Emotion

Remnants

It bubbles beneath the skin,
Small ripples emanating from the core of a wounded heart.
Tiny lingering flecks of closeted anxiety,
Compressed with age and hidden by tenacity.
Living fossils that once roamed freely within her soul,
Tearing through the ages and spreading corruption,
Flavoring her every passing thought – her actions.
An excruciating monologue jammed into a loop
– and stuck fast.
What was once a whole sea of anger, now lingers a quiet resignation.
Yet I feel it. Simmering, festering, a silent volcano,

Waiting to submerge.

……………

This poem was written using inspiration supplied by Sammie Cox and the Weekend Writing Prompt was ‘submerge with a word count of 86.

If you want to join in you can check out her blog over atΒ sammiscribbles

 

Living without passion

..

Without conflict could we still survive, would we still want to live in our ever revolving faceless world of placation? Would we miss having fire in our bellies? Miss having passion and love and anger? Without emotion are we even really living or merely existing?

If you were able to live forever without the fresh breeze on your face, or the spray of the waves of the sea falling in mists on your skin, or without ever hearing the rising call of the lark or feel the warmth on the skin of your cheek: would this be living?

Self Alienation

Self Alienation

The slow suction of life itself
Trickles down my brain
Finding its way past hope,
disillusionment,
Self absorption.
Seeping into the world of me
Vintage doors pinned open
Wide to see – another nail
A second plank over the entrance
Of the place I call home
A fortress of lies
Beyond a moat of shadows
That’s where you’ll find me
Locked in dingy dungeons
Of my own design.

Better to remain silent

It’s a strange embrace, these salted leaks

That storm from undaunting eyes

Suffocated fears, gnawing inside

Of which naivety, implores me to share

Begs me to take the untrodden route

To finally confide with secure ideas

A false notion of safety- acceptance

This one will appreciate raw honesty

Emotion encourages the onslaught

Mistaken understanding

Fooled by hormones?

No, I am the fool

Under your hands

You unfold me
Take this naked heart
Peel back encrusted layers
And own me

Every inch of flesh is accounted for
Under your exacting scrutiny

Eyes that hide
Under wide mistrusting lids
Flower in your presence
Ungainly hips and dimpled thighs
Dance beneath your touch
Graceful fluidity
Finds me
Under the radar of your gaze

You strip me
Of emotional restraint
Slice through walls of anger
Pulling me through the fence
Of remorse, of pity, of doubt
And raise me up
A jewel
In your palms

You own me
These overlapping pieces
Carefully constructed
To fold around you

To be a real writer

A real writer bleeds onto the page.

That’s what they said.

A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .

Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.

Only then shall I feel like a writer.

Chasing pieces of me

It is entirely too much

to keep up with all of me

All of the time

It’s apparent that somewhere

Along the twisted lines

Of facades, personalities

Alternate appearances

Somehow I have come adrift

My connections worn free

Where once appeared a fluid

but singular form

Now houses a choir of voices

A crowd of faces-filtered

Over surface and manner

In place of a rollercoaster of thoughts

The jumble of a mystery bag

Feelings that would pop at random

Currently sliced in parts

Each sliver of me

Claiming a name

Shouting in secular voice

Grasping an entire being

For its own

A shard of emotion enlarged

Forged into a solitary being

All calling out at once

Wriggling from my grasp

And leaving me lost

An empty vessel

hollowed of being

Desperately chasing pieces of me

Attempting to be whole again