after years of hoping things would change
and giving in to “well, that’s the way it is,”
look me in eyes and realize
this is who we are,
who we’ve become,
it’s finally come true –
our love’s become old news.
we never lived up to the story of make-believe;
when we face each other
I must believe this is the choice
we’ve been making.
every morning & every night,
from here on out
this the only way to keep going,
turn these dog-eared pages of our lives
for other truths to be told,
for other hands to hold.
from countless days of emptiness
from your professions,
your attempts at affirmations,
something in me knows better:
there’s more to love than a collection of memories, there’s more to see than foil-wrapped treasuries.
what passed in the space between us?
a moment, a disappointment,
and I leave it all in the past.
what’s to come? a path we’ve never tread, yet time’s been stolen and minutes slip away.
the clock stares and we wait for affections from a new love, a new life in a new bed.
The title comes from a comment Joni Mitchell made when describing the theme of her music, one part hopeful and one part “the portrait of disappointment.”
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.
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.
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
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.