Trying to get it out....

No really....

now who the fuck am I supposed to be?

How am I supposed to move forward with all this shit in my life? This is a 180 degree change that is throwing me all out of balance. I don't know what to do with myself anymore. It's so easy to lose hope at the slightest rejection. I really have no point to living... I know it sucks, and I know it sounds like a dumb drama thing to say, but I really do feel like that. My whole life revolved around my dad. I was even considering moving to WA just to be with him because I didn't want to waste one second that we had together. Everything I accomplished, it wasn't really an accomplishment unless Dad approved; it wasn't really special unless I knew he was proud of me; that was my greatest reward, seeing him smile and share things with me, having our deep conversations, talking about life and philosophy and my writing... I wanted so badly to share everything with him. I wanted him to be there for everything I accomplish in my life, and now he won't even see the beginning. With no one to share it and appreciate it, what does accomplishment even mean?

Why do I want to do the things I do? I want to be a published author because I love writing and it's the only career I can even consider enjoying, other than maybe social work of some kind... but in the end, I think my dedication is to knowledge and spiritual growth, not to saving kids from ghettos. But now I have no one to strive for. I have no one to share my dreams with, or who might dream with me... everyone else is far lesser of a person than my dad. They're a bunch of prideful kids with no direction and no understanding of the world, and even their parents cannot help me. I feel isolated. I feel like I'm standing alone with all of these thoughts and responsibilities attacking me and all I really want to do is die. I've been through this before, but I never thought I would realistically admit that to myself -- I really want to die right now. I would never consider suicide, but that doesn't change the truth. Laying down and becoming nothing seems like a better alternative than going through this shit. This is the death of all of my hopes and dreams. This is the death of myself... or whoever I have been up to this point.

And now it's my own responsibility to resurrect myself. I am only 20. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, never mind next year. Who am I? I am an artist, a kind person... but other than that, I am very little without the love my dad fueled me with, and I'm scared the residues of that love will fade eventually. I will lose him. I will lose him for good and he will be gone, poof, disappeared like so much dust. I don't understand it. I don't understand how something so solid and real as love can just disappear, something that we rely on and that becomes such a deep part of ourselves. I just want to be free. I want to leave this pain behind and just be me, be myself, alone... but now, I realize that I do not exist by myself. I exist only in relation to the people around me, and the prospect of really living for myself, of really being MY OWN person, ME, with no ties and no direction and nothing leading me through life but my own two feet and the common sense in my head... no parents to ask for advice, or to rely on, or to at least look to in hard times... it's terrifying. I already feel lost, and it's only been a month. I can't imagine how I will be in a year, or even six months... I literally do not know where I will be.

i am i am

I am in a dark place.

There is a singular light

shining down on me.

Not a room. Nowhere.

I look up, squint, speak.

I could kill myself with why;

they waste their time searching, like this is

something to be achieved, when

nothing about god will ever make sense

even when you can feel its words

in your stomach.

The light would whisper back, but I

cut it off, quickly--

I am a destiny unto myself

and always have been, but I lie

because I've never been anything more

than you, and without you, shall fall to nothing,

and yet

I remember the promise you made me,

when I lost myself

the first time.

You cannot hide from me.

The light never shifts,

just beams down; I do not know

if it is exposing or protecting;

I need both.

What? Is that all? And have you no explanation?

I listen.

here i am i am

What do I even come home to anymore?

The Tower

I am somewhere between the faded dark

and a fragile kingdom, conceived of light--

a tower's point at mountain's peak ablaze

has caught my shadowing eyes, alight,

and tries to lead my weary path away;

a safehold against this billowing night.

It draws my feet from road unknown, unseen

to mountain slopes, and half-forsaken falls,

where our hearts have stumbled; no love redeemed

nor peace to find, and so we learn to crawl

and humble ourselves before the tower's light,

to reach its doorstep, to hear, to see, to burn

in sweetest fires, bright.

Our deepest holes, our darkest winters define

that tower, as yet unbreached, unclimbed -- I wonder

if this mountain's steepest peaks

are the truths it hides, and when that doorstep seek,

we reach the tower, with only ourselves to find.

My friend and I

eat sunflower seeds

sitting on a park bench

feeding birds.

I point to

a gray spotted one;

that one, I say,

that one has to have every last one.

He nods.

A moment, and a brown one

bobbing from beneath our feet,

stroking its wings.

That one only wants attention.

He nods.

A black bird,

sitting in a lone tree, watching

the others coo and garble for bread.

That one, I say, he would rather wait;

he thinks he's better than the flock.

But all birds are still birds.

My friend nods,

considers me with hollow eyes,

gathers his robes.

Death tosses his seeds

and leaves.

Show me

where the wild winds pull;

over the tilts and truths of this threshold.

So I gaze beyond

for a star's second;

looking in, wondering

how our feet can carry us into silence;

across the blackened floorboards

and back, deep into some sinking room

where I sense firelight. Surely,

I have been here before.

A glance

with the snow;

she knows the softer ways

when time was a mother,

but I traveled here over

hills and heartlands, learned

languages and traded love

for some rocks– and never once regretted

the back roads or the unknowns;

so she nodded with my shadow.

The darkness wavers, hovering between

gold and night; I am the streetlights

and the drifting snow; a simple creature,

I only know the silence beyond that top step,

a craving for what is fiercely blind,

my own darkened door wide open.

___________________________

You have the look about you

of autumn; something fiercely gold,

soft-spoken and fallen. Do you sleep?

Do you close your eyes anymore?

The sound of snow clouds

drifting low from the sky,

ready to drop to the ground.

Now what am I supposed to value?

my dreams, my future, my past?

am I supposed to hope for something,

realizing all I love from this point on

is who I decide to love, and what I become

is purely me;

to reconcile with the past, lay down

and put to rest those laws

that held me bound; where am I to travel,

now that I have no road, no beginning

and my ending only a shadow;

still a shadow, though all I've ever loved

has gone. I am lost, having fled my spring

to a forsaken winter, embraced gray dawn

and let go of brilliant cloud; I am a new beginning,

a plan unsigned, something fierce

and unbroken, driving my pathway

across the sky,

as surely as love

drives the sun.

Twilight, the Mystery

Twilight, the mystery we made

for ourselves. What lies beyond

the curve. We laid breadcrumbs

of heaven, burned libraries

to make martyrs of verse,

needles and threads

for the minds that weave.

Still, they are all just stories,

locked in deeper realities

or so we've forgotten; let us worship

the means to gather food, or

bow to the unknown that we might

tame it; that we might stare it

in the face and not know fear.

I live

where the mist hangs low

beneath the branches.

Sidewalks wind into cloud; is here a city?

Fragile lights glimpsed

between street-known-

all-too-silent-

death.

Fog shadows of tree giants

looming; I know their

murmurs, their time moments,

their footprint roots

before me all-too-sudden-

splitting-cold-brush-

of-breath,

gone.

Air stillness, the

intently curled

crisp of leaves; between

my feet a thousand graves,

watching them drift

to the ground.

Poetry

is

therapy.

Started writing

as a child

too young to

vocalize

why.

Still don't know why,

just felt the needless push

of words

cramming out of me

had to

pour them

with the rest of that

silence.

Everything

in this life

is set up

to teach us

how to

love.

If we

could

just

conform to it,

live by all of

the cliches:

in the moment,

holding everything

for all its worth

then feeling free

to let it go,

knowing one has

never taken

anything

for granted;

acceptance is easy

with no guilt.

We would be

happy.

We would die

smiling.

I guess sometimes Life likes to play rough...

So the last few days have been a strange fluctuation between periods of bizaar euphoria and the very pits of hell. I'm a little confused. I think part of me, a good 50%, one could say, is completely baffled by this whole situation. I feel like I've had a rug pulled out from under me. I feel like every dream and expectation I've had for my entire life has been turned on its head. I feel like my plans have changed so suddenly, completely, and abruptly that I don't even know where the hell I am anymore. This is my home... but suddenly, it's MY home, as in... my house... and never again will I have a safe place to run to, someone I can turn to at any time who'll put up with me and help me no matter what happens. And Dad wasn't just a normal, average guy, either... he was that kind of guy that you only meet once or twice in a lifetime. The kind that went out of his way to make everyone else around him happy, and not in a pathetic, spineless way, but in a genuinely good and caring way. Dad was great. I don't know what I'm going to do now... I don't know how I'm going to deal with this, or how I'm going to make it through. This hurts a thousand times worse than losing my mother... and the pain is immediate, right here in my face, shoved under my nose. Look, he's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Fuck.

Just fuck. Sometimes I feel so fucked that I want to scream at something, a wall or a floor, or someone who'll understand... I'm so fucked, I'm not ready for this, I mean I am... or at least, I keep telling myself I am, but the honest truth is that I'm terrified. I'm a terrified child, alone, a little girl who just wants to hide in a corner. How do I go back? How do I get out of this? I am so blindsided right now that I can only think up to a week in the future, otherwise I start panicking. The panic doesn't come from the idea of not being able to keep the house, or not being financially stable... it comes from the realization that from now on, this is it. I'm on my own. There's no turning back; if I decide I don't like life on my own, I can't come home again for a few years to get my shit together... no, I have about three months to go from a completely dependent child to a full-fledged, functioning adult who can provide for herself, and a house, and a car... and sooner or later go back to school... I know I can do it, I know I'll survive... but it just seems so overwhelming. It's just me. Just little old me.

Testament from a survivor

Death strikes

like a pin-prick;

one flinches,

no blood.

Then the infection

sets in.

She walks a little slowly now, neither
left nor right, she stumbles there alone and
needs a place to lay down, but no rest comes
on a road of no moss, just broken bones

that line the pathway, and old, splintered teeth;
she tried not to look, but his hand was so cold
when she touched it, she remembered his grip
she would hold, as they walked, as they searched

for the road that she wanted; well now here
it is, though it's nothing like glory, a bit
more than she asked, and his warm hand is gone.
Is there no place she can rest? how does one

finish a story, or replace all those pages
with no chance left of love...

She has nothing to write for, no meaning transcribed
on this bone-laden road, undisguised.

Terrified
alone
they keep saying a word
orphan
but that means
no parents
and I have parents
had parents
never will
know them
again.

***

In all of my imaginings of God,
I cannot imagine Heaven.
Nor can I imagine grace.
Nor can I imagine wholeness, or home;
And often I wonder
was it somehow planned this way,
How do I live through
one more day--
I can't; but the body can, they say...

I am dying a new kind of death.



***

Experiments.

We sat

darkly

listened intently

thought something

dead

as lilies

we waited

listened

waited

listened

listened

**

I would blame,

but I have only

myself

to blame.

I will say sorry,

forgiven,

it was just a

simple

mistake.

Here in this room, behind shuttered windows,

dark shadows are rising from under the floor;

defenseless, my heart has taken the corner

to huddle in silence, slight-shivering, sore

as the ice in my throat, a settling sickness

to stifle my lungs; I am bled of my hope

like a stuttering candle. I've forgotten

to breathe for days now, but at least I can hold

my breath as a shield, my only defense,

a measure of time in this heart of an ocean,

I am trapped in this room, surrounded, captured

and bound, all dreams dark-dying and frozen.

How do I rise? Surely, I've lain here before;

trapped in time trapped in breath upon the floor.

_______________________________

For he was as fallen as Satan, but he was also the Son;

John Milton, who saw God as he was.

I am but a silent soul,

with secrets that escape all worlds,

and so I travel, life to life

to give my gifts, as you are owed--

I'd like to gift you with a heart,

and eyes that might see through this dream,

for all we lose are shadows

of their true, unrivaled vibrancy;

and the words I try to speak with,

all the methods that I use--

in the end, I am a simple truth:

I give everything out of love for you.

Doubt

would destroy me

in a time like this.

The heart is an offtimes mysterious thing,

dangerous as sunset, bright-painted as dawn,

false-gilded in romance and love's faded song--

may we remember the moonlight

and the roads we walked from;

this is the heart that I carry,

you may gaze at it plain

for I've structured no walls,

I've no buildings to name

that are not built of love,

found through darkness and flame--

I am made of my faith, conceived in Its name

as a hell-walking creature, bent backwards

and drained, though no hate taints my lips,

and I shall not complain

for we all are our paths, and my path

is my choosing; act not with attachment,

so gaining and losing my only reward,

taking all I've been handed

and giving myself, as my faith has demanded--

and here I shall stand, a pillar of fire,

a light to the wall through your dark-driven ire--

I shall give you a hand and lift you awake,

let us pause, let us breathe, let us pray.

Wouldn't you rather....

Wouldn't you rather

run on the sand?

Let it slip

like the rugs we stand on,

flip away from us

in a thousand thoughts

feel the salt breeze play

on our salt-worn cheeks,

brush away the salt-drops

and slit our eyes to see,
we'll claim it is the wind

Wouldn't you rather

be at peace with this sea?

I don't need to understand
anything, only that the sky
is free; I can afford to keep it,

though its not much of a roof,

and its reaches are
too high for me.

________________________

Just live for a day like you would live

if you could, forgetting that here are

boundaries that cannot be crossed, and there

are eyes that would surely see--

wouldn't you rather just hold her

like she was your last breath, breathe her

like she was your last scent, keep her
as though anything can be kept

I put one of my dearest and sweetest souls
in your care, but only for a few years
because you see, I need her to be like me
in all of her ways. Many of your ways
were my own, and so I kept you, and trusted
you would teach her how to think, how to be kind
in the face of hate, how to hold herself proudly
when she is humiliated, how to bow herself humble
when she knows her betters, and how to sit, and listen,
and learn. But there are parts of her that still
must grow, and I have many parents and teachers lined
up for her in the future, people who will also take
good care of her, and will allow her to bloom
and receive all parts and facets of me, that she might
fulfill the task she has taken on herself. It is she who asked,
and I simply give what she asks for; she asked for help,
I gave her help; she asked for hope, I gave her hope; she asked
for love, and I give her love, and I see that the love I give her
she gives the world, as a whole fruit, as a generous heart.
So I am sorry, I know you have loved her dear
and that she is your child as much as she is mine; but you are all
my children, and I allow you each life to only have a few, that you
might know what to value, and why I value you,
and why we must value each other.

Seems that we are only a little wind
and a bag of flowers, wrapped in twine,
sitting in the sunlight, growing
until we grow to mud.

Seems that we have only a little sky
and a patch of grass to cushion our feet,
and then we are forever encased and veiled,
packaged and displayed in long, silent hallways,
bordered with flowers trapped in vases.

Flowers grown in boxes,
buried in boxes,
seen behind glass
or under roofs; how many flowers die
to grow inside this place,
and give it the illusion of life?

My Long-missed Muse

Suddenly the glorious sun has fallen;
embraced once more by night's sweet breath
of remembrance, here I stand again
and prepare myself a seat with death.

I wait upon the white-washed stone;
he is an old friend, long acquainted
yet seldom seen, he's hovered here and faded
to the back of my book, but now has deemed

a visit due; I suppose he knocked
and I heard him, though my ears were tuned
to other things, like my father's laugh
as he fell in love; 'twas just too good to last.

I sit here with my childhood friend
in silence, no words to break this place--
I bow to death, my long-missed muse,
here come to prod this hand awake.

On Age (II)

Tell me now, who will I love?
And for what purpose shed my tears?
My heart's been hammered to the mold
and yet found lacking, as my years
are lacking still of wisdom's grace,
though I have walked this withered road
twice, no lines have graced my face;
badges of courage in a world
where beauty replaces chivalry,
and age has become a disgrace.

I would remind you now, I have not age
to offer, though my lessons are well learned--
I shall sit here, silent, listening clear
to gain the years your heart long earned.

I would beg you for just one cent of love,
a penance' worth, if one might be so kind
to give me leave to speak my heart, you'll find
a moment's worth is all I need

to float me on the harshest ocean, sometimes
just one whisper can lift me along
to the future's bow, driven by forward motion
in the heart of change; I am lost, surrendered,
here avowed

and trapped, my heart a road in winter,
fallen, false standing, adrift in snow
to see the stars, a desperate distant glow,
hidden, dimmed, their light misty now

and drifting, so I beg for love--
just a second's worth, for my heart can take no more
than a simple dose, enough to clear my voice
and hold me close; I've been afraid before.

This dread winter has already marked its years,
and they shall never be restored.