Mother2rah’s Weblog

even that is too frequent; but perhaps it helps to heal and allows us to see what is important… 

Writing is my salvation.  Without the opportunity to put pen to paper, finger tips to keyboard, I am quite certain I would have turned inward and disappeared by now.  Too severe? Too melodramatic? Perhaps.  However, sometimes the truth is…the ability (daring, audacity?) to display my emotions, thoughts, fears, and dreams to the world while hidden behind those same words, releases me and allows me to breathe.

The following is a new poem - it touchs one of those painfully sensitive parts of my inner self.  Constructive critique is always welcome - even on the title as it was just thrown on because nothing else came to me…

Who Would I Be

If I thought of leaving, who would I be
leaving behind-pieces of me inside
what we have become or pieces of you
immersed so deeply in me I can no
longer see where you end and I begin.

To see what time has blended together
we need to look outside, at where we were;
recall time before memory, when we did
not know the sum of being separate
and the essence of being whole alone.

One instant, phrase or word shreds fragile threads;
love and lust, pain and sorrow, woven in
the fabric of every day unravels.
Who would I be, if I thought of leaving?

Siobhan
02-29-08

Holding Your Heart

I hold your heart in my hands and gently
break pieces to savor in small doses,
sweet substitute for desires’ kisses
kept in secret behind locked doors, stolen
from a world that would invade fantasy.
Present melts, the past free - for a moment.

Fingertips press against the crumbs you left
behind. Morsels, scattered across my path
to attract attention, feel fragmented;
I bring tidbits on soft flesh to tongue tip
take pleasure in this elusive flavor,
a subtle extract of your absence, here.

Sweet confection mixes with a memory
passion’s salty sweat, a brief encounter.
 

Pieces of Ourselves 

Overheard conversations, a foray
into another life, an invasion
of privacy, unintentional, yet
we find pieces of ourselves trapped inside
the lives of someone we don’t know or want
to know, the intimate details poured out,
no regard for surroundings, not vacant
but filled with curiosity seekers-
accidental voyeurs caught-no one can
look away from the train wreck happening
two seats from where we all sit, mesmerized
by the sorrow, anger, anguish, and shame.

We become mute collaborators, each
afraid of where our own words can be heard.