Categories
Poetry

Anyone

I feel the truth

only because of the false.

A seeing

beyond the faces of clowns.

Play rolled in fear,

don’t you see

the squeaky carousel?

They feel the brittle bones

of life gone by

and bleed again,

but only if they see.

No.

They won’t see,

they don’t want to see.

Be anyone but the truth,

they whisper.

Be anyone

but me.

Categories
Poetry

The Carpet

The wind was crisp

and the sun sang warm to my skin.

The rest of the world was too fast

to know bliss like that.

The truth is: the truth is too expensive;

a depth of emotion most are unwilling

to pay.

Humanity can’t see through true eyes.

Can’t see the fighting is a small child’s game.

Who are the adults?

Let me know when you meet them.

Wounded and scared;

don’t you know how deeply you once felt the world?

The carpet is there for a reason.

The broom is used by all until the carpet

spills the truth.

The truth, they say,

will set you free, and I am free

to tell you that.

But, then again,

the carpet is good, too.

Photo by Yaroslav Shuraev on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Dark Cupboard

I’m in a cupboard, peeking into the light.

If you looked, you’d see my eye,

and I’d see you.

All of you.

Even your well worn Volleys.

Especially those.

White.

(Not so white at all.)

I’d smile, but you’d not know it.

All you’d see is my eye, remember this.

Here, in this cupboard, it is warm.

It is warm,

and I see you.

I always did see you.

Photo by Studio Negarin on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

Cereal And Life

The oddities of humanity. The neuroses that so often become us that really have nothing to do with who we are, at all, or what’s best for our health, wellbeing and growth.

Take breakfast, for example.

My body doesn’t know that breakfast is a man-made occasion, and yet, still, I choose to feed it specific foods such as toast, cereal, orange juice or coffee at the very time it expects to find them in my life. The morning.

My body, I’m fairly certain, just needs food. To be nourished. It doesn’t care if what I eat in the morning is not, what I might consider, ‘breakfast food’. Only the odd little whisper of my brain cares about that. Should I listen? Or should I challenge what it has to say?

It’s not just cultural expectations around breakfast that rouse me. For too many years, I allowed the cultural narrative of suppressing emotional vulnerability to rule my choices, and, as a consequence, I lost the ability to live with my heart. Goodness gracious me. My precious life moments. Potential soul singing moments, destroyed because I succumbed to a life story that, ultimately, had nothing to do with the truth of who I am.

I have no regrets. Every wrong turn has brought me to this place of strength, wholeness and home, and I am grateful for the rocky roads I’ve travelled thus far. How could I be anything but grateful for the ways it has all helped to shape and expand my perspective?

Life. How it has me in awe.

Over and over, again.

Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Unleash

It’s time

to unleash

my soul.

Categories
Poetry

Feel

Some days,

I can’t be here for you.

Some days

I need you,

to hold my softness

and let me fall.

It is a beautiful drift of snow

that feathers the earth of me.

A gentle spring breeze

beyond the strength I’ve tried so hard to be.

And I lay me down to feel it all.

I lay me down to feel it all.

Photo by Liza Summer on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

The Sound Of Silence

How lovely it was

to call the darkness an old friend.

The darkness inside,

the darkness outside.

Did they even know it was both

of which they spoke?

A Neon God was made

so beautifully to shine

light

for all the world to see.

And so the world saw.

And so the world changed

for a moment, just one.

And so the world went on

to lose its voice

over

and over again.

To the darkness.

To the never ending lies

that remain hidden

beneath a grand old rock named

fear.

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Categories
Poetry

In Every Lie

There is a soft

quiet

truth

in every lie.

Categories
Poetry

Try A Little

The quiet moments when we see

we’ve been wrong.

They melt the ice of life

into sweet drifts of frost on wind.

I have been wrong

to my own heart,

often without knowing.

I have been wrong,

some days,

some days, it’s true.

Now I float in the mist

of a forgiving heart.

A forgiving heart

to soften the frost,

to sweeten the day around me.

This day.

A try a little, day,

I think.

Categories
Poetry

This Quiet Storm

I am me.

Just me.

Not who you think I am.

Not who you wish I would be.

Just who I am.

This quiet storm.

Me.