Old poem. Reposting. Still like it!
It isn’t a coincidence that scared
Has one less letter than scarred.
Scarred is the past tense of scared.
The extra R is regret.
But oh, how shiny that R is when relief glows from under.
Pushing up the skin. Puckering at my prodding finger.
Because I’m still alive.
And oh, that is sacred. To survive.
Hay.
Gasoline.
Sweet hay.
Gas.
Blood.
Blood in my mouth. Did I fall?
I’m lying in the still-long blades of dry, yellow grass. The motor is running. I can only see the tops of red baseball caps. I hear muffled bellowing.
Someone’s holding my hand. Sun is white. Sweat forms just above my brow. Rolls down. Meets my tears. Down my temple/upper cheekbone. Pooled in the cradle of my outer ear. Can’t move. Can’t see anything but sky. Can’t hear very well. Because of the grass? Or something worse?
The silhouette of my father’s face, grimaced and gray, leans. Zooms. I’m veiled by his plaid work shirt now. His overall strap buckle lightly pressing against the bridge of my nose. His huge gloved hands lift me quickly from the ground. I’m laid on the pickup bed’s tailgate. Next to the leaning batches of barn-bound, recently-bailed hay.
I like the attention. But I’m scared. Only because every pair of eyes I meet are scuffling with fear.
Babylon is bliss.
Ignorant kiss.
To be kicked out of heaven
On such a night as this.
If this is hell,
No one could tell.
Bottomless pit
From this rising well?
I will fall forever.
Patience is clever.
But don’t underestimate
My desire to endeavor.
i may be a monster
but i possess some good
which i see is inconvenient
to the ending of your book
i may be a monster
but it’s implied that i was made
every wall was built
every evil brick was laid
which part did you construct?
what sins did you leave behind?
what dark design did you
conjure with your mind?
I’m simply a mirror
held to the face of man
when i’m wielding the ax
my hands execute your plan
Still really like this one!
Run my fingers along these stitches
My slick, sick skin in pale, pink patches
Red scars, dark dreams and seams
Snagged-up tissue in small light catches
If I’m a patched-up monster
Then what does that make you?
You are my creator
Working in sin and sinew
I acknowledge my birth and life
But I wish you wouldn’t have bothered
Especially when you hate
That which you have fathered
I pity us, this reckless wreck
Wreaking wrong, prescribing pain
Spent my life to break your neck
On the hope of a rope in ending insane
You meant to make me perfect
But don’t know what you’re doing
You played around with delicate parts
Left this bloody monster in ruin
I survive, pieced from scraps
Forgotten flesh upon the floor
You die of loneliness
But I live to rise once more
raped because he could
cursed for no good
snakes under this hood
see myself and turn to stone
never meet another eye
pretend that i am shy
lock the truth behind this lie
walk this wicked earth alone
someone’s out for my head
“i’m a monster,” it’s been said
made from blood a man has shed
i was merely trying to learn
the only wisdom i would gain–
knowledge of Poseidon’s pain
it’s a wonder i’m still sane
endless hell in which i burn
product of your sex-crazed town
you kick me when i’m already down
my heart dies without a sound
so you can ignore it
coerced/seduced
cursed and abused
quite simply reduced
to the slut who asked for it
This bad poetry brought to you by Starbucks home brew. 😉
Bad poems
Sour notes
Expert at failure
But this hope still floats
Story to be shared
Adventure to be dared
Spare your prayers
This program will be aired
Tune in
Or turn it down
The volume may change
But captions aren’t sound
Words are born
Veils are torn
Before the mourning
Offering of warn
You can write me off
I’m okay without your views
I can pen a thousand tales
You can’t silence my news
Bad poems
Shaky voice
To some I’m needed medicine
To others I’m just noise
Under water
Bottom of the pile
Broken-hearted
Nothing left to defile
Can’t piece this puzzle
Ripped to ribbons
Remnants of this raiment
Spinning in oblivion
Naked emotion
Raw devotion
You can’t expect
A controlled explosion
Dangling in cliff’s shadow
Reaping fields that fallowed
Run aground in the shallows
Swallowed whole in the valley of gallows
Even the devil wouldn’t follow
Through this unhallowed hollow
Choke back a hard swallow
Funeral for the sorrow
Give you my word
If you’re still keeping score
You can blame me
I’ll fall on my sword
Can’t bring this heart home
It was born to wild around
Built to be lost in war
Through heartache I am found
Lithograph from erased highlight charcoal self-portrait, 2010–Martha Maggio
Ain’t nobody gonna love you like God, your mama, or you.
And ain’t nobody gonna love you ’til you do.–Martha Maggio
Walk in the room
Automatically assume
No one could ever love you
Why can’t you accept
That body they reject
Is just a vehicle for truth
The truth is–
Your beauty doesn’t come from:
A jar.
Your hair.
A great pair of: eyes, boobs, legs, shoes.
The end of a knife.
Your value is eternal, divine
Twinkle in God’s eyeshine
Not for everyone.
You are–
Far, far away from long, long ago
From freaking outer space.
So act like an alien and conquer the earth.
Or just love yourself from this rebirth.
Photo: Martha Maggio, from the garden at Mount Carmel, potted Cyclamen, Israel
I know it’s not easy to love me.
Temperamental
Hard-to-handle
Hot-headed
Hothouse flower
Fading in the bright light
Swamped in the black of night
Wilting with any slight
Change
Strange
Delicate
Difficult
Intricate
Complex and rare
Complicated care
But my air is sweet
And I only bloom for you.
To my unfortunate gardener ❤
You shall turn the earth.
