Other people’s writings
are better than mine;
Yes, it’s true.
Undeniably better –
still I write,
not in hopes I’ll ever be similar,
Only because
my self-expression
is a primary lifeline –
Buoy in the mercurial seas
of uncertain chaos.
Other people’s writings
are better than mine;
Yes, it’s true.
Undeniably better –
still I write,
not in hopes I’ll ever be similar,
Only because
my self-expression
is a primary lifeline –
Buoy in the mercurial seas
of uncertain chaos.
Digging into the dusty depths of my memory
To unearth some detail of sudden recall…
Remembering where I put a thing I had years ago,
and wondering if I should still have it after all this time.
I think that
If we kept things as long as we keep memories,
Maybe we’d all have more clutter
in our lives
than clean.
I’ve learned
to be the kind of friend
to myself
that I want to have.
How I treat myself
is how I’ll treat others
and how they’ll treat me
in kind.
My self-compassion
could make me a selfless companion.
I grow more
when I know more
about myself.
I’m always learning…
I fear
I’ve messed this all up –
This life thing,
It doesn’t feel like I’m doing it
quite right.
I’m always just…
Too
every bit of the wrong things,
too intense, too awkward;
too passionate, too aggressive.
Too full of words,
too not enough.
I don’t know how to fix it,
make it better…
is it only my own responsibility?
“Different” can be a lonely life…
It only hurts
when I think about it
too much.
Instead of thinking too hard, I just let my wonder
wander.
It’s only easier
because I’ve always had trouble believing
my thoughts
could cause me pain.
And ain’t I just a woman?
Not stereotype, not stigma –
without suppressed energy
and abandoned passions,
just woman?
Ain’t I just…
Her, one who has no qualms,
no regrets,
just free
to be exactly who I am,
unequivocally?
Should I not align
with other stars of my ilk,
and should I not seek
all I wish to find?
Were it not for another [woman],
I wouldn’t have or be
a mother.
And damned if I seem selfish
for wanting my own piece of me…
What imminent danger is it
to own the peace of my mind,
to be happy to just be?
And just what if I embody
more?
More than just a carrier
of burdens, of knowledge,
of pain and pride,
wisdom and experience…?
What happens when I’m more than just?
As in, more than just
the transmitter
of secrets and signals
alike?
If assumption didn’t usurp
disagreement,
and love is more than
legacy’s afterbirth;
Then…
Ain’t I just a woman?
All our perception of Bad really is
is just
Good,
misunderstood.
I braid life
into my hair –
each length I add
[is] potential,
no telling how far
I’ll grow.
In my haste to twist one,
I missed one
spectacular facet –
and that fact is
slowing down
is easier in sound
than it is in practice.
Growing up is hard.
– Me to my children + inner child
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Life, love and destiny.
Aspiring to be the best at writing. Poetry lover, haiku and free verse to be precise, I hope to one day master
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Absent-minded musings