The Path

it’s not an easy thing to do

to simply sit in the silence

to let feelings of discomfort

hang on you like a veil

it’s challenging at best

to be quiet in those moments

and listen with an open heart

to any answer that comes

when the feelings start to surface

and the churning within begins

frantic, frenetic, kinetic

the fork in the road is here

down one path is the inevitable

journey into crazy

in patterns, fixations and habits

the road that has no end

obsessive, compulsive, addictive

actions that never resolve

the record continues to spin

but the song remains the same

the other path that awaits

is the road typically less taken

it’s bumpy with potholes and roadblocks

and hard to navigate

measured steps are required

patience and moving slow

open eyes and listening

to maneuver this terrain

it takes time to travel this path

it is not familiar ground

in trying to rush to the end

you will surely slip and fall

but I believe there is something

et the end of this winding road

something worth discovering

the proverbial row to hoe

Solitude Sometimes Wins

it won’t always be like this

I know, I understand.

but it feels like this right now

and this is the moment I’m in.

with water flowing down my back

and tears pouring down my face.

I knelt on the shower floor

and let it all come out.

exhaustion and stress

a paralyzing blend.

of sensations that kill creativity

and leave me standing still.

I don’t have a moment to breathe right now

to exhale away the day.

from the moment it starts all eyes on me

and there is no refuge for me to hide.

there are no moments to sit and reflect

to let words float around in my mind.

no time to sit and stare at the trees

and let them sing to me.

this might not be important to those

who don’t live and breathe words.

but for those who do, you understand

it feels like a silent death.

last night I dreamt a story

that I wanted so badly to write.

but with dawn and the alarm and the inevitable day

I felt the words crawl away.

I dreamt of a friend I had found

who understood the words.

the meaning hidden in the rhythm

and the cadence of the song.

I dreamt that she came to my doorstep

and sat in the middle of the floor.

surrounded by books, piles of them

and waited patiently for me.

the irony in the dream was that I had run

and sat in front of her door.

needing the solace and consolation

of one who understands.

so while I sat, waiting for her

and she sat waiting for me.

the alarm rang and took that dream

but the message wasn’t lost.

in the shower it hit me full force

and flowed out with my tears.

I did have someone who understood

she just wasn’t standing here.

she listens though, and hears

and through words reaches me.

I just haven’t had the time to hear

and the solitude sometimes wins.

 

 

 

Words Can Heal

If you have read anything on this blog, you already know why I write. I write because I have to. Addiction, cutting, and as this poem will reveal, more than one suicide attempt are stories that now define who I have become. I am still here for a reason and I feel that reason is to share the experiences that I have been through and the emotions that went along with them.

 

This particular story, I have not written about before but in honor of National Suicide Prevention Week, I thought it was time. This is just my story and I am by no means claiming to have all the answers. I am just sharing my experience and that I am glad I am still here. That I have found that in speaking my truth, that there are ears that will hear me.

 

Never stop speaking your truth.

https://soundcloud.com/andreathepoet/words-can-heal

 

 

I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday

but in linear time it’s been close to 15 years.

that night was filled with wanton desperation

a loss of hope, just begging for the pain to end.

there was a fifth of bourbon a bottle of pills

and the chemicals that filled my veins.

there was blood and there was a knife

there was nothing left to save.

 

at 105 lbs. I was walking death

skin hanging off bones.

I was hollow and empty and aching

and days passed endlessly without sleep.

I rambled and scrambled for something to say

anything that would string words end to end.

it was gibberish as I read it back to myself

how could anyone else possibly understand.

I drove for miles to nowhere

in circles, repeating, just to feel myself move.

the stagnant air that surrounded me

was choking me like a fist around my throat.

it was desperate and dangerous

the habits that I kept.

the situations, and surroundings,

nothing about me was safe.

I remember the night

 I lay face down on the floor

a gun pointed

at my head.

fear not, though the dreams

still haunt me now.

I didn’t change the path

or the road I was on.

tearing myself to pieces

from the inside.

wishing ‘an accident’

would make it stop.

 

back to that night

and the pills and the liquor.

back to the prayers

that I made into the dark.

‘if I wake up tomorrow

there has to be a reason

I won’t question again

I will simply live’

for 13 years and change

I kept my promise.

and then one day

it got very dark again.

I cut into the skin

seeking a lifeline.

I bled so hard

that I shouldn’t be here.

 I got on my knees and prayed again

not for a sign this time.

I prayed that I could surrender

and stop trying to fight to win.

 

I woke up a year and a half ago

and put both feet on the floor.

I’ve been walking slowly since then

and sometimes I just have to stop.

simply breathe and listen

to myself and feel the pain.

it never completely goes away

but I’ve learned to call it by name.

I’ve learned that there are words

that will ease the aching.

that there are sounds that will

comfort and heal.

I’ve learned that I know how to make them

that my voice is a powerful tool.

I can speak languages of emotion

that I don’t always know how to feel.

I have learned when I speak the truth

someone always hears.

 

each day when I wake up

I never quite know.

if I will have to fight for my life

or if I can just breathe.

but I know that I can speak

the name of my pain.

I have learned

that words can heal.

 

 

 

 

 

 



Excerpts 6

The Excerpts series are poems that I write directly from dreams. I feel that if I can remember them and the dialogue within them, there is a reason for that and so I write them here.

This story , subtitled 'Listen To A Poet's Voice' is about meeting one of my very favorite poets, Natasha Head. She has a unique and powerful voice that I find extremely inspiring. Check her out at http://www.tashtoo.com/ or on Twitter @tashtoo

she sat in an overstuffed velvet chair

with notebooks spread across her lap.

pens and pencils, artist’s tools

were strewn all over the floor.

I walked into the room and sat down

on the floor in front of her.

she said, “which one is your favorite?”

I answered and she began to read.

I closed my eyes at the sound of her voice

the way it wrapped around the words.

she has lived these words and can speak them

as if they come to life with her breath.

telling tales of lives that are lived out loud

even when only whispers are heard.

she turned the pages with the sound

of a flutter of butterfly wings.

graceful and soft almost a hush

mesmerizing delicacy.

she treated the words like treasures

and held them close to heart.

pacing herself only by

the way I reacted to them.

with a hunger I listened and hung on the words

as she let them fall from her lips.

she said, “I don’t do this for everyone…

only those who can hear what I say.”

hours passed, perhaps even days

I was lost in the stories she told.

reading from the depth of her very soul

the magic just drew me in.

the time came to read the final page

in earnest she searched for the one.

the perfect ending to this moment

the words that would complete the tale.

at the turn of the page there were colors

brighter than any I’d seen.

hues that resembled a rainbow

jumping off of the page.

hit my eyes with almost a sting

and she looked at me with a wink.

we both laughed out loud for a moment

as she tore that page in two.

handed one half to me and kept one for herself

“into your pocket it goes…”

“those aren’t the ones we read out loud,

we keep them close to our hearts”.

those were the words that followed her

as she rose and left the room.