Undeniable the pull
for certain the fright
for inside there lies
a truth cannot hide

Now inches apart
its cold faceless breath
inhaled with a gasp
a ring round my neck
chokes my cry

To my knees it commands
engulfed in it’s being
his possession
bound and invaded

Now carried away
no will of my own
to serve and obey
in his clutches
I’m owned

To delve in myself, to search and discover
A journey I’ve yet to begin
For fear of the recovered
No longer ignored
Allowed freedom of breath
May be lost in the fray

I dance our dance
And remember
But in your place is only space
So I dance our dance
And remember

The fight rages inside
The damage done
How unfair and evil the breach
Ripped from my arms
Out of my reach
Awash in a sea of pain
You tried to hang on
Now lost in the darkness
I search in my dreams

I dance our dance
And remember
But in your place is only space
So I dance our dance
And remember

I dance our dance
And remember
I dance our dance
And remember

Some say that you should exercise your ‘writing muscle’, if you will, everyday.  No matter the outcome it’s the exercise itself that is important.  Others say, only write when you have something to say. Something organized.  I can’t even organize my purse these days let alone my thoughts!  They’re both a jumble of things that I’ve held onto, for no apparent reason.  Receipts that I can’t read anymore, feelings that I can’t seem to remember where they originated.  Things I carry around out of habit, for if I have them I won’t need them, but the minute I let go, their need will be required.  Then there’s the fear, “What if I don’t have anything to say?”  No gut wrenching pain I need to expel.  No immense happiness that just can’t be contained.  ”What if I forget ‘how’ to write?”

I mean, seriously, I have a lot of shit going on!  And I have no idea how to take hold of it.  Neat little boxes?  Tied tight with pretty ribbons?  Or tossed up in the air in the hope that the unpatterned settling will expose a solution?  And the thing is, I feel like I can’t breathe.  I’ve been holding my breath for so long that something drastic needs to happen.  Well, something drastic in a controlled and organized manner.  Maybe I’m not only afraid to put it all out in print, but to actually facilitate an action as well.

To separate my writing from life.  Step out of the continuous loop of thoughts or hone in and force their hands?  I’m in a holding pattern.  In my writing and in my days.  I want to, I need to…. breathe.

Why is it that grey is the start? There’s never the path bathed in light in my dreams. No road worn by travel to follow. It’s always the quezzy blindness that engulfs me. My heart says follow my head. My head says follow my heart. And all I am left with is uncertainty and an ache of both.

Ugh. Will I ever be right? Do right? To be needed and wanted by someone. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, yet would I , could I … Do I have the capacity to recognize it? To accept?

I was told that I don’t open up. I’m independent and unyielding with my thoughts. I can’t say that I happen to disagree. And the thing is, it does nothing to protect me. Even though the words aren’t brought forth, they exist. They manifest themselves and take breath. I give them life. Power to incapacitate me. To hinder me. Just because there’s no introductions…. They’re still right beside me. Owning their existence.

They’re my scars. My gatekeepers of times passed. Because they say time heals all wounds. But it’s the scars that get left behind so we don’t forget. So we don’t forget…

‘Don’t climb there, you’ll fall and get hurt.’
‘Don’t touch that, you’ll get burned.’

It seems that it’s the scars that remind what ‘not’ to do. Have you ever received a scar from something that you ‘should’ have done? And the emotional scars… Just the healing process is enough to archive the memory forever.

I want good scars. Ones I can trace with my fingers or meander through my mind. I want laughing scars. I want heart scars that cause me to wear them on my sleeve with abandon. To live and love without fear. Is it in my nature? Am I as the scorpion? Or is it something I can manipulate? Control.

It’s the fear. I want to own it, yet still embrace it. Shifts it’s power. To be stronger. To hold it’s hand and walk with it until I can let go. Emotional and physical fear can make me stronger. But, do I face them on my own? Do I seek someone who shares my fears, a mutual understanding? Or do I search for one who accepts me with them and allows me to take them on myself? And would he be strong enough?

Giving that faith to someone to see your fears.. will they run and hide? Or battle beside?

What I need is Action Glasses! Super hero stuff. With windshield wipers to ‘ZAP’ the fog of hypnotizing words and spotlight the actions with their laser light beams! The safety net removed, exposing them prancing naked unawares.

“I see you.”

I am your fool no longer.

My mind, tumultuous and unyielding. My dreams, the shadows of my days that spring to life in the brief darkness that I am allowed. And the strangeness of them…they range and perplex me upon re-entry to the light. Although, most often, there is a familiarity that reassures me. Grounds me amongst the confusion.

But still, I wander though my day dissecting any meaning I can from them. Usually to no avail. I chalk it up to stress and stamp my ticket for my next nights adventure.

Then I happened upon a song, an occurance that is quickly becoming a trait, that made me pause. And there are very few things that cause me to do so. Lightning bugs on a hot summers night, collecting seashells and music.

It’s the tourist that caught my attention. And I realize, I feel more of a tourist in the rhythm of my days than the crazy that is any given dream….. Another post, for another night, when sleep isn’t finally winning.