poem

The Pull of You

The Journey of the Sea by Patricia McAtee

There’s no stopping it.
There’s no going back.
Even if I tried
the pull of your force
is stronger than my will to go.

See how the current meets the sea,
not stopping midway to ponder its existence,
to debate whether it should or if it belongs.
It flows where gravity takes it,
where nature pulls
and it goes where it should go.

And so, I stop to wonder-
is nature at work pulling us or do you possess
a magnificent force pulling me in
to the deepest sea without a way to return?
Is it wrong to ask or shall I flow
naturally where the current leads?

There’s no stopping it.
There’s no going back.
Even if I tried
the pull of your force
is stronger than my will to go.

poem

You’ll Want to Sit Down for This


There’s no easy way to say this;
there’s no way of keeping it in.
It builds inside of me,
telling me to set it free.
It’s begging for attention;
it’s scrapping up my knees.
It’s knocking louder and louder;
it’s banging down the front door.
What is it, you ask?
Well, where do I begin?
Do you have a chair to pull up?
Grab a glass of water
and a box of tissues, too.
I have a while; I hope you do.
You see, things like this take some time.
There may be some hesitation,
some mulling over facts versus emotions.
There may be some details, or generalities
until I become comfortable.
So please, bear with me a while.
After all, it concerns you too.
And if you must know, yes, I think you do,
it’s been there for a while
and it’s time to set it free.
poem

Split in Two

The way I hide away,
to remove myself, from myself,
from my other self,
the one that overthinks,
to remain in motion,
without hindrance or hesitation,
because she doesn’t want to
think of how disorganized,
an absolute wreck, she is
trying to keep it all together.

She exhausts herself; gives
too much to others until
burnout. She keeps up with
self-care, responsibilities,
other duties but she knows
it’s just a matter of time
until it all blows.

She breathes to steady the
heartbeat; in, out, in, out.
Another thing she tries
to control but she knows
it’s only a matter of time
until it too takes
it’s last toll.

poem

Exhaust

You give to others to be the love they need
You give to others to be the one when no one else is there
To be their cheerleader, to be their rock
When no one else had cheered for you
When you thought the more you give, the more you get
To see the smile and warmth in their faces
When you thought it would give everlasting joy
It is but a fleeting moment after hours of attempts to muscle through
It is the high at the top of the roller coaster before the car drops
And it’s the sinking slowly back into the sand
Covered up to your eyes, just enough so you can’t be seen
But you see that there’s no one giving back to you

And you breathe that in, breathe out and release

poem

Thank You For This Gift

I used to dream of the sea,
of lonely nights,
the ones of you and me
staying up late
through all hours of the night
planning what we’d do
if we were in the same room

I don’t dream of that anymore
for when I’m in need
I turn you on
and there you are
reckoning every nerve
in this delicate body

I recall your words whispering in my ear
for hours on end
turning pages deep within my soul
breaking down walls
that were trying to stay strong

A constant surprise
how you’ve done this to me
a consuming yet calming
settled in deep
by words spun on repeat

Mesmerized, I’ve memorized line by line
destroying me with perfect intonation
and yet, I wouldn’t have it any other way
this gift you’ve given me

Happy birthday dear friend

Photo by Katerina Holmes on Pexels.com
poem

The Strength In Our Scars

Reposting because we all need to be reminded. And when I say “we” I mean “I” …

When it comes down to it, I think if any of us are going to make it, we simply just have to believe. We have to believe in the power of the small things, in the comfort of a cup of coffee, in the calming, melted hues of a sunrise, in hearing our mother’s voice on the other end of the phone after a long day. We have to believe that we can overcome whatever weight life ropes to our spines, whatever circumstances our choices or our shortcomings throw our way. We have to believe in love; we have to believe that we are worthy of it, that we are deserving of being chosen despite the insecurity or the flaws or the mistakes. We have to believe in our ability to take care of the people we care about; we have to believe that we are enough for them. We have to believe that we have permission to be whomever the hell we want to be, that we have the capacity to be truly, and deeply, happy. We have to believe that we aren’t alone, that people see us for who we are and what we have the potential to be. If we’re going to make it, we have to believe that we are growing. We have to believe that we are meant to be here.

The Strength In Our Scars

poem

The Lost Sailor

a stirring voice beckons,
a phantom within a dream.
as i pencil my musings
the voice channels itself
moving deep within me.

laughter quickly vanishes
to reflecting upon the movement of the sea,
to the house
that no longer carries
childhood dreams.

the voice constantly searches vacancies to occupy,
from passing through stations
to platforms holding onto memories.

I attest that this is my screenplay,
but am I the playwright
or cast as the lead
at someone else’s hand?

and the nature of it:
a subtle arrogance,
brilliant confidence
with a touch of sadness
longing for ease.

is my gullible empathy a curse
or is this phantom character
penciled in verse
simply a lost sailor
strolling through life’s corridor?

poem

Love Meant to Last

For a dear friend


I could never understand it, always questioned it.
Never could see the bond that was between you.
But it was love, the kind that was supposed to last.

From the beginning outsiders were struck by the
secret love notes, booty shaking teases, and contagious laughter;
surely, that kind of love was meant to last.

Over the years and through monumental struggles
there was hope love like that was meant to last.

When your own family was finally formed,
despite the destruction that came,
there was still hope for love once had to return.

The strength and willpower was admirable,
to have your family your own way,
no matter if love chose not to stay.

Afterwards, unconditional love was the only way,
a mother’s love, a father’s love,
but his love was too high a price to pay.

Now as he’s looking down on you from the other side
you remind them,
love like that was supposed to last.

poem

Are We Home Yet?


You’re the gun
and the bullets
inches away delivering the deepest wounds.
I am wounded, fallen,
and hollowed out by you

Lying with my insides shredded
you believe it was all necessary to keep you sane

I beg you to save me,
if only you could see how deep these wounds run
if only you could prevent them from happening
if only you could truly see me for me
if only you were moved to the same depths by the same things
if only you channeled the same pains and could sit in the dark with me
if only you didn’t see things differently
if only we were emotionally in tune
then I wouldn’t feel shameful for the way I am
then I wouldn’t have to change how my brain works,
how it turns every difference into a negativity instead of opportunity

I beg for sameness, likeness, because that’s home
and I want to go home
fall sleep under the covers
and never wake up
poem

The Shoes I Walk In


These shoes of mine could tell a story if they could talk. And they do, they tell enough, just look at them!

Not the whole story, though, that’s what the voice is for, fill in the gaps for what people don’t see.

Ah, but that’s where I trip up. My voice doesn’t scream as loudly as these boots do. It doesn’t sparkle as much as my heels do. And lately the pace doesn’t keep up with each step traveled.

The shoes in my home are stacked high and low. A different pair for every season. Multiple shoes for the same activity. Winter Boots. Rain boots. Walking shoes. Running shoes. Sandals and flip flops galore. Most of the shoes selected are based upon an upcoming activity, not so much as a statement piece. Except for my recent addition of blood red leather boots, now those make a statement. The “I’m gonna kick some ass today” statement. Yet lately the pace has likened to boots too bulky, too cumbersome, to make any trek productive – trudging wearily through heavy terrain.

“So, get new boots,” they say. And so, I kick them off in search for walking shoes, which will turn into running shoes to outrun the mess I’m in. Anywhere else than where my shoes have been. And maybe one day I’ll see you at the finish line with my head held high, my feet a little sore. Whatever the distance, whatever it takes, to get to where I’m supposed to be. Anywhere but here.