The Poetry Marathon

Tattoos on each extremity,
a barbell through my tongue,
a squid trails behind my ear.

Outside in the sunshine
I feel most at home
amongst blossoms and leaves.

How naturally unnatural I am.

Stranded, sun filtering in
to a car that won’t start,
we aren’t upset
instead we leave it behind,
begin to walk
and build our own adventure.

We meander to an empty park,
and wait as a mellow breeze
rests in our hair and on our faces,
the cool air is calming.

We must begin to roam again,
words flowing freely between us,
new opportunities around every corner, a beaten path beneath the bridge
guides us to graffiti, bold and unseen.

We take pictures, stop and stare
the warm sun and the new sights
are a breath of fresh air in an otherwise
stale, hectic life.

This moment of freedom, brought on by a
broken down car,
has been the happiest moment of my week.

Falling
falling
falling,
she found herself sitting atop what used to be her kitchen table,
no clue as to what spurred her transformation.
She looked up, saw the once miniature figurines with which she had been working
now enormous and staring back at her small frame.

She was inside the fairy garden.

To her left, the wooden house she had been building, no longer quiet and still.
It now stood tall and full of flitting fae.
The air seemed to sparkle as the creatures moved around their home,
wings never ceasing.

To her right, the forest was guarded by an elder
an old oak tree privy to spells and incantations
which she had never dreamed could be real.
He kept a calm smile on his stoic face,
pointing her in the right direction.

She began to walk into the forest she had once
been so involved in creating.

As she reached the small pond,
a rock sculpture of a beautiful fairy woman
began to move! She spoke to the girl,
her hair moving with the sounds of the water
beneath her.

“Wake up”
she whispered

And the girl did.
She looked around as she rubbed her eyes,
shook off a smile
grabbed her glue and got back to work.

Did you know
the word tattoo
originated as “tap-too”?

A sound based on a militant drum beat,
one i can hear perfectly in the sound
of a needle berating my skin,
the pattern that I designed being etched
into the pale placement I picked for it.

Sometimes that perfect pattern of pokes
is enough
to settle a racing mind.
That tap-too of the tattoo is a calming force
in a panicked life.

The day I called a friend
and she didn’t answer
my heart stopped

Minutes later,
on the phone with her parents
my heart broke.

Hearing about her secrets,
her hidden pains
put me in a state of eruption.

Terror, desolation , anger, guilt
came spilling out of me for days,
the sounds of “Colors of the Wind” on repeat in the back of my mind,
a constant reminder of our connection
and my fear of losing her.

“We are all connected to each other
in a circle, in a hoop
that never ends”

Now that constant reminder
is etched on my forearm
no longer a deliberate Disney song,
now a tribute to the people who are a part of me,
and the Pocahontas playlist has stopped.

The therapy is working.

Each day I look around me, searching
for those little things that lend
a burst of joy,
a feeling of refreshment
to a stale day.

Like a moth on an orange slice, I am captivated
by those small things that
too often go unnoticed.
I may feel small, but I am surrounded
by things bigger than myself,
I become that moth

I feel the sticky wedge beneath my legs,
I smell the citrus in the air, overpowering.
I see my wings, gargantuan next to my small frame
but more beautiful than anything I’ve seen before
I taste the tart juice, and savor this moment of clarity

We are surrounded by adventure and amazement
though it is not always our own.
How often do you stop to absorb it?
To really appreciate it?

Aren’t we supposed to be perfect?
We’ve been “that couple” for years,
made it through life together,
started a new life together,
our friends always saying
“I wish I had what you two have”

So why do we argue?
Why does my mind tell me
something feels different.
Off.

I love you. Deeply.
You hold me close at night, and we feel united.
We joke, we laugh,
we act like the teenagers we aren’t supposed to be anymore.
But still, we have grown.

We’ve changed in ways we don’t quite grasp
and each day we learn who the other is
all over again.

It is a test I would not take with anyone
but you.

It is one we don’t always pass.

But you are the man who saved my life,
and despite our arguments,
despite our changing,
you are the man who shows up for me every day,
who takes care of me,
like no one ever has.

And I count myself lucky
that I get to meet you
again tomorrow.

Everyone “fights”

We fight for what we think we deserve.
And when we go through a hard time
we are told diligently to
“Fight through it”

Why must we always fight?

Why is this word so entwined with
hatred, anger, even violence,
society’s go-to in times of trouble?

I am not a “fighter”
I am a talker, a listener, a reasoner,
I won’t fight, or force, or aggravate.

I want to learn, and heal
and approach the world with
the love that it seems
So quickly
to be losing sight of

When I’m ill, I don’t “fight” the illness.
I rest and take time to heal.
When I’m depressed,
I don’t argue with my mind,
I’m hurting enough already,
I refuse to hurt myself

On a bad day, I don’t “fight through it”
because that sounds like a lot of work
and I’m already so tired.

I am a friend, I care too deeply
and that isn’t the crime
the world likes us to believe it is.
I love fully and invest in my pack,
a pack full of lovers like me.

I am a worker, not a worker bee.
Not mindless, but devoted to
the job I do and the people I do it for.
I live a fast-paced, hectic life,
which is worth it – for them.

I am a student, but soon I will teach,
I shove past obstacles and panic over tests
so that one day I can be the one assigning them.
The routine, the structure, reassures me
and those assignments begin to give me purpose.

I am a volunteer, our work is never done.
Always one more thing, a load of laundry,
a trap to set, a dog to walk, an injury to tend to,
sadness is replaced by joy, only when our
animals heal and find the love they deserve.

I am depressed, usually for no reason
I battle with my own mind, it plays tricks, it lies.
I try to remember that no one hurt me,
I breathe through the episode,                      
desperate to think about living again.

I am a human, inconceivable,
I can’t be described in just a poem.
But my spirit can speak through one.
My perspective and my intuition can be shared
and my soul can shine through, the words capturing me.