Ode to a Four Letter Word

Ode to a four letter word:

Own.
Your.
Shit!
Your secrets and opinions
your scars
your mistakes
your misspoken words
your hurt
your intentions
your respect
your flaws.

Work.
That.
Shit.
Moving Earth with every step
Every toss of the hair
Every flirty smile
Well polished on the outside
In the way you move
the way you carry yourself
Take notice
Work.
It.

Shit happens.
As if this phrase ever helped anyone.
Yes, of course shit happens
It happens to others
To people that aren’t as fortunate as me
It doesn’t negate my perception
My truth
Shit happens
as a dismissal of true emotion
Is this shit even relevant?

Enough.
Enough of this shit.
Your tongue churns out lies like they’re hot off the press
Like a record skipping
Hollow words
No depth
No meaning
Enough of this deadbeat dad shit
This nationwide epidemic we ignore shit
Enough of this poor single mom shit
This struggle to get by shit
Enough wiping my son’s tears
Crying for his father
For any father
For a man he will never know.
Fuck that shit.

About to lose my shit
Yet it always comes slinking back
Anxiety tightens the brain
and you run out of deep breaths to take
Teetering on the edge…
of what?
What would it look like to just surrender?
To just give up?
To just let shit go.

Quit.
Talking shit.
Pack that shit
Pass that shit
Light that shit
Smoke that shit
That green shit
That “take the edge off” shit
Quit.
Taking shit.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean shit
(but it does)
You tell yourself you are
Over this shit
Done with this shit
Yet, you keep coming back for more
This shit
This waste
It camps out inside you
Gypsy traveling sadness shit
The wander the earth alone shit

The realizing
We are all in this together shit.
Rebuild shit
Reinvent shit

Stop.
Stop this shit.

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You Already Are

I dream of closing my eyes, head back, feet rising above the treeline,

toes touching stars-swinging in the midnight summer air.

Being thrust into space and gently pulled back down again.

I dream of rising,

of shedding skin and transformation,

of just letting go of the thoughts and actions that don’t truly fulfill me.

I want a house in the country with a little path leading to a deciduous forest scattered with conifers.

I want a lush garden full of pollinators.

I want color where there was dark.                                                                                                                                            

I want dark where there was color.                                                                                                                                          

I want to stir things up and shake them around.                                                                                                                        

I want to make noise.                                                                                                                                                                

I want to be heard.                                                                                                                                                                    

I want to know my younger self again and tell her she’s going to be just fine.                                                                          

I want my words to echo in someone’s head.                                                                                                                            

I want stories told and learned.                                                                                                                                                  

I want passion and solitude.                                                                                                                                                      

I want to hold a hand that whispers in my language.                                                                                                                

I want to sleep soundly and profoundly dream.

I am slow determined growth,

molting,

rising,

marking my space.

I am just a small part in a grand scheme,

a galaxy within a galaxy.

I am integral,                                                                                                                                                                           connected,

electric.

I am.

Slow Rumble

It happens when the dust clears
When the sunlight streams in the frost bitten windows
When the brass statues are polished, and all the books are gently placed on the shelves.
When the table is clear, the plants are watered
When there is space between minutes
And the room thanks you for noticing
When small gestures feel like rewards

It rests in the pit of my stomach
A fluid weight
Like diving under water and holding your breath
Just long enough to imagine what a different life feels like
To know where your primordial gills and fins would have taken you…

A tsunami.
A tsunami stirs my blood.

It feels like snowflakes, fresh fallen
Cotton, gray skies
The cold pressing against your tongue for a moment
…a second
(the impermanence)
Your senses left tingling

It rests right below the surface,
Skin like ice
A frozen epidermis – with waves and crystallized particles mixing
How it sounds different colliding with the shore
A hollow lullaby washes over the rocks

You ache for warmth
You breathe in the cold
Let it paint your lungs of lace
You pause
Releasing
A visible exhale
Yes, this is alive!
Hot breath, cold air lock hands in a symbiotic dance
A swift rhythm
A pulse

It feels like this,
Right now when the house is quiet and the snow gently falls.
When my pen touches paper and spills out letters one by one
Until they connect
Until they make something
Anything.

Sometimes a low, slow rumbling
Eyes open
An underwater scream
It is mine
However vulnerable or powerful or vain

My rattle
My shake
A ripple of concentric circles
Expanding
My tiny earthquake
A roar
A sound of eruption
A soft and deliberate demolition
A flow
An overflowing
A cadence
A moment
This moment
A satisfaction
A solace
A fierce whisper
An only escape.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesamplify#whatmakesyouroar #roar #poet #poetry #amwriting#writer #womenwhowrite #digitalart #digitalphotography#photoblender #doubleexposure #ice #winter #frozen#CQuinlanDesigns

Grey Matter

My mind was full of thoughts, some stabbing, some burrowing, some digging deeper, past the bedrock of my limbic system where they found the grey. The grey matter of emotion where memory lay still in a cold room, wandering. Then the words came slipping out effortlessly, silently; while inside that cold room was screaming.

The words were quiet, falling out while blood vessels and the space between synapses held on tight.

Tight like my jaw, grinding, forcing bone upon bone, a bright pain. Tight like an animal in a trap, rusty teeth, sharpened.

Tight, closed jaw with eyes wide open, while my pupils grow full, dark resting upon black holes where nothing escapes. Eyes that defy gravity, nothing tethers them or forces them shut. They float freely, always seeing. Always watching. They always see. Playing over and over- an old filmstrip spinning.

I smile and the there is sadness.

I hope and the feeling of helplessness gets deeper like sinking in a bog, lungs full of peat, a stomach of decay.

I try and yet I am back at the beginning.

A rat trapped in a labyrinth, waiting to ring some bell, win some prize, be rewarded for all my hard work, my due diligence, some recognition for this perseverance. This constant state of survival.

Not some Darwinian survival of the fittest, because fit does not mean strong. It is survival of the weakest, the weakest moments, the weakest hours, the weakest lies…these are the things fighting to survive. The human parts that define.

The weak laughter drowned by sorrow.

The weak thoughts.

The “I’m not good enoughs” and the “why do these things happen to me’s”, the “I’m unworthy’s” and “the unlovables.”

I am more than this.

More than these weak, these willful insecurities.

I try to push them aside, tuck them away in corners of my mind. I try to overcome and affirm. The hardest memories. Not the ones where you were loved momentarily, brilliantly, blue sky, sun shining, passionate kisses and sunkissed skin, bodies in and around one another.

It’s not these memories.
The memories that hurt the most.

The ones you can’t sleep with, the ones that turn you inside out. Those feelings of happiness that feel like poison, like drinking sweet shiny pieces of broken glass. The traveling pieces you hunger for, moving from lips to eyes, to tongue, to arms wrapped around you and the feeling of losing something that has barely begun.

The fear, the constant sedimentary fear, the build up, the erosion. Climbing up and over only to be pulled back. You don’t hold, you pull yourself back like a rubberband stretching, like breathing, the constant state of a heart beating.

Those plastic memories.
The hardest ones to let go of are somehow the easiest to keep.

Equinox

Those thin lines between worlds, they hang like a veil, like a heavy gravitational pull. No borders between skin and air. Winds that wrap around trees like silk, turning branches and leaves to watercolors, ebbing and flowing.

A midnight veil, dividing day and night, as summer melts into autumn. Metallic air tasting like copper, brass, gold hanging under the silver moon, the platinum stars.

The midnight geese are calling, their trumpets echo, a symphonic rustling of leaves somersaulting, chasing time in the streets.

The cool air of dusk and dark enters through the window, like tendrils, it crawls along my neck and down my arms. It tells stories of migration, of black feathers meeting black sky, of synchronous wings beating, of spirits riding currents, joining the flock in unison, the trumpeters sing, “I’m coming home, I’m coming home”

To lay their heads down, the lost souls that touch my face, that take refuge in my heart, that settle themselves in the empty space of my bed. Let sleeping spirits lie, stretch their mouths and memories.

No borders between worlds, surrendered to the crevices between. The midnight geese, they call my name. The wild wind, she whispers…

Come home. Like the ghosts that guard the night, the ones who change the clocks and paint the seasons. When the dark arts coincide. Come through my window. Spin your worldly tales.

Where shadows drown the sidewalks and spirits thick like fog can walk among us, enter through us.

Autumnal migrations. You are coming home, to your insides, to your bones and breath. To a softer time of year where life gives way to death. Leaves falling at your feet. You are coming home.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesclear #wedontedit#noborders #equinox #autumn #spirits #poetry

Inside the Unclear

Unclear are the lines that frame my eyes, the way they change with time, creased from smiles and anguish, heartbreak and love lost. They twist and turn, little fragments of history written on my face. They form words of flesh, hollowed out space where skin was tight.

Blurred lines between borders. The kind that define love and hate, mother, father, son. The lines that mark territory…my son, my house, my street, yet nothing truly belongs to me.

Unclear futures spun in hope and desire, foundations built with no plans in place. The clarity of an open slate. Unclear decisions and the art of learning to trust myself, of trust in general. Seeking, searching in the mist of my mind for answers, the ancient kind spun from gypsies and severed souls who walk with the night.

Unclear letting go, murky inhales and exhales, the pounding beat of blood in my ears, clouded, collected…thick like summer leaves.

The way that autumn strips you of all things, draining chlorophyll, undressing branches and covering the ground in a blanket of dead leaves. Unclear demarcation of seasons changing, shifting winds and crisp clear sky.

Out of focus perspectives and the welcome of the unknown, the state of sleepwalking through days and following the earth’s cycle of death, of loss. A time to reflect where your body turns to blankets, your senses full of smoke from fires. Your words. Your words are still. A sense of waiting, of turning and shedding, of layers and lost cells.

A soft ringing, a muffled, broken bell, you sit in your haze of nostalgia. Twisting memories and quilting them together. Patchwork thoughts. Invisible stitches tightly bound…

The clear lines that separate the internal from external. Fading, erasing until you find yourself an unclear shape, you shrink, you molt. You have turned yourself inside out.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesclear #wedontedit#poetry #poem #unclear #autumn #blurredlines