Old Poetry To Remind Me I Was Unhappy Too

I don’t do pictures that would put a face to my words, but I thought I’d share old poetry.  Two old poems.  The more recent one is at least four years old because I’m 38 now.  The older one was while I was still breastfeeding, so at least 8 years ago.

My Release

Stress came in waves
Like sheets of plastic
suffocating
Like flames of sickness
licking my flesh from the insides
Like sex without love
messy fluids and sweat
and no real pleasure or release
pain in waves, waiting for joy which never comes
Like reek of sweat
sickly musk masked by refuse of small comforts
Comfort sought after in foods
chocolate and icecream,
rice pudding and doughnuts
chips and dip or salsa
iced tea and soda and sugar and waste
Eating beyond sustenance, and into blankets of numbness
Comfort in the nothing
the nothing of sleep
the nothing of television
Hiding from the bright spring air
and in the dark dampness of the hollow of my blankets
windows shut and unforgiving
musky in my stench of unbathed loathing
damp in the overflow of morning feedings
Awake and wired late at night while twitching in unforgiving darkness,
while the angels of my flesh and desire slumber next to me
snoring in sweet nothingness
while early morning taunts me
And in the dire bleakness of my power outtage,
wishing for momentary release in window surfing
or a mind to reach out to
A moment of vulnerability and my stress is relieved.

And again, I want to go outside.
Again, there is a garden to sow
Again, there is much to be done,
and at last, I’m ready to do it.

 

Poem for my 34th Birthday

 

Can I still remember my last name?

The girl that I once was

I know her now

Though she barely knew herself

I think of her and wonder

How did she survive the life

She forced us to live

Then I remember she didn’t

I’m here and she’s a memory

A fond one that has evolved from

Faded recollections

 

The woman in her wake loves attention as much as she did

But will live without it.

She craves solitude and hardly gets it

But complaining is for the girl that died away

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