Bad Poetry Reading

I suppose some context is in order, because normally I’m such an upbeat person, but I don’t really have an explanation I’m prepared to fully disclose. In addition to Project Finish Line, which I’ll be writing on more this weekend, I’ve embarked on a bit of an accidental journey that is putting me through my paces, and well…out this came. 

Worry not, my friends, I may not actually be as bullet proof as I claim, but I try to be tough to hit. 

And if you’re reading this, suggestions on a title?

Broken heart, yet still I stand

A shattered shell with grains of sand

Beneath the skin that rip and tear

At throbbing scars already there.

Empty numbness leaves me needing.

Someone stop the jagged edges inside bleeding.

But I walk alone with you forever,

Festering wounds holding me together.

Pull away then turn around 

For though I fight I long to drown

In the merciless sea of time ahead 

That fills my every breath with dread

Of living life an immortal cursed 

To trudge invisible upon the earth 

Across the paths of none who see

What could have been whole is broken in me.

My soul is hope transformed to doubt

Now trapped and screaming with no way out.

At the top of my lungs I silently cry 

Lamenting the second before goodbye 

Where possibilities thrived,
And we were alive,
With reasons to try,
And no end in sight.

But now it’s today,

When you walked away,

Leaving behind you this fractured wraith 

To survive in the absence of aspirations or faith.

So I put on the smile already failing me

To pretend to the world I’m still in one piece

And somehow still similar to

The person I was when looking at you,

But It’s all a lie, for with each ragged breath 

That person is gone, the thing remaining is death.

It’s desperate to fall, but I steady my hand…

Broken hearted, yet still 

Mercilessly 

I stand.

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Write Drunk, Edit Sober

(Or we can call this Diaries of a Hereditary Alcoholic. Though I only partake once a month or so…)

But in reality I’m just going to write drunk first and see how that goes. I might try editing sober the next time, but baby steps, right? And if nothing else, you should get a good chuckle out of my Sweet Tea vodka-and-lemonade-fueled blog post.

At the moment I’m fresh out of a hot bath sitting in the dark on my bed listening to Pandora, but when I go out, drunk looks a little (very little!) better one me:

iPhone Download 8-15-14 049

Trust me. That is better.

In case you’ve been slacking off in your reading or you’re a new visitor to RPSLS (thank you!), I’m taking part in Blogging 101. For today’s challenge we have…um…nothing.

It’s a “free day.” Normally I’d say, “Yay! No homework!” But writers actually enjoy this stuff, and as we’ve discussed I’m a closeted writer. Since I’ve been thinking about facing fears as of late, I thought I could take this intoxicated opportunity to talk one of my big fears: vulnerability.

(Let’s all take a moment to be impressed that I can spell vulnerability after two tumbler’s full of vodka…..Okay, you can continue reading now. )

So vulnerability…

In my estimation this requires a lot of trust. And that, as is turns out, is NOT something I do easily. I always see quotes about how “it’s the strong man who cries” or whatever, but for whatever reason that’s just not my style. Strong to me looks a lot like being your typical 1950’s dad who never breaks character – always calm, always with all the answers, always with poise and stoicism. The rock for everyone to lean on, the safe harbor to cling to.

My most vulnerable post to date was the series on my dad’s death. I am pretty proud of that because somehow that seems natural to me – not truly weak or vulnerable. Just…real. It is what it is, as they say.

Every other day, though?

I’m THE MAN.

Yes, I get that I’m actually a woman, and no I’m not part of the LGBT community, though I would be proud to be if I was. What I mean is, I’m the 1950’s dad. At work, with friends, in crowds, sometimes even at home.

I have no idea why I can’t break that wall down. Perhaps it’s a fear of rejection, or a fear of being seen as weak, or of being classified as a “girl” when in fact I’m just as capable (if not more so) than all the men next to me in line, or as a result of my upbringing… Or maybe it’s some combination of all of those things.  I’m just not the damsel in distress. I can’t be. Because I won’t be.

But here’s the thing…

Sometimes I wish I could be.

There are days when I’m so tired. When I’m so…done. When I want to just say exactly what I’m feeling to the person or event toward whom I’m feeling it.

My pride just gets in the way, I suppose.

I guess it’s a little sad, because there are many truths that will forever go unspoken for me. But that’s my choice. Or rather, that my fear and my pride silencing me.

But I know we’re all fearful, prideful, all broken sometimes.

So here’s the important question:

What are your fears? What is your vulnerability? Do you have someone who sees it? Who sees you?