Month: February 2022

Sometimes

Sometimes I feel like written word understands me more. That when I try to communicate with people around me, I fail miserably. And that poetry is an easier way of explaining my feelings than my mouth.

While I almost can’t speak without feeling like a fool, I know that letters formed under my fingers will not only help me pour my heart outside. They make me feel less a fool, less an oddy,  more an artist who is only very (too) deep into her art.

Hope

The flaming whip slashes the world; cat-o-nine-tails adorned with burning coals
life splatters under marble statues, prayers reach no gods
give me courage to oppose

we possess the spirit to turn the clashing tides
the chilldeen of the earth, connected with threads weaved with heartstrings
breaking the hard stone in half
writing the lyrics of hope
give me strength to fight

someone has to stand against the darkness
why it should not be me

Marrow

trees – wreathed with lights
tiny lanterns pursuing darkness
licking the night with small tongues

grass – beaded with dew
prismatic eyes, I see whole worlds in them
they gush and cleave

stones – fathers of the forest
they know the tales of forgotten past
whispered soundlessly when we sleep

my rivers, full of memories
my mountains, guardians of the sky
my woods, I feel your roots in my marrow

Death and the Maiden #1

She took my hand and whispered.

“No one knows I am here. No one will ever search for me. And you are told to hunt on the likes of me.”

Her head cocked.

“But I know I am safe. You know why? Because you see your soul in my eyes. You see your reflection in my heart. And you love what you see.”

Life is a River

I was a lost child, finding my solace in reading books about magical worlds, writing adventures in space, sitting among many notebooks, with only a small glowing lamp guarding me. With the dog always by my side, throwing rocks in the car windows to let her carry them again to me – only by accident; I was made of accidents and incidents. Made of stardust and fairy mist. Very often I looked up to Peter Pan, when the only way to keep hazy mornings filled with the scent of just baked bread and phloxes was to stay – forever – as a child. I wanted to stay the fae who can negate the passing time.

That of course ended when I was due school. Never finding a place, never interested in what other children were interested in, I became a punchbag, the odd one, the pariah among eight years old judges. Battles for safety replaced mist and bruises replaced magic. They eventually returned, during high school, when they were the only way to cope with blood.

I was a small teenager, always dressed in black, with black metal in headphones. Easy target for those who thought they are normal, better. Blood came and went, came again and covered my vision for most of the high school years. Mine. Theirs. And no adult supported. No adult said it was wrong. I was after all a child of an alcoholic, I was meant to fall in line or drop.

I dropped. I went to university. When my peers again tried to put me down, I became numb, focusing on knowledge, focusing on what makes me happy. I flew on wings of imagination, which was much better than any balm on a rejected heart. I left it wiser, better, and understood that being a fighter won’t mean always fighting with fists, teeth and legs.

Adult world made me tougher and everything that came after it… I thought it weakens me, I thought it cuts my wings. But it never did.

I still dream about magical worlds, write adventures in space, and bathe in the golden honey of fantasy.

They tried to change me. Wanted me to fall in line.

But however they tried, they failed.

I was fighting to not lose myself.

And I won.

And even if fears still consume me, and probably always will, I know they don’t define me. And I look at them with courage, even if they hurt.

I always have an army of me, keeping my forest uninhabited by terrors. Guarding my secrets and pouring cold water onto my bothered heart.

Dreams Are Made of This

I have dreams… we all have but my dreams are putting me in certain half sad and half astonished mood, which can stick to me for months. I can think of them and memorize them even after a year. They are important part of my inner life.

Very often, I am in library, where I must find certain book. The library is hazy, the moonlit shelves seem to glow. And I know that I won’t find this book and my wings will be cut when I won’t.

Cut wings. I am a god and someone takes my ability to fly.

Flying. I reach the world beyond ours, which is so beautiful that my heart aches. But I need to fly there. Once I did and I remember the border of the galaxy with excruciating details. But very often my wings are cut before I reach it.

The feeling in these dreams, the feeling of loss and pain and the extreme beauty, is nothing I can describe. They make me sad, astonished and torn.

I know where they come from. But I still am amazed with them and the unique feelings they give me.

My Wounds

how are my wounds?
stitches cover my body with bloodpath
thread sewn into the flesh, binding the past to my skin

why are my wounds?
they emerge from the sea of memories
beads of water – each like ocean

when are my wounds?
everytime I forget them, spiders mute the pain
a glossy web – relief from the weight of the world

Under

under the moss, that feeds on my soul
under the trees; their roots go through my bones
under the sky, heavy with rainclouds
under the stars that whisper to me in language of gods
under the storm pour healing my tattered heart

you’ll find me when the stones turn to dust
and my blood quenches the thirst of the earth

Glorious Middle Ages

Someone recently told me, that he would like to live in middle ages. That it was a great time, in which he could live off work of peasants and rule the stupid society.

Aside of that this statement is very shallow, I have bad news for all inquisitor-wannabes.

Most od medieval society were exactly peasants. The noble class was scarce. So if you lived in middle ages, you would probably belong to that stupid society, tortured by numerous wars, plagues and – oh, the irony – hands of the nobles.

Do not wish a thing. A fairy may appear and fulfill your wish.

Spring

Spring. Brushed with disbelief and a raised eyebrow. Is it possible now? And I’m scared to hope…

But yes. The first catkins shyly raise their fluffy heads towards the sun, which also more boldly shines in the sky. And that scent. It cannot be confused with anything else. Spring smells like rebirth, youth, forgotten songs that suddenly come to mind with a few notes. It smells like water and rain, like jumping over a puddle and throwing the hat off your head for the first time in a very long time.

Is it spring? Woman of weak faith…