Frustration

Head in my hands,

I have lain.

Frustration rules my brain.

Doubts rearing,

Words written

With no readers opinions

To reach and sway.

 

Crippling doubt

Searing the mind,

Taking the muse

Leaving only frustration behind.

 

The pen a sword,

With a double edge so keen.

Severing the need,

Laying the heart so bare.

 

No voice 

Power stolen,Silence woven.

No voice left 

To the soul broken. 

Humanity removed, 

Difference exposed. 
Protesting the darkness 

For sake of grasping the light,

Only to find the soul

Just too weary to fight.
A voice stolen completely away 

Left by society silent today. 

For though I speak clearly, 

There is no one to hear me.

Untitled From Word Play 

Sleep sweet child, For day is done.

Rest your body

Before another 

Is begun. 
Calm your mind, 

And enjoy your dreams. 

Let all your worry

Cease and leave. 
All your troubles 

Be gone and done.

Close those eyes, 

My sweet little one.
When with the morrow, 

That sun does rise.

Raise your head,

And open your eyes. 
Explore a world 

So fresh, so new,

Explore the world.

It’s there for you.

Art

What is art,
Smart and sublime.
Each eye views differently,
Both beauty and the divine.

An artist places in their work,
Heart,  soul and mind.
Only to hear an offhand remark,
Of how they should really try to find
Something to do with their life.
Some people are but so blind.

The poet pouring themself
Into the words on the page,
Knowing all along that not all
Will see the truth.

The painter who sees a darker view,
Is no less showing
Yet one more truth
That oft goes unseen.

My truth and thine,
Not always so mesh,
So when speaking of art,
No matter the kind,
Be aware always
The ego is but a fragile
Easily broken piece
Of the artistic soul.

Words are painful

So you say
Words can’t hurt you,
Such bravado to be shown.
Strength in mind,  and heart,
Forgotten dreams,
Into the fury thrown.
For though the mind is strong,
The tongue is sharp.
Cutting the soul,
Slicing deep.

The pen is mighty,
No sword so sharp.
Each slice exquisite,
Laying vein
outside the skin.
Making me wish
The words mute
Again.

Untitled from Life drops

The broken heart
Drips the ink,
That from the
Poet’s pen will leak.

Verses torn from
Pain so barely borne,
Written with a soul
Determined to grow.

Reaching out in word
To staunch the flow
Of ink from the ever
Sharper pen.

Poetry normality

                  I am a poet. My children to my pride have shown themselves capable of great pieces. Now I should mention that I have not always felt good about my poetry. I have so often been told how depressing it was that I took it to heart. However,  I wrote because it was how I healed. As an abuse survivor,  I learned that I needed an outlet for the poison that was forced into my soul. Or I would not ever be whole. So I wrote to heal.  I wrote for the love of poetry. So I would never be as good as Emily Dickinson or Edgar Allen Poe. I wrote because it was part of me. I did not force anyone to read what I had written. So if it was depressing…. that was fine.  I could accept that. Then I was talking to a social worker.  I mentioned that my poetry was considered depressing. Though I think she was being sarcastic,  she said something that got me thinking.  She asked “Isn’t all poetry?” There are various types of poetry that express different emotions. Discounting sad poetry is basically like saying that feeling sad is unacceptable.  Poetry should be able to have a nice range of emotions.  It is after all an expression of the poets heart in word form. Then someone else I care about said that his beautiful poetry was so sad. My response “Poetry is often sad. I’m told mine are depressing. Just because they are sad doesn’t have to deny their beauty.” Not every poet can write greeting card poetry or love poems. And abusing the poets whose writing causes other emotions is not acceptable either. 

Genetics or something else?

                   I am a poet first and a writer second.  I just do better with poetry than I do with stories.  I am not bad at stories,  just better with poems.  Now there is a reason I state that. My daughter came home and was asking about poetry.  She has no patience with writing stories. So I was helping her with her poetry for English class. At this point I was tickled to find out that she enjoys writing poetry.  Mind you I have had three children.  My eldest has written one beautiful poem. Then he allowed his own self doubt to keep him from writing.  My middle one (who due to situations I refuse to explain here was given up for adoption at birth ) writes wonderful poetry.  I am so tickled that the three of them have shown such talent.  It actually got me thinking.  What do we pass on in our genetics?  My children are all taller than I.  None of them look exactly like me. My daughter looks the closest.  There is personality traits that all of them possess that I have.  So that leaves me curious.  What do you think we pass on in our genetics?

Sometimes I write poetry not meant for the Wip

            Occasionally on my personal Facebook page I will post a good night that is a small poem….something not truly long enough in my opinion for inclusion in a poetry volume. 
                 This is last night’s.
Well today was hell.
The night as well.
Time for me
To let life be.
Rest my head
In my bed.

Time to wish for all the best
And pass it to all of you,
Nothing else but sweet dreams
And gentle rest,
Till the morrow comes.

Discipline

Nary a thought
to organization,
Not one to abide
Micro managing
My time.

As long as I do
Does it matter when?
Or can it be late
When my mind refuses
To quiet at all?
Or early morning
As I watch the dawn?

Discipline in my work
Is not the same as
For another.
For me know that I
am doing.
And it is enough.