If this were a watercolor This is when the rain would come Fat drops of water swallowing Pigments into murky purples Running down pages Blurring the edges Already fuzzy; obfuscated
If this were a bar you’d be drinking Downing a shot to dilute The troubled thoughts in your veins Stretching you taught til you snap Breaking something inside Or on the outside Blurring the edges Already fuzzy; obfuscated
Let this moment evaporate Leave behind what is left A morning–after–scene A head ache; a painting A voicemail on your machine
You remember the mirror A distorted bathroom self portrait Your eyes added too much solvent Blurring the edges Already fuzzy; obfuscated Shadowy paint brushes scattered Pretending; ignoring; avoiding: A morning–after–scene
Thank you for taking the time to read this poem today! What did you think of it? Did this one evoke any specific response in you? What did it remind you of or make you think of? I’d love to hear in the comments!
If you’d like to see more of my poetry, please like, comment, and/or share this post. It helps me know what content my readers are most interested in seeing, so I can better know what to share here.
This post is a little different. It’s a bit personal and talks about bullying, as well as lack of family support.
I used to draw a lot more than I do now. I never took art classes and was not allowed to take them. The above was a self portrait I drew in 2003 just prior to Hurricane Isabel wiping out our town.
I’d like to think I wasn’t bad at art, but it wasn’t a talent that those around me thought was worth my time pursuing. Others felt more strongly about using my art (even if I tried to keep it private) as a means of hurting me, much like anything else they could use in that way. Sometimes I’ve wondered if things would have been different, but it’s better to not think like that.
15-17 years later I have a little perspective. As my teenage years went on, I became discouraged and stopped drawing all together. I associate creating art with people using it to hurt me. While I’ve painted on occasion since becoming an adult, I’ve found the same issues with discouragement.
The whole point of my drawings were to bring a visual from my stories to life. This meant that in high school I found myself the Editor In Chief of our literary magazine and, instead of it feeling like an honor, it felt like a bullseye had been painted on me.
At some point I stopped wanting to explain myself over and over to people cornering me and interrogating me. “Why don’t you draw real things?” “Why are your proportions all wrong?” High school was hell for me. I have nightmares worrying about how the people who treated me in such malicious ways may now be abusing their own children and spouses. If they treated classmates with such physical, psychological, emotional, and verbal abuse for the sole purpose of their own sick enjoyment, is that something they would grow out of?
In high school I stopped wanting to deal with bullies writing rude things in my sketchbooks when they were stolen and, with no one to stand up for me, I was convinced I deserved it. My family taught me that I was to “stand there and take it.” It turns out if your family doesn’t support you, you have no example to base standing up for yourself on. I grew up like that – it took me until age 29 to have any ability to stand up for myself. I still struggle with it.
Few of my pictures aren’t ruined by the markings of those that stole my sketchbooks to write their own commentary. I’ve included the non-ruined ones here.
I figured I would take pictures of these couple drawings before I throw them away as we declutter the house. At least that way I have them and don’t have to look at the horrible things others wrote to hurt me ever again.
Here’s a poem I wrote in 2016. Some poems age into themselves and their meanings change to readers over time based on current events. I won’t attempt to provide explanation or analysis. I do hope it resonates with you though.
A Moment Aflame
at tables cleaned and polished by our own hands we sit attempting personal renaissance: a moment in time caught fire. we sit, write, talk, eat, drink, breathe in- to creation the desperation for a life out- side of this very existence controlled by desire to satiate the disease of purpose symptoms driven deep into young minds by careless words; unanswered questions: unfulfilled dreams pushed onto another generation as lost grown children wander with empty eyes and imploding hearts.
they told us we were equal, instead, we are searching for explanations – why this world has treated our existences like matches: struck aflame burned out thrown away
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this poem today. If it speaks to you and you find connection, please let me know by liking, commenting, or sharing this post. This helps me know which posts my readers like best.
Remember, without you these words would serve no one other than myself and the company getting paid to host the data.