Periphery

Shadow of a man 

that I once knew.

Or maybe I simply 

thought I knew you; 

you're wasting away 

falling by the wayside 

and no longer in my 

direct line of sight. 

You're living in the 

periphery. 

Finally, I think you 

understand your 

own unimportance, 

as your head begins 

to slowly deflate 

leaving your eyes 

sunken in, and teary. 

And all of these things 

I notice with a passing 

glance, just to check 

if I detect any feeling

within myself, 

and it's only when 

I conclude that 

nothing stirs inside me, 

that I praise God 

for allowing me to shake 

you off of my back. 

And I look away 

without consequence. 

4

Slow,
like a watched-pot boils
and steady
as an ocean after a storm,
still swirling and sloshing,
yet in comparison, so still.
You sweep over me
like the steady warmth of
a morning sun,
or the streams of water
from a summer rain.
All I can do is hold my hands
open to the sky
with gratitude and joy,
laced in my smiles
and ask for the strength,
for the ability and the will,
to see this through.
To see Him though.
To see you through.
Because slow and steady
wins the race.

3

You don't inhabit me
like some foreign disease,
threatening my life,
holding my heart at gunpoint,
but you gently pull the tethers
of these delicately woven affections,
drawing me into some other,
more beautiful place.
A place where I'm not bombarded
or besieged, taken captive, or ignored,
and I see for the first time,
the possibility of joy,
a hope for things I've never dared dream of,
and I pray
for the strength to hold out,
the will to keep my lips sealed
until you take the first step forward.

One thing is for certain:
everything seems brighter.

2

Undoing
chains wrapped around
the box in my mind
that houses my conceptions
on what this should look like,
what you should sound like,
to learn a new way
of deciphering this will.
You're the first page
of a new book,
full of promise and adventure
begging me to keep reading
and I won't hesitate to say
that I'd be happy to oblige.

Broke

Injected with
anxiety that
knocks me off
my size seven feet
and I haven't the time,
the strength or the will
to get back up.
And I start to think
that maybe I'd save time
by just lying here
cold and frozen,
with bones that
won't move,
because in the end
I'll just end up
in this state anyways.
Right?

1

So I'm not quite sure
what to say when you ask,
or what to think when you speak,
how to respond when it's my turn.
All I see are empty rooms,
with doors recently opened,
that were once shut up.

And I smile smile smile.

Godless

Godless woman,
bags full of guilt
under your eyes
peering into lies
that you need to
keep you going.
I only wish that
I knew how to
remind you that
your almost out
of time.

I'm stirring up
all your plans
and you won't
have any idea
who you have
chosen to go
and piss off.
I wonder how
you manage to
sleep without
watching her
die?

She never even
recognized you.
Never wanted to
hear anymore of
your hate.
But you already
know that, don't you?

Shrapnel

Cradled by fists
rather than palms,
wide open to hold
my little red heart,
your love only a tool
used to silence a crying child
used at the right moments,
used, just like me.

Fishing wire and tackle
litter my memory of you.
Kodak memories
shoved into a dismal childhood
making a minefield
out of my head,
knowing that at any moment
my innocence could become shrapnel.

I excuse you,
rationalize for you,
stay silent for you,
let your actions speak for you,
and you ignore me,
forget that you know me,
stop from loving me,
and, like a coward, blame me.

If you never touch me again,
it'll be too soon.

Groan

Birthed into black,
my head in a bag
unable to breathe
without feeling the
suffocation of your absence,
slowly spinning my eyes
backwards into the sky
where they cannot be
retrieved.

Raised on baby-bottles
filled with milked soured
by salty tears,
weaned by dirty pacifiers
and torn blankets,
with holes of your making
cut with the same scissors
that separated us
and my bellybutton still aches.

Grown and groaning
for the lost days
of light and fresh air,
your smudging hands,
and crocheted blankets
decorated with promises.
Offered to other
more fortunate babes,
that I will never be.

You ought to remember,
that I didn't choose you.

Susans

I poke and prod
at the earth above me
hoping to find some soft spot
to break the ground.
As I do,
my eye sees shades
of green and grey
crawling over the surface
of this boneyard,
and at last, I can breathe.
A soft breeze directs my gaze
in all directions
and I soak in roses and potted plants;
jealous of their rich beauty,
while I offer nothing but yellow petals,
and a black center.
A large stone,
tall and solemn,
carries a name I do not know.
It rests behind me like giant--
sleeping, and will never wake.
And I am but a stray wildflower,
sentenced to adorn this plot,
while my roots reach down
to a nameless master.
All I can do
is just sway, sway, sway,
in this potter's field.

Dear Stranger

A few months ago someone put a note in my school mailbox that encouraged me enormously.
They said they loved my poetry and my voice and hoped I would find growth, love, and happiness in my journey through life. They signed it "a stranger you've inspired".

To that person: thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I have purpose. That I'm of value. Thank you for the ways your note touched me, that I have no words to express.

I don't know if that person will see this, but if they do, thank you.

Leaves

Drunk on tea leaves
straight from Dublin,
and my eyes see
everything much clearer,
with more warmth,
and more colour
than when I am seemingly sober.
I see visions of you,
your strong hands and
your good heart,
overflowing and
filling the space between us
until I am swept up
in the tenderness of your love,
the strength of your voice,
your honest faith,
and your oversized devotion.
And it's only when I notice
that you're fading from my view
that I reach for the kettle,
grab the sugar bowl,
and make another cup of tea.

Almost

Another night and I am
cold
writhing between sheets, paper
thin
wondering, if somewhere you are
just
as cold
as me.

Your hands, grip the edge of the
bed
and your eyes refuse to
shut
and you're hoping I'm still awake--
just
as restless
as you.

I only know the warmth of your
heart,
and the sound of your strong
voice
though I've yet to hear it, I am
just
as impatient
as you.

You sleep knowing that
soon
you'll be led in my
direction,
and you'll be
just
as thankful
as me.

Aubade

I hold hands with the willow branches
and twirl and twirl and twirl
as my green dress flutters and spins
around me like a carousel
and I sing sweet songs that I wrote for you
and pray that you'll faintly hear them
from wherever you are,
from whatever chair you occupy,
and come out of doors to find me.
My heart is alarmed with the rush
of what it feels like to love you
and all I can do to quell
the endless stirring of my affections
is to pronounce it to all who'll hear.
And I deeply know,
that you will discover me here,
frolicking among the willows,
and grin from ear to ear.
You will tell me how you've waited
to hear the soft melody I've sung,
so that you may finally find the one
for whom you've longed.

No longer will I hold hands
with the limp willow branches.

To Try

...and I don't think it's due to

a lack of want or desire, 

but a lack of trying 

on no one's part but my own. 

Trying, to step over dividing lines 

and push against glass ceilings 

that cripple me. 

That cripple us. 

I don't try because I can't win, 

(or at least my heart tells me so)

and I know that if I try and fail, 

I will loose more than I ever wanted to. 

An age old weakness 

sleeps in my little heart, 

stopping me from attaining 

all my loftiest hopes, 

and though I point my finger 

to a faceless, voiceless cause, 

I know the fault is no one's but mine. 

If I never have you, 

it will be no ones fault but mine. 

Salve

There's no salve for these cracked lips
raw and burning,
and never perfectly healed.
I sleep and don't speak for hours,
as each cut seals over,
and I forget, for a little while,
that I feel any agony at all.
Yet when I awake,
and try to mutter the smallest phrase,
the smallest cry,
or muster the smallest grin,
my sores tear open,
and I am not longer so forgetful.
So it is,
when I part my lips I receive nothing
but stinging pain and chagrin.
Wincing in despair that no one can quel,
untouchable parts of me that no one dare defy,
the very gates to my soul,
besieged and overtaken by
pain, that is dull but ever present,
pain, that subsides, but never leaves,
pain, that seems menial, but is never far from my mind,
pain, that when expressed, never receives aid.

And that, my friend,
is incentive enough
to keep my mouth closed.

Wicklow

To often have I aimed
to construct a seamless set
of eloquent phrases
made of only the ripest words,
but each time my pen
falls inches short from the page,
and my heart wrenches and pulls
at the truths I keep concealed.
I wish them to be thrust
into the light of all that you are
but my own crippling fear
keeps you wandering in the dark.
I can't offer you anything,
no match, no candle, no lamp
only my hand.
Though I'm unable
(at least at this point and time)
to offer you more than these worthless reflections,
I will do what I know best:
I'll remain.

Abaddon

Lord, I beg 
please not Abaddon, 
for my mother of another kind, 
my secret-keeper and friend. 
I can't bear 
to think of the darkness
that could have covered her
when she was the only light 
that shone in my world. 
Mother, I beg
please not Abaddon
for I know death 
has no victory over this earth, 
I just hope that you chose
not to allow its victory 
over your heart. 
You have been taken. 
Pulled to a place 
where I can't reach you, 
lifeless in the same bed 
that once held your soul, 
and now I'm alone 
to wonder how long you'll be gone,
why you decided to go, 
and if I'll ever be allowed 
to see you again. 
So, parent of my heart, 
where are you? 
Lost in the expanse 
that I can't comprehend, 
though my finite mind 
searches for you 
with flashlights in the dark, 
hoping for some sign 
that you found the light 
rather than having Abaddon
find you. 


I miss you. 

Plea(se)

I said, "no, no, no"
as I held your hand,
cold like bath tiles
on bare feet.
You couldn't hear me
but it didn't really matter,
I meant it more as a prayer
than an actual command.

he said, "it's okay, okay, okay"
as he grabbed my arm
and promised me things
that were out of his control.
One can't promise peace,
while at the bedside of the dead,
as that soul slips further away
from love, light, and life.

I say, "be quiet, quiet, quiet"
as I contrive a suitable case
to bring before heaven
for the redemption of just one.
See, if my concentration is broken,
maybe He won't hear me,
and my childish pleas will fall
on ears that have turned deaf.

He says, "I hear, hear, hear,
and please, leave this to me".

Public Service Announcement

Oh hey there, people who read this.

If for some reason you feel like any of this poetry is about you, then maybe you should stop reading it.

Poetry is an expression of emotion that is liable to hyperbolic exaggeration and other such things. Not everything I write is about me, or people I know. If you interpret it as such, then that is not my problem.

There you go. You've all been warned.

I'm going now.

--Lena