ll see past your weak flirtation
and you’ll come back to me with ruthless accusations.

All your little secrets that I keep are safe
but this is not a game you want to play.
We both know all the truths that I could say
and I’d sleep fine at the end of the day.

Let’s talk about the nights you spent down at the lake
This was another girl, before you knew my name.
You knew your wife was home and sound asleep
every time you snuck out to do your dirty deeds. 

Or how about that night we parked behind the club
and halfway through your phone was ringing off the hook
and you ignored it maybe six or seven times
before you finally admitted to your crime. 

And I’ll admit that I was foolish to continue
but I was still a teenage kid, let’s remember
You knew how to catch me in your twisted web
and how to keep me falling back into your bed.

Remember that time after I found out I was pregnant
and I made your mom come out to the apartment
because you were too intoxicated to drive
and said the baby I was carrying should die?

And when I woke up with blood in my pants
You made me sit at the ER by myself
Well, not myself, I had your toddler daughter with me
and she was way more comfort than you ever could be.

Remember that first night after we came home
from the hospital, just you and me alone?
I needed help so I could feed our crying infant
you refused and I ripped open my incision.

I’d never suffered quite so bad from such depression
but it wasn’t just the post-partum in question
You were the trigger for my endless misery
and so when the offer came up, yes, I chose to flee.

I gave you everything, entire heart and soul
but what you wanted most from me was just control
and when I made my great escape, your world was shaken
for the one thing stable to you had been taken.

You wouldn’t let me go, you couldn’t take the pain
of having dominance over me ripped away.
You loved to tell me how I wasn’t worth your time
and then fight tooth and nail to keep inside my mind.

Round and round we went until my heart was frozen
and after six long years, the spell has finally broken.
I really doubt you thought this day would ever come
and now it’s here and you can’t take that we are done.

So now you’re scrambling to pick up all the pieces
of what was once the grip you held onto my heart with
but it’s too late, this time I’m truly too far gone
and so you’re struggling to even carry on.

It makes you angry so you lash out, like before
but this time I’ll turn and walk right out the door
and it’s confusing you ‘cuz that’s not how things were,
and I love that I don’t need you anymore.

How many stupid poems did I compose
Misery documented in every single prose.
But all these lines of rhymes, they barely scraped the truth.
Someday, maybe I will blast the real you.

You like to act like I’m just steady talking crazy
and tell you coworkers how heartless I am, lately.
But if there’s one thing I could say to you now, baby
is this isn’t even me when I am angry*.

*But I can get there, if you’d like.

In the Summer

The very first time, I was only a teen
filled with wide-eyed wonder and elaborate dreams.
And I’m not quite sure what I was looking for
when I told you my name and walked through your door.

You drew me a map of the stars and skies
and I began to see forever in your dark brown eyes
but the fairytale ended, as they always do,
and I began to see a stranger when I looked at you.

I gave you my heart and I gave you my time
but neither one was enough to keep you as mine.
It took six long years til I could finally see
that the straws I was grasping just could never be.

We started in the summer, in the summer we’ll end

Went all over the world, hell and back again.
I walked out the door and I choked back tears

On the day you promised that would never be here.

Love Yourself, You Shit Ex Partner

Here's one from last year that never got published.

My version of Beiber's "Love Yourself"

-------------

For all the times that you rained on my parade 

And all the lies that I let get in my way 

You tried to break my heart, oh boy, you managed that 

But you couldn't break my feet from walking out.

And I didn't want to write a song

Cuz I didn't want anyone knowing just how bad it got but 

you're running your mouth, so..

And Baby, I'll be moving on

And I'm sorry if you can't see that I am not the villain, 

you ruined your own ending.

My granny don't like you and she likes everyone 

And I never like to admit that I was wrong 

And I've been so caught up in my job, 

Didn't see what's going on 

But now I know, 

I'm better sleeping on my own.

'Cause if you like the way you look that much 

Oh, baby, you should go and love yourself 

And if you think that I'm still holdin' on to somethin'

You should go and love yourself.

And when you told me that you hated my friends 

I should've known there was a problem right then.

Remembering the times you didn't come on home 

While I was waiting there with your newborn.

The entire pregnancy, you had them all believing you were just so helpful, 

you weren't even sober.

And those pics on your IG? 

They're just the ones you stole from my grandmother's Facebook 

of my little angel.

Your daughter don't know you, and you don't seem to care.

You only post selfies cuz no one else is there.

And I tried so hard to build our home but it was never clean enough, 

guess now it is 

But you're there sleeping all alone.

And If you like the way it looks that much 

Then baby you should go and love yourself.

And if you think that I would ever come back baby, maybe 

you should go and love yourself.

For all the times that you made me feel small 

I'll never forgive all the damage you've caused.

And now that clarity has focused hindsights, 

All along, I see that your ex was right.

Cause if you like the way you look that much 

Oh, baby, you should go and love yourself 

And if you think that I would ever come back baby, maybe 

You should go and love yourself.

The Best One

Someday I will die and 

I'll leave you alone.

Don't let the grief haunt you, 

don't change what you know. 

Keep sight on your goals

and you follow your dreams.

The one thing I ask is please,

don't forget me.

Remember our laughter,

forgive my mistakes.

Don't cry for me, Baby, 

I'll stand here and wait. 

And when you feel the wind 

softly blow through your hair

give me a smile, it means that 

I'm right there.

The seasons may turn and the tide rolls on

but that doesn't mean that our story is done.

I'll live on through you, darling, 

so give us a lifetime together.

May this story we're writing be known 

as the best one ever. 

You're a line of the song 

that plays deep in my heart.

Every beat keeps the time 

that we've spent stuck apart.

You're the sun setting low

at the end of the day.

Not a mile, tear or year 

could take that away.

My memories may fade 

as my hair turns gray

but your soul is ingrained in mine 

and that will 

never change. 

The seasons may turn and the tide rolls on

but that doesn't mean that our story is done.

I'll live on for you, Baby,

I'll give us a lifetime together.

May this story we're writing be known

as the best one ever. 

And when it's your time to join me on this side

we can sit on this bench here and just reminisce.

Until then, I've got work to do, one thing I promise you,  

It's only beginning, I'll give us a lifetime worth living. 

The seasons may turn and the tide rolls on

but that doesn't mean that our story is done.

I'll live on for you, Baby,

So give us a lifetime together.

May this story we're writing be known

as the best one ever. 

You're Soooo Ridiculous.

The only thing that hurts worse than an
ex man
is running in to your ex
best friend
with her latest knight in shining armor standing by her side,
poor fool doesn’t even know he’ll be replaced by Friday night.

And there’s not enough time to
turn away
so we’re both standing here with no words
to say
because we said them all a month ago, now one of us just needs to go,
but I can’t find my feet and you’re just standing, staring.

And I sound so insecure when I ask if you’ve been thinking of me.
And you sound so immature when you laugh like I’m just so

Ridiculous!
This is just
ridiculous!
We’re both much
better than this.
And I can’t even resist
saying how much I detest
how you’re so
ridiculous.

I know it’s probably best to just
let this go
but there’s a few more things I’d like you
to know.
Like how I was kind of thinking what I said when I was drinking
was a little condescending but it wasn’t meant offensive.

But maybe I was just out
of line
for trying to tell you I
wasn’t fine.
You swore that you were always there, I guess you didn’t really care
and now we’re both still standing here, just standing, staring.

And you seem so cavalier when you roll your eyes and turn away and
then I sound so insincere when I ask why we are acting

Ridiculous!
This is just
ridiculous!
We’re both much
better than this.
And I can’t even resist
saying how much I detest
how you’re so ridiculous.

Oh, I guess some bridges are meant to be burned,

There's lessons to learn.
And I can't be concerned with trying to earn 

a chance at forgiveness
when we both lit our matches. 

  

untitled.

Whether or not you agree with trigger warnings, I'm including them here because they are directly mentioned -- physical abuse, drug use are mentioned. 

Someday, my mother will die, and I will cry.

I have as many flaws as the next person, and my inability to just accept things is probably one of my worst. I cannot accept anything. I ask questions, I over-analyze, I critique, I reconsider, I argue. I build anxiety within myself, throwing around the simplest of ideas over and over and over like churning butter until the next subject comes along that catches my attention.

And then I abandon the previous. It may lay there for weeks, months, years, discarded into the wind. It may never be revisited, just laying there. A shell of perfection, a stroke of brilliance that burned into the night as if it were a shooting star would fly across the sky. As quickly, too.

I got cheated out of a mother, or maybe out of a grandmother, because my grandmother was my mother in every way except biologically. My grandmother, bless her soul, raised her children the best she could manage, and then when her baby was still just a baby, she had a baby and my grandmother raised her, too.

But this isn't about my grandmother, there is not a sonnet so lovely, a psalm so sacred that would do her justice; William Wordsworth himself would not have the words worthy of the praise that my grandparents deserve.

No, this is about my mother.

Society has such a value on the bond between woman and her child, there are books and jewelry and songs and movies and when you're six years old and the person you call, "Mama" won't even open the door to visit you after your grandmother has driven you fifty miles to see her, standing on the front step of the rundown shack that she calls a home and she won't even open her door to you, it surrounds you and surrounds you and builds and builds and crashes into you and YOU FALL.

Standing on the front step of the rundown shack she calls a home and hearing your baby brother cry from the other side of the heavy wooden door because he's too little to reach the chain to unlock it and he wants to see his Nana and his sister because he knows they brought something to eat. Watching your one hundred twenty pound granny pounding on the door with a piece of who-knows-what she found in the front yard yelling her daughter's name through the cracks of light between the door and the frame to try and wake her from whatever drug-induced stupor she may be in. This was my reality.

At six years old, you don't know why. You don't even know to ask why. It's just empty.

I never had a father and I never really longed for one; my grandfather's presence was enough for both. And my grandmother filled the role of mother in every way except biologically, but then once or twice a month when I saw my "real" mother, my mind would cloud, the question would arise, which one is actually my real mother? Even before puberty, I was already debating the roles of mom versus mother. Life-giver versus care-giver.

My entire childhood, this question bounced off the walls of my brain, tumbling and turning, rearing its ugly head over and over again, and as my knowledge grew, my logic grew, this question, this goddamned question  - I could not answer it. It's resolution would put my emotions to rest, and like I said earlier, I cannot accept anything. I ask questions, I over-analyze, I critique, I reconsider.

Until one day, the fog cleared. Maybe it was the pain in my grandmother's eyes when the love of her life, the man who was man enough to be my dad and my Pawpaw, died. Maybe it was the whirlwind of drama that followed, my mother's refusal to step up and mother her children, instead letting me, her teenage daughter drop out of college and take them in. Maybe it was her allowing her new boyfriend to physically assault my little sister in front of my baby niece; not just allowing but defending him afterward because, "she had it coming". WHAT?

I just know that one day, all of the churning and turning and whirling and cranking of the gears and gadgets inside of this convoluted brain finally clicked into place. I have a mother, I call her my grandmother, and then I have a stranger of a woman who never gave a damn enough to try.

There are so many experiences that I notice while raising my daughter that most parents who have completely functioning normal-meters probably don't even think twice about. Raising my headstrong, fierce, fucking beautiful two year old gives me more appreciation for my granny with every passing day. When I kiss her imaginary boo-boo for the fifth time in five minutes, I know that my mother chose to forgo that memory with me. When I cut her grapes into fourths and call her to the table for a snack, I know that my mother chose to forgo that memory with me. When I rock her until I feel her little puffs of breath against my neck that lets me know she's asleep, even though she's so big now that her head rests on my shoulder and her legs dangle in what has to be the most uncomfortable position ever and my arm muscle is cramping but she doesn't care and I don't care because my heart is filling to the brim, I know that my mother chose to forgo that memory with me.

My mother made me a better mother. I spent my adolescence determined to prove that I would not become her and now I'm living the life she could have had but turned away from. I will be the mother to my daughter that my grandmother was to me and my mother will live her life in denial that she ever did a damn thing wrong. I will be at every class party, every blistering cold ball game, every haircut, every class play, and I may not be my daughter's best friend but I will certainly be there for her because that is what mothers do.

My mother is a stranger to my daughter just as much as her daughter is a stranger to her. I will protect my child from my mother, not because she is some sort of violent offender or criminal of law, but because she is as fleeting as a whistle into the night.

I suppose that in some ways, I am a lot like my mother. I cannot accept a notion; I must dwell on it over and over and over like churning butter until the next subject comes along that catches my attention and then I abandon the previous. My mother's attempts to build a relationship with me go much the same way. A shell of perfection, a stroke of brilliance that burned into the night as if it were a shooting star would fly across the sky. As quickly, too.

I got cheated out of a mother, or maybe out of a grandmother, because my grandmother was my mother in every way except biologically. But this isn't about my grandmother.

No, this is about my mother.

Someday, my mother will die, and I will cry. I will cry, not over the loss of the person, but rather the loss of opportunity. 

Because you see, I have as many flaws as the next person, and my inability to just accept things is probably one of my worst. Deep down, underneath all of the hurt and the pain and layers of dysfunction and anger and disgust and betrayal, there is still that six year old girl standing on the front step of the rundown shack, waiting for a sign that there's someone inside who might come and let me in.