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Friday, July 13, 2012

stupid stupid heart a blind fool in the rain
clinging to a broken umbrella of fancy words that sometimes rhyme.

I can write poetry too you see
only I don't need to be drunk

and my words I don't recycle
for another pretty face.

stupid stupid heart a lesson you should have learned
tripping down the street past midnight, a sandal broken into two.

2 comments:

Xing Shi Cai said...: Aha, broken sandal. Another good reason to visit your shoe guy again. (Though a sandal might be challenging for him.)

BTW, it's a nice poem. I seldom feel English poem sounds like poem, but this one does.; July 13, 2012 at 11:06 PM
Paige said...: HAHA! Thanks Peter! I love your comments so so so much.; July 13, 2012 at 11:18 PM

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It has been my struggle with honesty that has defined me and trapped me. My too-eager-willingness to reveal all, using mere strangers, casual friendships and acquaintances as soundboards; lacking self-respect I throw my pearls to swine letting the deepest of my heart's revelations be trampled along with my dignity. The lack of honesty is my other extreme. I lie to myself-always. I lie to those I love-too often. My not wanting to hurt another, in sparing another ones feelings, I cover my true feelings. I build a bridge of saran wrap over a chasm of hurt not expressed. On the surface it's all good, on the surface the tips of my lips are lifting upwards, one looking closer can see the cynicism in my eyes, the frown lines, the stain of tear lines edged into my cheeks. My hurt is deep.

I don't know why I feel in this moment the need to cling to my hurt. I want to be justified to the world with this hurt. I want acknowledgment that I was fucked over, that life was unfair to me. I want a safe arm around me letting me cry sorry for myself. Why? That I don't get. I never wanted anyone to see me weak before. I needed before to prove my strength, my independence, my unending endurance to let my ass be kicked and still always land on my feet. As a child I had one of those blow-up bozo the clown punching dolls, I was that clown. I was the knock-down puppet for ones amusement, punched repeatedly in the face but always smiling. Now I'm pissed off. 15-20 years of Christianity and grown-ups telling me to turn the other cheek, telling me to ward off bitterness-I am pissed off. I want to hang on to this hurt, this pain, to not get up, to wallow and cry. To let the world see that it killed me, that my sweet spirit couldn't get back up after this last blow.