It's quite possible this is the most horrible poem I've ever written. It started free form, then turned into a bungled rhyme. This, ladies, gents, and other appropriate labels, is why we don't poem when exhausted. Ah well. Perhaps I shall revisit the idea when my thoughts are better ordered and my vocabulary better Googled.
Until then, nonexistent faithful followers,
I bid thee adieu. (Is that French? Why French? The rest of it was in English! Bah!)
______________
I just want to dance with you
to hug you close and forget all but the music's magic
and the fantasy of our harmony
To sway to the idea of a song written just for us
So that I can move with you in just the way the composer intended
Pre-planned steps made spontaneous by those who take them
Finding spontaneity in execution rather than the death of a dream
The rules were written before ink filled pen
And so we write our story with every twirl and bend
I just want to dance with you
To let my breathe escape into the same space
that contains our movement and allows our expression
Seeming further from reality, placing our ballroom floor in the midst of eternity
So that our moves make galaxies, creating stars to light our prettiest dreams
Making fairy dust our dainty night sky
And our fairy tales more truth than lie
I just want to dance with you
To escape ordered movement and the restrictions of grace
so that we, clumsy or otherwise, might make our own pace
Bending music to musings of dreams that have yet to take place
Letting melded bodies and connected minds create beauty in empty space
Reconstructing proper form and verse to poetry, prose, or a simple embrace
I just want to dance with you
When words rhyme
and when they fall, disjointed on blessed ears
tuned to perfection, though their only correction would be
to allow for the unpredictability of affection
knowing that the heart rarely rhymes regardless of connection
I'm doing it again
Losing myself in structure
In words designed to impress
An Empress of the failure to truly address the fact that I would really
Really
Just like to dance with you
Saturday, July 2, 2016
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Back to the beginning!
I'm going to try going over the Faithwalking material again by myself. I'm in a much healthier place, and I think it may be more effective the second time.
_____
What practices do you regularly engage?
Prayer, reading the Bible,
When do you engage them?
When I remember. When I am in a dark place or feeling far from God. When I feel exceptionally blessed.
How often?
I do better if I'm on some sort of reading plan. I'm also a big user of shotgun prayers. When I see myself walking into negative thought, or wanting to behave in a way I know is contrary to scripture and my own morals, or even when I just feel grateful.
With what consistency do you engage them?
Unless I am lost in shame, I can be fairly consistent. Even doing my devotional and the like daily.
What do you see about why you have chosen these practices and avoided or ignored others?
I probably chose these practices because they have concrete limits and requirements. I've prayed or I haven't. I've read my Bible, or I haven't. I know what to do, how to do it, and when I'm finished. Other things, like solitude and silence, are far less defined. How long do I need to sit alone? Five minutes? An hour?
What spiritual practices would you like to include in your Spiritual Workout?
- Silence - Solitude - Bible Study - Prayer - Worship - Fellowship -
_____
What practices do you regularly engage?
Prayer, reading the Bible,
When do you engage them?
When I remember. When I am in a dark place or feeling far from God. When I feel exceptionally blessed.
How often?
I do better if I'm on some sort of reading plan. I'm also a big user of shotgun prayers. When I see myself walking into negative thought, or wanting to behave in a way I know is contrary to scripture and my own morals, or even when I just feel grateful.
With what consistency do you engage them?
Unless I am lost in shame, I can be fairly consistent. Even doing my devotional and the like daily.
What do you see about why you have chosen these practices and avoided or ignored others?
I probably chose these practices because they have concrete limits and requirements. I've prayed or I haven't. I've read my Bible, or I haven't. I know what to do, how to do it, and when I'm finished. Other things, like solitude and silence, are far less defined. How long do I need to sit alone? Five minutes? An hour?
What spiritual practices would you like to include in your Spiritual Workout?
- Silence - Solitude - Bible Study - Prayer - Worship - Fellowship -
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Should have known better...
Today could have been a happy day.
Granted, I did have to spend some alone time with one of my personal demons, but it gave me clarity on where and how it's hurting me. There's still much to be done, of course. Knowing that it feels like a character flaw, a blemish on my soul, doesn't make things better. However, small revelations about not knowing what to do with my body, or about the way I am careful to maintain my emotional distance, can help me set targets and goals to move me to a better place.
Then, a quick stop at my chiropractor and an hour or so of funny podcasts to brought me back to the light side. There will be times and places in which I must wrestle my demons, but when those times end and I leave those places, I have to be able to do so in a healthy way.
Dinner, tv, conversation, laughter. Spending time with my parents over spaghetti and french bread was a wonderful way to wind down the day. Soon after, I'd retreat to the comfort of my bedroom so I could use the wonder of the internet to travel far beyond. To people I had believed could be safe...
I should have known better.
Granted, I did have to spend some alone time with one of my personal demons, but it gave me clarity on where and how it's hurting me. There's still much to be done, of course. Knowing that it feels like a character flaw, a blemish on my soul, doesn't make things better. However, small revelations about not knowing what to do with my body, or about the way I am careful to maintain my emotional distance, can help me set targets and goals to move me to a better place.
Then, a quick stop at my chiropractor and an hour or so of funny podcasts to brought me back to the light side. There will be times and places in which I must wrestle my demons, but when those times end and I leave those places, I have to be able to do so in a healthy way.
Dinner, tv, conversation, laughter. Spending time with my parents over spaghetti and french bread was a wonderful way to wind down the day. Soon after, I'd retreat to the comfort of my bedroom so I could use the wonder of the internet to travel far beyond. To people I had believed could be safe...
I should have known better.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
Sleep and Forget (A work in progress)
It wasn't like we'd planned it or anything. The room was silent save for the musical crescendo that accompanied the movie. Then it happened, and then it was over. There was no dramatic music for my sake, no rising terror or great struggle. It just...happened. In the movies, the heroine always struggles mightily before succumbing to the moment, but I had no such luck. He was stronger, I was drugged.
It's the sort of thing you always imagine happening at a party in the midst of hazy rooms clouded with shouted conversation, blasting music and undertones of sin and sex. A careless girl misplaces her cup, or sets it down to go to the restroom. The greasy villain takes advantage of the moment, slipping the inconspicuous white pill into the liquid before melting into the shadows until his target returns and falls prey to his machinations. He then sweeps her off and does the deed in spite of her muffled cries of protest.
In my case, there was no such thing. Just a friend, closer than a brother, and an evening home alone.
He always made the best chocolate shakes. Thick enough to stick, but smooth enough to feel like a caress when it slid down your throat. Besides, it was tradition. He made the drinks, I made the pizza and in less than fifteen minutes, we were back in front of the tv.
His chocolate shakes were always inexplicably delicious, and one of his most closely guarded secrets. Even I, the best friend and official keeper of his secrets, had been forced to give up on attempting to pry the recipe from his mind. There was an extra kick of tastiness tonight, but I didn't ask for an explanation I knew I wouldn't get. So, I settled down to watch one of the most ridiculous versions of Thumbelina that we'd ever seen. It was a favorite of ours. But when Thumbelina met the prince, the screen wobbled a bit and I felt a certain cloudiness in my brain. I thought the first signs of fatigue were beginning to show, but then I noticed myself sagging to the side. My thoughts started to jumble and swished around in my head like water. I tried to say something, to tell him I was feeling weird but all I could manage was a whining mumble.
Then I was floating. Boneless. His face appeared before me and I thought, at first, that he'd realized there was something wrong. Instead, that's when I realized there was something wrong. The expressions I'd seen on his face so many times were absent. His eyes scraped over my body with a frightening desperation, the path they made burned and I would have recoiled if I'd been able.
His breath shook, even as his hands did. They were gentle when they first touched me. Reverent to a fault, and so clearly afraid. At first, it was just my face, then my arm, but as the time passed, his touches grew bolder and more insistent. Just a finger, then his entire hand slid beneath my shirt pushing the fabric higher and higher. His eyes devoured my exposed flesh, even as it was slowly revealed. He lowered his head, as though in awe, to kiss the skin there.
When he looked up, it was like the bonds of restraint had snapped. His kisses became more insistent, his hands were all over me, his eyes were wild and hungry. I screamed inside, praying it would wake us both up from this nightmare. I saw his eyes change. I heard the catch in his breath, signaling each new discovery. Each new violation. I finally noticed that his lips had transformed from the hard line that had accompanied his concentration, into an endlessly shifting series of shapes. He was talking to me.
He had wanted me for so long. I was so beautiful. He was sorry, but he couldn't help himself. I had to have seen this coming. He would be gentle. I was so hot. He wanted me to feel good. He wanted to feel good. He wanted us both to feel good.
Each sentence fell on stunned ears, just as each piece of our clothing dropped from his unsteady hands onto the floor. Horror battled with a curious numbness within me. Even in my fear, my traitorous mind still whispered insecurities and doubt. He only wanted to get laid, I was just an easy target. He probably wouldn't have done it if he knew what you looked like naked. After this is over, at least you can pretend someone wants you. Treacherous thoughts fell like acid rain, and his unending string of empty words only increased the burn.
A pinch of pain cleared the fog for a moment, but it soon settled back in the crevices of my mind and I could no longer think. I was abandoned to the reality of my experience, only able to feel, to witness my body's reaction, to watch my best friend turn into a demon.
The drugs plucked at my thoughts, trying to drag me deeper and deeper, and I found myself willing to drown. I didn't want to feel the heat of his hands. I didn't want to acknowledge his sloppy, selfish kisses. I wanted to fall so deep that I wouldn't even hear the echo of the harsh grunts that marked his pace. It was too late to make it stop. Too late to take it all back. Too late to uncross the line. My violation was done. And so, I decided not to fight it. I closed my eyes, and let myself sleep.
It's the sort of thing you always imagine happening at a party in the midst of hazy rooms clouded with shouted conversation, blasting music and undertones of sin and sex. A careless girl misplaces her cup, or sets it down to go to the restroom. The greasy villain takes advantage of the moment, slipping the inconspicuous white pill into the liquid before melting into the shadows until his target returns and falls prey to his machinations. He then sweeps her off and does the deed in spite of her muffled cries of protest.
In my case, there was no such thing. Just a friend, closer than a brother, and an evening home alone.
He always made the best chocolate shakes. Thick enough to stick, but smooth enough to feel like a caress when it slid down your throat. Besides, it was tradition. He made the drinks, I made the pizza and in less than fifteen minutes, we were back in front of the tv.
His chocolate shakes were always inexplicably delicious, and one of his most closely guarded secrets. Even I, the best friend and official keeper of his secrets, had been forced to give up on attempting to pry the recipe from his mind. There was an extra kick of tastiness tonight, but I didn't ask for an explanation I knew I wouldn't get. So, I settled down to watch one of the most ridiculous versions of Thumbelina that we'd ever seen. It was a favorite of ours. But when Thumbelina met the prince, the screen wobbled a bit and I felt a certain cloudiness in my brain. I thought the first signs of fatigue were beginning to show, but then I noticed myself sagging to the side. My thoughts started to jumble and swished around in my head like water. I tried to say something, to tell him I was feeling weird but all I could manage was a whining mumble.
Then I was floating. Boneless. His face appeared before me and I thought, at first, that he'd realized there was something wrong. Instead, that's when I realized there was something wrong. The expressions I'd seen on his face so many times were absent. His eyes scraped over my body with a frightening desperation, the path they made burned and I would have recoiled if I'd been able.
His breath shook, even as his hands did. They were gentle when they first touched me. Reverent to a fault, and so clearly afraid. At first, it was just my face, then my arm, but as the time passed, his touches grew bolder and more insistent. Just a finger, then his entire hand slid beneath my shirt pushing the fabric higher and higher. His eyes devoured my exposed flesh, even as it was slowly revealed. He lowered his head, as though in awe, to kiss the skin there.
When he looked up, it was like the bonds of restraint had snapped. His kisses became more insistent, his hands were all over me, his eyes were wild and hungry. I screamed inside, praying it would wake us both up from this nightmare. I saw his eyes change. I heard the catch in his breath, signaling each new discovery. Each new violation. I finally noticed that his lips had transformed from the hard line that had accompanied his concentration, into an endlessly shifting series of shapes. He was talking to me.
He had wanted me for so long. I was so beautiful. He was sorry, but he couldn't help himself. I had to have seen this coming. He would be gentle. I was so hot. He wanted me to feel good. He wanted to feel good. He wanted us both to feel good.
Each sentence fell on stunned ears, just as each piece of our clothing dropped from his unsteady hands onto the floor. Horror battled with a curious numbness within me. Even in my fear, my traitorous mind still whispered insecurities and doubt. He only wanted to get laid, I was just an easy target. He probably wouldn't have done it if he knew what you looked like naked. After this is over, at least you can pretend someone wants you. Treacherous thoughts fell like acid rain, and his unending string of empty words only increased the burn.
A pinch of pain cleared the fog for a moment, but it soon settled back in the crevices of my mind and I could no longer think. I was abandoned to the reality of my experience, only able to feel, to witness my body's reaction, to watch my best friend turn into a demon.
The drugs plucked at my thoughts, trying to drag me deeper and deeper, and I found myself willing to drown. I didn't want to feel the heat of his hands. I didn't want to acknowledge his sloppy, selfish kisses. I wanted to fall so deep that I wouldn't even hear the echo of the harsh grunts that marked his pace. It was too late to make it stop. Too late to take it all back. Too late to uncross the line. My violation was done. And so, I decided not to fight it. I closed my eyes, and let myself sleep.
Sometimes...
I hate myself so much that I can't even stand to be comforted. It all sounds like mockery, or like someone's unwillingness to see the truth. Or worse, someone who doesn't care enough to tell me the truth.
I desperately want something to soothe the pain. To hear a familiar voice that will calm me, soothe me, restore me. There is no such thing. And if there were, I have no idea what I'd want it to say. Every compliment would ring hollow, every encouragement would be a reminder of the things I haven't done for myself.
What do you do when even the words "I love you," bite like a whip, because someone who could love such a horrendous creature, is far too good to deserve all the heartache and pain and extra effort their connection would bring.
There is a war. I scream inside, hoping that my cries will call to the hearts of others. so I can finally rest in the knowledge that I am not alone. I can dream of using my voice as a way to join with others, creating the blissful harmony of true connection. On the other hand, I know the scarlet letters that mark my skin. Pariah. Failure. Invalid. Disabled. And I would rather slice my skin and bleed my penance a thousand times over, than drag those who are genuinely good into the mire of my tainted existence.
I would start to cry, but there's already more than enough rain.
I'm supposed to know better. To think better. To do better.
But right now, rock bottom seems to be my very best.
I desperately want something to soothe the pain. To hear a familiar voice that will calm me, soothe me, restore me. There is no such thing. And if there were, I have no idea what I'd want it to say. Every compliment would ring hollow, every encouragement would be a reminder of the things I haven't done for myself.
What do you do when even the words "I love you," bite like a whip, because someone who could love such a horrendous creature, is far too good to deserve all the heartache and pain and extra effort their connection would bring.
There is a war. I scream inside, hoping that my cries will call to the hearts of others. so I can finally rest in the knowledge that I am not alone. I can dream of using my voice as a way to join with others, creating the blissful harmony of true connection. On the other hand, I know the scarlet letters that mark my skin. Pariah. Failure. Invalid. Disabled. And I would rather slice my skin and bleed my penance a thousand times over, than drag those who are genuinely good into the mire of my tainted existence.
I would start to cry, but there's already more than enough rain.
I'm supposed to know better. To think better. To do better.
But right now, rock bottom seems to be my very best.
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