I wrote my first poem when I was ten.
I still have it
It was written out of the desire to write
There was no need to share it
No hunger for accolades or recognition
Just a little girl
Wanting to make magic with words
She’s still here,
Buried a little deeper
Squished between deadlines & drive
Carrying her little notebook
A magic wand
Broken is the new beautiful.
Bruised and beaten
We wave our bleeding hearts like flags
Our sky the darkest solitude
We lie to ourselves
Believe in the romantic fantasy
Of a crazed lunatic
Who could only make love to a pen
Denying ourselves our small victories
We cry to unsympathetic shoulders
Hungry mouths who claim to eat our pain
Only to savour it on their tongues
Spitting it back in our faces
Once they are sure they are more worthy
Of false sympathy
And second helpings.
But whole is a bowl I want to eat from
I’m tired of these salty tears
Of seeing joy through the liquid reflection
Of a head turned away.
I wear my scars as trophies.
Proof of my existence.
Validations of my worth.
They are my art
They are love
They are joy
They are a life
Worthy of celebration.
Broken is the new beautiful
I am more than skin deep.
I’ve a confession to make. I fear I’ve not been honest with you. I’ve been prettying up my pain with prose, stealing from the poets, decorating my walls with a mirage of openness and letting you believe you know me.
In spite of my grandest desire, I am not a poem. I am a mess, an amateur graphic novel at best. Unlike the perceptions we like to paint, my failings are far from a song.
They are loveless and dark. They are selfish and harsh. They are a result of life. Alas…love has never broken me, nor has death stood upon my door step to await the arrival of my soul.
I am living, I am surviving, I am blessed. It’s a shame we thrive on the poetry of the heartbroken. There’s fantastic works to be discovered in the simplest side of life. The breath of a new day. The courage to live it.
The only person I’ve ever had to battle has been myself. The inner dialogue shameful & cruel. The only one to blame for this brokenness…is me. Imagine how boring the poetry!
My only claim to fame is perhaps the best poem ever.
I’m still here.
I wake to a moon
Pregnant with wishes
Swollen with secrets
Stolen through the hours
When my dreams grant me the courage I need
To visit forbidden destinations
Unlucky travelers cast upon silver constellations
In the Wilde gutters, belly up
Our sleeping eyes birthing visions of what could be
Our heavy tongues tasting foreign delicacies
The saliva of strangers, the romance of dialect
The wind against our bare skin
Denying the coming wake
Into the black dawn I rise
Ashamed to face the moon
To stand awake below the stars
They know the truth I’ll never speak
Left buried in the crumpled sheets
My insides alive with longing
Fearful it will be gone upon my return
Racing moon to moon
To revisit the gutters of my secret streets
Where the only hearts that need to be crossed
Are the hearts that will never die
Rising above what is,
To meet in a star crossed sky.
I know you feel it…
If you’re giving your life one inkling of the thought it deserves, you have to.
We are wasting it, you and I.
Sold by an illusion that has us believing it’s worth is compounded by suffering and sacrifice.
That if we pay our dues
We’ll receive our just rewards.
So we let our souls rot in the glow of numbers that will never matter.
Like the good soldiers we are, we march on
While inside we fight not to hear those whispers
The voices of the evil and the damned
Those who had the courage to say
To every slayer of dreams who dared darken their doorway with vials of systemized thought.
I want to be like them.
I know you do too…
But the snake oil is strong
The hiss, a soundtrack shared by every broken spirit who shares space in our cubical row