This Dark Misery Love

there was once a time, when I moved through the world
like a sleeper whose mind was filled with constant dreams,
fairy tale lands, happy endings, and a sun that never set.

then, came the awakening, like that of ice water upon skin
that burns hot with fever, and my eyes flew open and have since
never shut. the constant dreams came to an end and, instead
of the bright, shining light of my make belief world,
there’s darkness about my soul, a dark misery caused by love,
or is rather the harsh consequence of love.

o why, dear love, did this rude awakening have to come about
so soon? o why, dear love, have you gone? the stench of
my misery overwhelms my senses, and the walls reverberate
with emptiness, echoing loudly my loneliness. all that is left
is the pain, such pain, such pain! it floods the chambers of
my heart and constricts my lungs ‘til I can hardly breathe,
and the fear.

I fear I am inept at that thing called love. and, so fearing,
I embrace the dark misery, the despair; yet, even as I do so,
I feel hope stirring as time inexorably moves forward
and the promise of new love brightens the distant horizon.

Scars

scars, which were once naked, festering wounds,
unseen to the eye,
are now the visible, blatant declaration
of my cynicism towards that fickle,
less than savory woman that is Venus,
goddess of love.

and terrible temptress that she is,
she dangles the hope of new love before me.
in response, I run,
chased by my madness,
which nips at my heels like a deranged dog that
salivates and foams at the mouth,
and whose eyes are glazed with the delight of the chase.
I run.

forever running as a wind of Venus’s making
whips and stings and rips open those grotesque welts
of barely healed heart,
so that they bleed afresh at unguarded moments
and refuse to remain those faded reminders of pain
so aptly named scars.

Sunflowers of My Youth

was it only last night that I was so young,
in knowledge and in action?
now I lay here, far older than I was yesterday,
soiled and unclean with a filth
that will never wash off my soul.
no longer an innocent,
now, I am among the damned,
and I long for the sunflowers of my youth.
my youth is liberally perfumed with the scent,
a sweet intoxicant that made me dim of wit
and convinced me of an invincibility I did not own.
all too soon, the world, with all its rounded dimensions,
crashed down upon me,
devastating me with one mighty, unforgivable stroke,
and stealing from me my youth.

was it only last night that I was so young?
that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance,
in my innocence.
oh, sweet sunflowers of my youth,
I crave the carefree air that you lent me,
but I no longer breathe as those who have not sinned do,
and with gills grown out of necessity I continue to live,
though I drown in the misery my wisdom has wreaked upon me.
and for what?
a love that blinded me against reason?
a love that I had already scorned?
redemption is beyond me.
were it offered,
I would probably refuse it.
wretches such as I do not deserve paradise,
and it is the scent of light blue and not sunflowers
that will wreathe around me as I descend into the pit hell.

Image: Anna Cervova, Sunflower, Public Domain Pictures.net

The Rose Bed

as a girl, I made choices that have affected me
as a woman.
I lost my innocence to a one I did not love,
I drifted on an oar less boat down a fermented and distilled river,
I squandered, on demeaning tasks, the intelligence that set me apart,
and took part in two miracles
that have placed upon my shoulders
a burden I was not prepared for.

now, shelved dreams beg to be dusted.
but the bed I made, with its rumpled, tousled sheets,
seems to stretch on forever.
I cannot throw my feet over the edge and stand,
my limbs have grown weak from misuse,
I've lain on this bed too long,
and dusk threatens in the distance,
an eternal night, an end to all things,
or at least, an end to me.

I long for the rose bed,
that answer to my prayers, the accomplishment of my goals
and the return of my pride,
the angels I was bequeathed deserve nothing less,
I cannot wrong them as I was wronged.
life's lessons have taught me well;
else, were for naught
and fool that I am, if I do not learn,
should stay where I lay.

but, for the rose bed, I'll do almost anything.
I'll twist and turn, scrape and claw,
bloody my nails if I must to gain the edge.
stand,
rise,
never fall.
never, never again, fall.

To My Former Self

perhaps it is the inclement weather
that has brought on this
gloomy, bitter,
tragic mood; or,
perhaps it is the nostalgic jaunt I took
in the form of a letter I received years ago―
a light missive from friend old,
telling of usual things
that seem forever denied me―
(perused as the rain paints a watery tapestry upon the wall and floor)
that has brought these disturbing emotions
burning to the surface.

I believe myself sane,
although my soul screams
and thoughts of self-imposed death
swirl gracelessly beneath the seemingly still waters of my consciousness,
and at times I cannot be sure
whether or not I could be so bold as to take my own life.
but I must wonder―
what lies over the edge of the steep cliff
I find myself so precariously, so constantly,
balanced upon?
is it madness, or
her?

I would prefer madness to her;
she who I never want to be again―
that wounded, pathetic child whose anger ruined her life.
but I can feel her
raging against her cage,
tearing at the bonds
maturity created―
managing to slip them a notch
with every nerve racking shot she takes.
"stop!" I cry, guilt nearly overwhelming,
"you're suffocating me."

I don't want to keep her there;
I know she's hurting―
her pain is my pain,
her grief and memory also my own.
but I can't allow her to wreck my life
as she wrecked hers―
the broken remains still lie against
the rocks of rebellion―
I, haven't the luxury.
in my care, are two babes
and responsibility bends my form,
much the way the weight of the world
bends atlas's.

I approach her,
seeking to reason with her,
gain her understanding.
she stills her attempts, and looks at me almost...
compassionately,
then says,
"I'll never cease my struggles;
you will never cease to resist me.
and, one day, you will join me here,
when another comes to take your place."

I tremble, then move away,
comprehending her words.
the crux that birthed me from her
was motherhood;
and, though I shall never cease to be a mother,
there will come a time, lord willing,
when I'll move beyond my misery,
as I moved beyond my anger,
and a new self will be born.
and, when that occurs,
I, shall also be bound in chains
whose links are formed
of my experiences.

I return to her,
smile and say,
to my former self,
"I look forward to that day."

The Sunday Usual

the pots are black, again;
you...
cooked.

I smelled the burn halfway,
when I mentioned it you smirked,
then alleged,
"that's the reason why my food
tastes better than yours."
I shrugged, inwardly sighed,
three A.M. would find me tossing from hunger.

we sit to eat.
I pick, you devour,
our wingless cherubs turn away their faces
from the spoons that I aim at their rosy mouths.
you ask me,
"what's wrong?"
I answer,
"nothing."
we argue, you walk out.

I do not want you to return.
I am blinded by anger―
you can't admit to your mistakes―
and saddened because
I can't admit that I don't love you.
perhaps, I loved you once.
perhaps, I was merely enthralled.
you were striking―
your eyes like sunfired amber―
and continue to be so
through happy times and not so happy ones.
I, on the other hand,
have been made ugly by my misery.

I want you to go.
but, even if you do so,
there will remain within these walls
remainders of you,
echoes of your presence in your children―
the particular round of their faces,
hawk like noses,
eyebrows which slash dramatically over
eyes as brilliant as yours.

if this is the end of us,
I won't try intimacy again,
it requires too much;
I have nothing left to give.
fragments are all that exist
of the once whole heart that I possessed.
each piece belongs to a one I cared for;
the largest belong to my children
and to a man―
not you―
I cannot help but still love.

I want my heart back.
whole, but for the two pieces
my earthbound miracles claim.
only them and me,
a little trilogy of misery.
but, I am shackled to poverty.
it weighs my steps,
makes of me a wretch
and keeps the profession,
"I hate you!"
sealed behind my withered lips.

the locks turn,
playing like strains of a haunting piece
in the depths of my soul.
mouth tight, eyes averted,
I welcome you back.

Inquietude

night clear, gaze skyward,
I lay upon my back.
grass, crushed beneath me,
scents of the earth drift over my form,
comforting in this time of turmoil.

my thoughts turn to you,
of the way you are,
bright star in the distant heavens,
beyond my reach.
trembling fingers touch aching lips,
which long for candied kisses,
desperately missed.

deep tones, a man's voice,
and the laughter of children, joyful,
floats on the gentle wind.
I shut misty eyes, sighing tremulously
as realization coruscates through me:
I cannot stop feeling,
love, lust, guilt,
I know not which,
but feel I do!

were amnesia a drug sold on darkened corners,
I would beg, likely turn tricks for it,
blissful lack of remembrance,
wicked craving it has become,
as contentedness
remains frustratingly elusive.

An Ode to Motherhood

o, but the stresses of being Mommy;
had maternal duties been listed to me,
in those days of singledom,
I would have cried out,
"nay!
tie those tubes twixt the bones of my hips
and never say them frightening words
(ye should give birth to babes, and plenty)
to mine tender ears again."

verily,
I was not forewarned,
and wingless cherubims with rosied lips and cheeks
were granted me,
and how I love my earthbound miracles—
though the stench of dirtied nappies shrivels my delicate nostrils,
though chunks of soured milk are spewn on the occasion of flued seasons on
My
Best
Suit!
(sigh),
though goosed eggs sprout in rotund proportions
on fragile temples bumped against the corners of tables,
though teensy footsies are frustratingly bared at every opportune moment
(wonder upon wonder that socks and booties are not lost in that play),
though bedraggled I become at times of bath
(wetter I than those seated within bubbly tub),
though convincing drooping lids to stay shut
requires a nightly pace across cold floors,
and foodstuffs are everywhere else
(on me
on his sleeve cuffs
in her hair)
but where they ought be...
...o, but the stresses of being Mommy.

were it not for the joy of angel kisses and cooed murmurs
I would shed tears enough to flood the world
nay, said kisses and croons keep dry mine eyes
and no day goes by that I do not thank
Lord on High
for the blessings that are my children.

Wishful Thinking

It's the end of another year and I feel less than satisfied. I thought I'd be further along in the accomplishment of my goals. About the only thing that I've done in the last several years that I feel have any worth are having children and the publication of my poem. I remember being fifteen and thinking that by the time I'd reached the age of 25 I would be a college grad with a good job and a published author with at least two books to my credit. Two noteworthy books.

No such luck and the things I was determined to do are becoming more like wishful thinking. Everytime I think I'm on the right path with my goals, I'm thrown a curve and it takes me months, years at times to recover. I'm frustrated, I'm very nearly depressed. If not for my children... Don't get me wrong, I fully understand that nothing lasts forever and that regardless of how much I wish it would, time doesn't stand still. For the worse, or for the better, things change.

My resolution for next year: I won't let the small disappointments keep me from my endeavors.