Much More Beautiful

Wow.

Big Daddy was right. And SO quickly.

One thing that makes me really happy in life ( something I was reminded of today) is that I can say whatever the FUCK I want.

That’s right.

Right here? This is my place.

And I? I can say whatever I want.

That’s glorious! Big Daddy never asks me to censor myself. He is secure in who he is, naturally dominant. He knows that words are the VERY most important thing to me. And to restrict them would be death.

I would die inside.

And I want to shine.

I am much more beautiful when I shine.

Raised Bumps

He said write me a long one
And off to the ball park he went
Left me thinking
No
I don’t do long poems
Because why?
 
I don’t like commitment
I don’t do good, long
I forget the words to songs
And flirt too much on secret prongs of
Sidewalk or beams yes
Like the dark tower
Yes, on my crackberry
Or coatzee in the john
 
So maybe I do need someone
To talk to
About books and
Maybe poems
Maybe do a little writing together
Little joint livin’
 
Nothing wrong with learning
How the other side gives
I’ll just be ready to receive
(must everything come out like that?)
 
I don’t think there are words to describe who I am
If there were
I would know myself
I have to believe
I’d know my true self
Not Baby Girl
Not Broken Girl
 
Not Evie
Well look at me
Getting so serious in a fun little long poem
On a Thursday.
And its quiet.
****
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End of a Day

“Mommy!”

He kept them up last night till I got home from overtime. It was like heaven.

“Mommy! Mommy! I got all smiley faces!!”

“Mommmmmeeee mommmeeeee potty!”

She with the blackish brown eyes ran at me and hugged my belly.

The LittleOne ran at me and hugged my legs. A blond and brown pony tail met my eyes as I looked down at my babies, my growing, loving babies that I created. I carried. I care for.

“Ok, back here to finish your stories.” My Love is beaming from the bed, knowing he did a nice, RIGHT thing, proud of himself for lasting ONE MORE DAY as a single dad while I work the 7 to 7 overtime. More money for our struggling family. The little pony tails bounce back to the bed. They climb up, but still face me, chattering like sparrows.

“Mommy, I have a splinter you need to get out.” She with the blackish brown eyes shows me her soft palm, with a tiny sliver of wood in it. My heart soars. I AM the one who deals with splinters. He can’t take it, but moms have to do the things that cause pain to create healing.

“Booboo! Booboo!” Not to be outdone, The LittleOne shows me a fresh shin bruise that I simply must kiss immediately.

Off to get the tweezers, my eyes fill a little. Yes, I’m tired (boy there should be a different word for HOW tired), so a little emotion is predictable.

But really, it was honest joy. Look at all my gifts…

Missing Thing

Kind of see
some
thing missing

some thing seen
some
missing thing

saw and un-
seen
missing thing

The R Word

Rape.

It’s very difficult for me to say that word.

I was raped.

Even more difficult for me to say that sentence.

I was raped, stalked and abused for three years.

Impossible for me to utter that sentence.

That is, until recently.

I have been working very hard with my therapist, although this issue has not been the topic of conversation for a long time. It’s almost as if it permeates everything.

I have a new friend whom I recently told the story. My therapist has encouraged me to practice saying it, practice releasing the story, so maybe eventually, it will float away, not hold its power over me.

I’m trying. It was easier this time.

I was raped. That’s why life isn’t a birthday party.

From the Podium

Here’s my desperate response.

I can’t pull out the kink.
There are

too many played angles

and euclidian escape plans.

I’ll save you a corner on

hard, straight sheets

done real neat.

You.
Hold it in.
Count me on the losing side

and crowbar me from my ways.

Take a left, then forget which way you came.

Hell-Bent

Out
To my natural habitat
Tip toe till tears
Drop a fresh crop, agog
What seeds are lessons
What charming methods of irrigation
Swimming and swirling or
Forming lunette

The Actress

Trying to balance
The doing
And the writing
About the doing
 
Not many
Stories left
That I can
Tell myself
I love being anyone else but me
 
Maybe I need to change a dose
I pull tides of bitterness
Like an evil moon
If I chance submersion
You chance
Being exposed
To my new form
 
Demand the moon
Get the cheese
Please God
Please say
I’m like no other
 
Cracker jack idea
When we’re all alone
What’s my prize
For digging down deep
No cereal box treasure map
To happy
I’ll make something of nothing
And get back to you
 
All new plans
Point at and laugh
The old new plans
Couldn’t I exhale and be better?

Averment

The creator

is a poet

Sinful Emerge

Suppose

I buried sin

here, under here, the dirt

and the breath of God.  would something

emerge?