I feel like I’m Alice, miles down the rabbit hole, chasing my own shadow and asking it to join me for tea.
Is it pitiful if it makes me feel mocked; if I throw a tantrum because it won’t talk back to me?
Did I slip and fall into a deep sleep one day and forget how to wake myself up?
The tag on this bottle says ‘drink me’ but isn’t it rude to not drink from a cup?
I’ve always wanted to meet the Mad Hatter but the only mad one here is me.
And not just mad, but angry! Because it seems I’m normal as far as anyone else can see.
Clearly, I’m looney. Surely someone will soon come to lock me away.
I believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast; doesn’t just that warrant an extended asylum stay?
The dormouse sounds just like my mother, but that’s hardly a coincidence, right?
Listen to me! I hear voices! That would give a sane person a fright!
I can’t tell which way is up, and where is forward? Is it in reverse?
Someone, please heed my desperate warnings; I fear it will only get worse!
Who on earth painted my roses? When I find out, it’s off with your head!
Oh, I’ve been influenced by an angry broad, some queen whose color is red?
Do any of these characters ring a bell? Or am I truly losing my mind?
WAIT! I don’t even like tea! Well, I like iced tea, not the fancy milk and sugar kind.
Have you ever seen a caterpillar blow smoke rings? What about a cat which can materialize on cue?
If the answer is no and your world is so black and white, maybe the crazy one is you.
I do a lot of things, and writing poetry happens to be one of them. However, I guess I don’t always share it the way it’s meant to be shared. I try to share my photography and my news writing and my graphic design and all that, but I think it’s high time my poetry reaches the minds and hearts of those willing to receive it.
I have written poetry for as long as I can remember. Sometimes it’s for fun, but mostly my writing is born from experiences I have and witness. Personally, I think my best work comes as a result of deep emotion. In fact, it seems it’s much easier for me to express my feelings through abstract writing than through concrete speaking.
My writing has evolved greatly through my adolescence and journey into adulthood. Through confusion, anger, sickness and depression and into triumph and happiness, my writing tells my soul’s story.
I highly favor metaphoric and abstract poetry as a way of opening the minds of others and inviting various interpretations.
The two poems I’m going to share with you in this post were written in January. I won’t tell you what they mean to me right now; hopefully you can find your own meaning.
“Write a note,” they say.
Spill your words onto paper in ink or in graphite.
The world doesn’t have to know, but to release those thoughts could mean your salvation.
“Let it go,” they say.
Set fire to the pages and watch them burn brightly.
The ashes will float away, but to feel the warmth of release could mean your salvation.
“Just move on,” they say.
Seek out another with which to share secrets.
A soul mate comes along only once, and to find your missing piece could mean your salvation.
“Life’s too short,” they say.
Make the most of the time you’ve been given on earth.
Do your best and learn from your mistakes, because you may never get another chance at salvation.
And one that means a great deal to me…
So much flooding… And yet, no rain.
How can I be drowning when I’m dry? I’m wading through the thickness of thin air.
I’ve never seen the ocean or felt its lapping waves, but I have to imagine it’s much kinder and gentler than the sea I’ve come to know.
How long can I hold my breath? I’m not certain. I only hope I can make it to the shore before I sink, sending tiny bubbles to the surface with my last goodbye.
I had only just begun to find my footing, to leave my mark on solid ground. Basking in warmth and light, with balance and with control. Now I’m only treading, and I’ve never been a very good swimmer. It’s cold and dark, I’m unbalanced and I’m losing control.
Where is the sun? Will it come again tomorrow, or did it burn out when I turned my back?
No lifeboat or salvation, not a buoy in sight. Only miles and miles of… what? Not water.
So how can I be drowning when I’m dry? I’m hoping this is just a dream.
Will I wake and find myself still and safe in my bed? Will I fill my lungs with air and know I won’t suffocate beneath the surface?
Wait, I remember. This isn’t a dream. But it’s not all bad. I’m learning to swim. I’m learning to hold my breath and to value every second my lungs are allowed to function.
I will not drown, for the shore is now in sight, and my motivation is renewed as I come closer to the feeling of earth beneath my feet.
My strokes are not consistent, and I tire along the way, but to know or to yearn for what lies ahead makes me paddle on.
Again I find my footing, as unsteady as it may be at first, and the feeling is nearly indescribable.
I catch my breath, savor it, hold onto the bliss and the relief of a trial now overcome.
The sun returned. Did I ever truly believe it would abandon me? How silly the idea seems now that I’m warm again. I feel such a stirring inside me.
I’ve never seen the ocean or felt its lapping waves, but I have to imagine its power and beauty is unmatched by the sea I’ve come to know.
So much flooding… And yet, no rain.
What do my poems say to your heart?