If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Thoughts are falling leaves in the autumn wind. Capture the right moment and you'll see a swirl of colors preserved in a snapshot. Something grand and magnificent, the natural beauty of a strange world. But, and there is always a but, just watch as the seasons fade as the crisp autumn fades into cold winter and watch as the color fades, as the leaves shift from bright orange and dazzling red to putrid brown. I fear that this is what I am, a tree slowly shedding each thought. No leaf is preserved, no beauty remembered. Instead, there is a moment as I watch the leaf drift down in the shining light, alone and forgotten. I am the only one who sees it, by my own carelessness I have condemned myself to be the tree which falls alone in the middle of the forest.
My Mothers Advice
Take your pain and call it experience.
My mother never directly said these words,
yet she implied it in every lesson, every lecture.
One day the world will demand to know your worth
on that day show them your scars and tell them your stories,
give them the resume you've written in blood.
Raise your head high, pull your shoulders back and look them in the eye.
Dare them to say you have not proven your worth.
As I hear death’s final knock.
When death comes knocking, how do you answer?
Do you throw the door open,
and welcome your old friend in?
Do you shudder at each knock,
wishing for more time?
Have you been waiting,
expectant at the door?
Or hiding deep inside
ignoring your fear?
Tell me, darling, how should I answer?
As I hear death's final knock.
Dreams Of My Younger Self
In my dreams, I see my younger self,
she's so uncertain, so afraid.
She asks "Does it get better?"
I want to lie,
I want to say yes,
it gets better, you grow beautiful and vibrant.
Your dreams come true.
Instead, I say no,
I was never good at lying to myself.
You grow old and weary and tired.
You get scars that ache on rainy days.
You live even when it feels like dying
But some days you trace those scars and it feels like victory.
You live and it hurts.
She does not say anything,
this girl who grew up far too fast and far too slow.
Who hates her self-pity.
Who sometimes can't stand the sight of herself.
Who will always try to be a diamond,
when she is only black coal.
I want to whisper an apology.
Want to give words of comfort no one else will ever give.
But she understands, she's only ever had herself.
Only ever had her own reflection whisper words of courage.
Picked herself up even when the death felt like a mothers embrace.
She does not cry, she knows better.
She smiles, bloody and bitter.
When I wake I will have forgotten her.
Forgotten this conversation, forgotten these words.
But I'll pass by a mirror
and always remember that smile.
Pull up my lips in its imitation
and remember it's bitter taste.
Cassandra
When Cassandra met Paris she wept,
she raged, she shrieked, she warned.
Cassandra never wept again.
How she hated Helen, the poison that would destroy this city.
Too beautiful to every be happy.
As the city burned she prayed.
Athena, Athena save us.
As she was raped she stared into Athena's eyes,
even as the goddess turned away in shame.
What had been her sin?
She had not loved what would destroy her.
Had spit into the face which would kill her family.
Had loved her city more than she would ever love a god.
Goddess, Warrior, Woman.
This is my Mother.
She is Atlas, carrying the world on her shoulders.
She tells me to be kind. She tells me to be brave. She tells me to be.
This is my Mother.
She has felt the weight of the world.
She has felt the injustice.
She has felt the unkindness.
This is my Mother.
An adventurer,
a gambler,
a pioneer.
This is my Mother.
A goddess,
a warrior,
a woman.
Words
I stand there blood dripping from my veins.
Is this what you intended?
Is this your target practice?
See which words will make me bleed.
Fine.
I cannot defend myself.
My words will never be the precise knife you have shaped yours to be.
Mine are messy, wretched things,
fumbled broken things.
Fine.
Let your words be the scalpel which cuts the tendons.
Let my silence be the coffin in which you die.