I am seeing so many people argue about the truth lately. No one has any idea about what it is anymore. Here is what the truth is.
the truth is personal,
perspective skewed,
and always changing.
It is political as Hell
and painfully littered with bias
It is so powerful
and passionate about what it knows,
it is pure and simple
It always grows.
it is ego
it is faith
it is standing your ground
and it really gets around.
no one can tell you
what your truth is
no one knows it but you.
Dammit I wanted Bernie,
not another closed mind,
instead I was wanting someone
who made me hope for mankind.
Socialism should not be a fear,
where kindness is a weapon
against the masses
and old men don’t have us
tied up in the idea that we cannot be
helping each other with no strings.
why don’t we have social programs
where people are not afraid
of the violence that seems ingrained?
why is learning regulated,
where only the rich can afford it?
symptoms of the disease,
classism, racism, and greed!
Yeah, those things cost money,
but isn’t that what taxes are for?
the political system regulates
bodies that they know nothing about,
the average person is mired
in depression, debt, and doubts.
I find myself judging me
for things done in anxiety.
The things I should be doing
eat at me, whispering in my ear deafeningly.
I cannot grow a care…
Though I know the reasons that I should.
The things that would happen
are just as bad,
telling me how important it is
and why I should be sad.
Instead the urging only
reverses my mind to anger quixotically,
making a monster of the rage building deep inside of me.,
The could be is somehow worse,
for in me, these are the ones that hurt.
I feel like I am not enough,
because I can not make them happen
no matter how hard I try.
So the should, the would, and the could,
each have their place
in stretching my anxiety
into another day.
They make me into a nervous wreck,
weighing each mistake
as a possibility.
Fighting the trio
I become a careless me.
Choice stolen,
It’s rarity increased.
Dreams broken,
So you hold tighter
To the ones that remain.
Virginity a concept
That your worth
Can be stolen away.
That you can be so much less
Because another touched you
Implies that you were less anyway.
Picking up the pieces,
Trying to heal,
Realizing that nothing
was removed,
That it is perhaps better
To put together me
My own way.
Watch your words,
or so I have been told.
I have planned to do a poetry based post every day of April… To celebrate national poetry month… And then chaos… You know… My life…. Happened. My allergies are still kicking my butt. Yesterday I was down with a tension headache. I am going to be doing a post later today… But I didn’t want to start off a day late with no introduction of my intent.
I do not know if I will be doing the normal posting schedule with this new posting. There is going to be 4 types of post for the national poetry month. 1. prompts (this is fairly self explanatory) 2. Poetry(mine or a famous poet) 3. Lesson (I with these are planning on trying to show how to write poetry… Or types of poetry) 4. Submissions (I will be sharing places looking for poems)… I am not sure what is going to be what day… But I am going to be trying to post daily. May will see a return to the normal schedule.
Also, Fae Corps is going to do a daily prompt starting later today. (I am the one usually doing the blog there so my headache yesterday prevented the normal Indie Wednesday post. I had forgotten to schedule it)
I have heard it said,
that if a poet loves you
immortality is yours to be had.
For in their verse each
emotion is shown
every detail dripped
from their broken pens.
I would like to think that
immortality is not limited
to the poet’s love,
that anyone spreading out
Your memory creates you
an eternity.
First the inspiration back story..
So… On tumblr I managed to by virtue of sheer exhaustion do something that has me so embarrassed. I had a talented poet enter into my asks wanting to recieve a poetry prompt. Now… I am on a midnight schedule. My boyfriend works midnight to 9am, roughly. So, I usually am in bed between 2ish pm and 11pm. Well, I am also an insomniac…. Yesterday was a no sleep day. The poet thanked me for posting it… And I in my exhaustion… I did not double check the response before sending it out. Autocorrect got me. I sent Your welcome instead of the You’re welcome that I thought I was sending. So I think that I will attempt the prompt myself as recompense.
The prompt was : memories buried.
©2019 Patricia Harris
Six feet down,
In fresh turned earth…
Lays love once so dear.
He chose another heart,
Betraying mine.
So his memory,
I buried.
To prevent my pain,
In hopes that it would
Never rise again.
As the wheel of time turned,
Away that heartache burned.
So here I am with shovel in hand,
At the graveside I stand.
Hoping to revive
All of the memories
Buried inside.
Who will write the obituary
For the lost soul,
The one that hid from the world
Any truth of identity?
Too many times when
Hands stretched forth,
They were smacked away
Feelings pulled astray.
Lies, they called,
Sure that the truth denied.
So who writes the obituary,
When no one saw the truth
In what was said?
©2019 Patricia Harris
Sleep elu,
Sitting in my bed
Still shaken from
The monsters that live
Inside my head.
Revisiting memories
Is far away from
The way that I need
To help me sleep.
Shaky in the dark,
I dare not turn on
The bright overhead light.
For though the fear
Blankets my skin,
I do not want
To awaken the ones
Who are still sleeping.
Pattimouse 