a poet's death

there is currently no poetry in my world

 empty pages beckons to me to speak

there is no time for me within my day

to stop, to breathe, to dream, to exhale

a lone soul, I came into this place

where beauty is vast and breathtaking

but life and its demands have nailed me

to the cross like some martyr to commerce

I have entered this land of strangers

where not an ounce of trust exists

and am not in a place

where I can protect myself

hyper aware, constantly in defense

of things that should not be taking up my time

no place to let down the upheld guard

no space to exhale my own need

last night I dreamt that my poet tattoo

simply rubbed off the surface of my skin

that is wasn’t truly etched into me

as the definition of who I know I am

the message is strong as I wake today

and am slammed back to reality’s bite

so in defiance I sit typing these words

when I know I ‘should’ be doing something else

I cannot let this environment

take over the content of my soul

I have to quiet the external screams

so that my voice

has room to be heard

she is quiet and timid until sure of herself

and I cultivate her growth

but if I let this world take the core of me

then she will die as well~

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Unsettled

 

I’ve been sitting here for hours

in the quiet evening

trying to still the chaos.

trying to calm

what feels like

scribbled ink on a page.

it feels like

I’ve dropped a box

of marbles onto the floor.

or like a top

that has spun off its axis

and has wildly gone astray.

busy and racing

and agitated

inner turmoil reigns.

from the outside

you would never know

I keep it all contained.

I feel like

submerging myself

into a deep pool.

letting the water

calm and cool

wrap itself around me.

the touch of you

your hands on me

would soothe me just as well.

but your hands

fell onto someone else

their absence leaves me cold.

the racing, the pacing

back and forth

across the worn out floor.

my footsteps

have formed a groove

that I simply follow now.

I don’t even have to look

as I pace the length

of this tiny room.

I know it now by heart

know the number

of steps that it takes.

I count them

one by one

and breath by even breath.

wishing and hoping the rhythm

would somehow soothe

this shaking soul.

ragged, jagged

I choke on it

as it moves in and out of me.

never quite fast enough

that I don’t

have to gasp for air.

it’s panic, really

I’m sure that’s the name

to call it.

attacks of this nature

are random

and generally strike at will.

pacing again

can’t sit still

can’t calm the thoughts inside.

my thoughts resemble

a traffic jam

at a dead stop, blowing a horn.

I can’t escape this mess

this inherent makeup

of my mind.

chaos burning

edges frayed

frazzled from inside.

 

 

 

Listen to this poem on Sound Cloud

 

https://soundcloud.com/andreathepoet/unsettled