Insolent

I was told
never to pray for patience,
and in a fit of desperation,
of losing self-control,
I asked for just that.
And now I suffer
through long days
searching for some way
to unbind this prayer,
but I am chained
to the words my mouth spat out.
Waiting, like spit in open wounds,
painfully still while I ache to move
towards every desire
every lasting dream
my childhood heart contains.
My bones toss,
restless and unsatisfied,
held to the ground with
spiritual super glue--
I am a stagnant river.
Though my Father counts it virtuous,
I count it torturous.

Forgive me, my insolence.

Spies

Hello, old friend.
My muse,
gone dry and old
rusty and useless,
you are a fly
constantly on my every wall,
peering into a life
that you were once such a part of.
My life.
No more.
Yet still,
you search every crevice
every outlet I occupy
to find me at my weakest,
my most vulnerable
and you peek into my heart
just a few moments longer,
hoping to figure me out.
I have discovered you,
persistent, little spy,
and I will no longer entertain.

Every crack is sealed,
Every entrance blocked,
your days of leeching on my life
are done.

Love, Lena

 He looked straight ahead and said,
"maybe you won't feel anything,
until you reach the big moments
that used to be filled with her presence.
Like Christmas and birthdays,
Easter, and Mother's Day."
I stared out the window,
as we drove down the highway,
headed for safety,
headed for a hiding place.
And though I'd asked him
a different question,
I knew his answer was the right one,
and the wisest words I'd been offered thence far.
Three months later,
those words stay completely true,
as the lights are up,
the stockings hung,
and I look for something that will never,
ever, be under any tree.

Merry Christmas, momma.

This Is Self-Refuting

I haven't written 
anything of importance. 
Nothing delicate, 
nothing whimsical 
nothing real 
in weeks. 
And tonight, 
to fill this space, 
to stop its idleness, 
I force something out. 
I am dry. 
Barren, like a woman 
who is unable to birth 
something precious. 
And it's not for a lack of trying, 
it's not because I have no 
living inspirations, 
no painful heart cries, 
or past ghosts, 
it's just that my mind
and my heart
and my fingers 
are all at odds. 


I wonder, 
if I've ever written anything of consequence,
or just wasted my time?

Scissors

And the final knot
is twisting in my chest
unravelling everything left
that keeps me tethered to you
until I can only see a few things:
your face red and pained,
your hands nervous and spotted,
feet, pointing toward me, then away,
and your eyes, searching mine.
I assure you, dear friend,
that there is nothing hidden
in these brown irises
for you to resurrect.
What has died has remained so.
I walk away whispering endless prayers
to a God who sees every single
frayed thread in this rope,
and I ask for him to ease the process
as this last tangle gives,
but he offers no promises.
Instead he reminds me
of what I hold in my shaky hands:
a pair of silver scissors.

I open them up,
and press down,
with all the strength I have left.

November

An extended branch 
from a forlorn soul 
hidden in clouds of 
periwinkle tears 
and silent cries 
that reach my heart here, 
down below
where leaves lie lifeless, 
crippled by sharp cold 
injected into each stem, 
and into my very bones. 
An extended hand 
to one who's only ever 
been beaten back 
by palms and fists 
greater than the heavens, 
(or at least in a child's eyes)
and cried elephant tears 
over aches and scars 
that are only seen beneath
thin, thin skin:
an emotionally malnourished babe. 
And it's only when my mother's eyes
shine back at me from the mirror
that I smile in spite of every 
melancholic bone in my body 
and stop sulking long enough 
to let everything I hold onto 
die like those stone cold leaves, 
and blow away, 
far, far away, 
to those pale clouds, 
where sadness abounds, 
leaving only hope, 
to remain.

Chalk

Startled by my own shadow, 

startled, and shell shocked--

I exist outside of my body, 

but what kind of creature am I?

I feel thin, and my heart weeps, 

as cold wind blows me away, 

I feel thin hearted, and I weep.

The pools of my own perseverance

have been dipped into too often 

and because I forget my place 

in this other-worldy scheme of things, 

I am weary and depleted. 

Creation knows me, 

as the painter of the sidewalk, 

who lays her burdens out 

for the trees and birds to see,

while walking simple streets. 

I am an aching wretch, 

and my skinny heart knows it, 

so I am startled,

by a shadow that does no justice 

to the brute I often become 

inside of my skin, 

but rather it paints me blank

with no wear or tear, 

or damage of any kind. 

I live in hope, 

on the concrete, 
even when I feel none of it 
within me. 

Pleased To Meet You

Allow me to introduce myself,
as aloof and misconstrued
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I search for the right way
to be as aberrant, yet as conventional
as I know myself to be.
Forgive my biting directness,
for I've only tried to show you
that I'm not as predictable as I seem.
See, you've thrown me off,
with your ability to read me
before I've even penned the words
to define my own emotion.
It's hardly fair.
I fight to stay one step ahead,
when I know I've been behind all along,
and you're fully aware, 
and I'm terrible at whatever this is,
but I'm a willing student.
So allow me to introduce myself,
as simple-hearted and deliberate,
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I learn the right way
to be as honest and lovely
as I know myself to be.

My name's Lena.

To Weep

The day the fire came
I wasn't there to pull you out,
you were unable to walk away yourself,
and though I think my intent to be right,
I likely wouldn't been able to save you anyways.
But you knew what you were doing;
you wrote your fate with a black-ink pen,
and signed your name on all the dotted lines,
you signed me over to the ways of the world
without you in it,
and you signed yourself over
to a world I've never seen.
The day the fire came,
I distracted myself with handiwork
and tried not to think
of the box you would come home in,
the tears I longed for you to see,
of the scalding you would feel,
the darkness of your watery eyes,
and the selfishness I harbored
in the bottom of my little heart.

Oh how I wish
I had a gravestone to weep at.

The Swell

And yes,
my chest has been torn open
to expose my little heart
to the weathering of the world,
and to the harshness of its love.
But it was an unwilling surgery
and it was secretly performed
with no sterile instruments;
I am infected.
I am now prone to injury
and agonizing affliction
without warning or heed
that will either cause me disease
or expire me completely.
So thrust is my heart,
into the violent seas
of humanity and grief,
and I am not free to swim away,
but I am forced to drown
in tears bigger than tidal waves,
in air that never fills my lungs.

And no,
none of this is alright with me.

Seven Sisters

Seven sisters
sitting in the center
of my rust-ridden heart,
shining like the light
I only long to be.
I have so much love
pulsing through the blue-red arteries
but it leaks through the holes
of this decrepit little heart.
I hope you see my intentions,
as I try with all my might
to muster up enough emotional stamina
and show you I care
at least a little bit.
I've got stars,
in the middle of my chest,
they've just forgotten what it's like
to paint the night sky.

I've hidden them away,
along with everything else.

Projectors

How do you stand
sitting in all our places,
with people other than me
and forget all the words
that cling to the walls?
And all the tears,
that soak into the fabrics?
And all the tensions,
that still float in the air?
I can't even walk
in and out of these places
without feeling heaviness
a pressing anxiety,
and when I close my eyes,
I see the memories like projector slides.
You slide in and out of my eyes
and I am unable to forget,
unable to wipe you away.
How do you stand it?

If you have a secret method,
I'd love to know what it is.

A Good Shake

What is it that makes you think
that your complacency is acceptable?
Your lack of responsibility
is nothing short of frustrating
and I know the you that is hidden
somewhere in that kind heart
is just as angry as I am.
What I wouldn't give
to reach through and around you,
and just give you a good shake.

I wish common sense
was more common.

Cinders

I wonder if the rain knows

about all my saddest days 

before it paints the ground 

with water that evades

the leftover embers 

that burn in the pit of my heart? 

Those coals are only kept alive 

by the frayed ends of a love 

I've yet to lay aside; 

never perfectly mended 

and never sound asleep.

Every time you walk by 

I resurrect memories of days 

that were better than these;

we smiled like children 

and promised more than we ought

in the sun-kissed snow 

and in the confines of silver trees. 

Now this chilly rain escapes my grasp

while a fire hazard brews 

in the depths of my chest. 

I just need a puddle 

big enough to swim in. 

The Title of this Poem is Used Three Times

What on God's green earth

makes you think it's okay 

for you to finally be a decent man 

when you were despicable with me? 

Your praises sound like rocks 

falling into an empty well, 

hollow and spent 

like every other word 

you ever spoke to me in love. 

You're the faulty clutch 

that has me stalled in the middle 

of a busy intersection 

scrambling for a running engine, 

but left to collide 

with cars on all sides 

as soon as the light turns green. 

And do you not remember 

the endless months 

that you dragged my heart around 

like an unwanted dog

stuck to your leash? 

I remember the green grass, 

the muddy fields, 

the concrete playground 

and every other place 

you brought me to. 

What on earth, 

makes you think it's okay 

to finally be a decent man, 

when you were only a hurtful boy 

with me? 

3:13

Oh to be the one

that heard you snoring in the night, 

to hear you sleep talking, 

your steady breathing, 

and your final hums and has. 

I would give everything 

to have been there at the right time

to see your eyes again, 

but you left me where I was, 

and waited until it was to late. 

Forever is a long time 

to go without you 

and in my selfishness I wish 

that you would've thought of me. 

Wailing by your bedside

with no voice of comfort, 

no warms hands, 

no life-filled words. 

Oh to be the one

that stayed the night and

saw the clock

at 3:13. 

Grown-Up Hide and Seek

a song 

For years I've been trying to see
exactly what you're looking at
and when your eyes shine
I try to find the road map.

Once upon a summer night
you told me that your heart was fine
I stared at you a while
and finally saw your crooked smile.

And I always tried to hold you
a little bit tighter
And I always tried to know you
a little bit better
And I always tried to find you
in all my favourite hiding places
but you were still trying to find me
in this game we play called grown-up hide and seek.

There's nothing like yesterday
is what you'd always say
when covering up your silliness
and awkward mistakes.

And I always tried to hold you 

a little bit tighter 

And I always tried to know you 

a little bit better

And I always tried to find you 

in all my favourite hiding places 

but you were still trying to find me 

in this game we play called grown-up hide and seek. 

The First To Say. . .

Let me be the first to say
that nothing about your eyes,
nothing about your laugh,
nothing about your presence,
is settling.
You push me into corners,
make me run, hide, and cry
for some kind of resolution
when you offer no apology
no remorse,
not even an acknowledgement of my existence.
I loved you,
with the most ardent and earnest love,
and I kept no record of your wrongs,
until you crushed me with your words,
crushed me with your two anxious hands,
and now,
months removed,
my bones are still broken,
my heart is still torn up,
and you walk free, just the same.
Let me be the first to say,
that if you could really understand these eyes,
they'd tell you that this is far from over.

Out Of Me

out of me
comes everything
that's filled my blood
with poison,
with toxins,
and now
with contrition
I speak as though
I've never wanted to sin,
and with fullness
I breathe a breath
that purifies my lungs,
flushes out my veins,
brings water to my eyes,
and buckles my knees.
out of me
comes everything
that I ever set out to be,
and now let it be
nothing.

Embers

You are the whispers
of inadequacy and doubt
that seep into my cerebrum
and rearrange every ordered emotion.
It's like stepping into a library
and ripping all the books from the shelves
and leaving me there
to clean up your mess.
I have a million and one ways
to put you in your place,
to shut up that gaping mouth
and silence you forever,
but the havoc your secrets bring
is too high a cost for your speechlessness.
I repeat
"you're not worth it, you're not worth it"
and pray that my civility
will evolve into scorching embers
that sit on your head.