natashahead

I caught a star
In a mason jar
And wrote by her silver light

Still it sang to the moon
A most haunting tune
Of a lonesome and pure dark night

No wish could be made
The guilt cut like a blade
As she sang in a muffled voice

“Return me to the sky
Don’t let my light die
Only you can make that choice”

The moon called her home
Now I was alone
Kissed by her silver light

The star was now free
As she should be
No one should fear the night

Natasha Head

"Birthing Inadequacy” available now: http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00PG5E0ZU?ie=UTF8&redirectFromSS=1&pc_redir=T1&noEncodingTag=1&fp=1

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Scars & Bad Habits

I have habits I’m not proud of
Shadows dark and deep
Lies that I have told myself
And secrets that I keep

Still I’m so much more than flaws and scars
I’m honest and I’m true
Trust that when I give at all
I’ll give everything to you

So much so I’ll be left empty
Hollowed out inside
I know you’ll take all I have in me
Except the parts I hide

It’s the scars and habits I’ll hold onto
When you’ve had your fill
A reminder that I let you have it
Nothing against my will

And when you slowly drift away
My heart will let you go
You will have a piece of me
I’ll have the scars to show.

Natasha Head

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I am hiding from my favorite places
Sacred spaces
That one time brought joy

I took on the role of fool
Broke my own rules
Let myself become a simple toy

I escape to winter
This frail heart splintered
Weaker than you know

I turn from autumn
Whose leaves have fallen
To bury me in snow.

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Separated
Yet the distance is fluid, moving
You are the stone
Skipping across my waters
Rippling my reality
Creating waves in a world you’ve never known
Yet…
I swear I’ve felt you here

#NatashaHead
#poetry

I’m not interested in hiding intent
Blending purpose with metaphors
Nor painting feeling in abstract

I needn’t be perceived as difficult
Or deep, nor do I
Require four and five syllable words

Or dictionaries to deliver meaning
Life, at its worse
Is simple, painful, predictable

My words
At their best
Are the same

Natasha Head

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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
Never swallowing
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
My story
They are love
They are joy
They are a life
Worthy of celebration.

Broken is the new beautiful
I am more than skin deep.

#NatashaHead
#poetry

You are never more exposed
Than when what you want
And what you have
Collide on the edge of the moment
Between waking & dreaming

The residue of a wish
Lingering long beyond the dream
Forcing its way into now
Demanding strength
You never knew you had

Simply to rise
And leave the wish behind

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Would you sing to me a lullaby
Of the land I used to know?
Would you whisper me the poetry
To carry me back home?

Would you hold me close and kiss me hard
Help me to forget?
Remind me with a gentle touch
It gets better yet?

I need to know the day will break
Over this forever dark.
I need to know you’ll bear the weight
Of this heavy heart.

I cry for all my fields of green
For low mountains and my sea
I need you now to help me somehow
Bring her back to me.

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There is no better place
To bury your secrets
Than beneath the pines
On a snowy January morn

There they can rest
While you carry on with survival
And the hope that come spring
You’ll have found the courage

To plant them as the seeds
That will blossom to new beginnings
Or perhaps the earth will be soft enough
To accept the dying dreams

And you will never have to tell
How close you really came.

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It would serve me well to pay attention to the lessons my mother taught me.
“The more you pick the scab, the worse the scar will be.”
Still, I am driven to be my own undoing.
I can’t pretend it’s not there, that I don’t care.
That the hurt never happened.
Skin may heal, pink and new
But the scabs of the heart seldom do.
They grow and fester
Become wounds to the mind
So while we may go days thinking everything’s fine
We’re doomed to bleed again.

Natasha Head
Tashtoo.com

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There are two ways to survive.
Beat the system…or be absorbed by it. Absolutely consumed by it. Implanted dreams fed through the umbilical cord it’s up to you to cut.
You’ve been named, shamed and maimed. Life cut off at the knees…unless they’ve put you in dungarees. There’s always shit to shovel. Fall for it, and they’ll have you believing you can keep up with the pile AND feed your children.
Some, swallow it willingly, existing on a steady diet of affirmations and gold stars. Exchanging soul for sustenance. Baseline nutrition supported by the backs of those shoveling the shit.
The wise ones, those awake, have recognized their ways. Adapted, building walls around what matters, defenses against the gluttonous, barriers so strong the backstabbers don’t matter and the disbelievers get lost. They don costumes of conformity yet celebrate themselves, recognizing flying under the radar is more than just cliche.
This beast that devours without discretion will surely swallow it’s own tail…the most painful death, starts from within.

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Things aren’t quite like they used to be
The clocks don’t tick the same
Even the traffic sounds different
Its muscle gone
The wires are quieter
Their hum less deadly
The ring of our phones manipulated
As though somehow even interruption
Could be made more pleasing

Still
In the nostalgia of 3am
As the arctic melts
And Florida freezes
The synthetic silence tells me
“I am here”
“I am listening”
And our battery powered hearts still break
And our laser beamed eyes still cry
And no matter how different you think you are
How evolved you have become…

True love remains a mystery
And all our gods have failed

Natasha Head

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They mock me
Because I take the time
To chase the sky
Pulling dreams from clouds
Hiding pain in its shadow

Did you leave
Because I dreamed too big?
Gave too much?
I see you there now
In the reflection of evening.

Have you found your greener pasture?
Where the waters run shallow
And faith can be ignored
By keeping your eyes shut?

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Seeking the urge to run deep into the wild night
To meet the dawn among the brambles and boughs
To live by the light of the moon
Stealing sustenance from her silver

My shadow, my comrade
Sharing the same vigilante mind
It is a hunt for justice
For a forest that welcomes
And trees that dance to my song

I will not be broken nor made to abide in a society of sheep
Dancing in the face of my blood lust
Thinking their safe pasture
Will tame me.

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#Tashtoo
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The movement of red
Birthing stolen moments of joy
Sorrowful songs of loss
Life & death inspired

Caught and captured
Against a wilting, winter backdrop
As though spring holds no dominion
Here

Leans the picket fence
Where we buried our dreams
Should they need to be
Discovered

The nail
Where a canoe waits for summer
Open lakes
A calmer river

Time is in short supply
Summer, soon a memory
The movement of red
Becomes autumn

Natasha Head
Tashtoo.com

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My grandmother called herself “Gypsy”
A pen name unearthed
As we sorted through her meagre belongings
In my aunt’s ancient sunporch
On a humid August night.

Dragon sculptures and tarot cards
Family pictures and bingo markers
Books and books and books
But it was the old Christmas box
Faded and worn
That caught my eye

In it, I found her poems
Songs and stories kept hidden
Written in a script that evolved
Through shaky innocence
To hard won wisdom

They spoke of love
Of hopes and dreams
And word after word
Her unwavering support in my dreams
Was fondly remembered

If I write for anyone
I write for Gypsy
And all the stories
She never shared.

Natasha Head

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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
Her pen…
A magic wand

#NatashaHead
#poetry