Edit

Here's the version of the last post's poem (whoa, that was kind of hard to say...) that I ended on. I feel it a hell of a lot better personally, but that's why I have a blog...so, thoughts?

The Woman I Will Be

What I want is

to dance with my children,

                                    barefooted

in our living room,

to love a father --

.                                               some kind of activist--

and write

words that are trifled

by misapprehension

words you will love,

unlike mother’s

who are not

            the woman I will be.

 

 Late summer hearts, swollen

            from sun and seed, never make it past

            shallow lawn chair basins

or spots behind glasses of ice

perspiring, drowning themselves.

                        Everyone has stopped watching.       

                                   

Soon, wild black eyed ladies will blossom

from the scalp of earth

                        where beautiful things are

            rotting. 

This is as good as my triadic line poem is getting. I'm honestly not even fucking able to offer any legitimacy to the structured clauses, let alone the fucking format. aha.  But I'll offer it up to you, oh blog gods, to do with it what you will. 

In other news...

             

It's been a while...

You know, I was thinking that I really don't ever use my blog enough ever. For shame. Well, it's never too late.

I feel so separated from everything that otherwise I am a part of, as if I'm dissimilar in some way. I feel like I'm being forced out, but all I want to do is stay. It's the difference that's forcing me to make a choice: change or leave. Then again, I've always kind of different. Maybe I'm meant to be on the sides, never really understood. Am I understood? It's a scary question because really, can you ever know? Its this understanding that I need validated on days where all I can feel are the words on a page, and nothing else. We all need that person, those people who get us, who can say just one thing, one word, or perhaps just a smile or a look, and we know that out vantage point has been theirs. And you can't fight it, you can never fight it. Just like time, the change operates of its own accord, having little to do with what is controllable by humans. Like a decayed structure, it is meant to fall. But who's falling the world around you, or you?