Empty Page

An empty page on my desk
as evening shadows fall.
Hand shaking, unsure what to write,
or if I even remember
how words form poems.

The future looms silent and heavy,
an open door that leads anywhere.
Or everywhere.
Or nowhere.
It whispers against my neck,
of promises it might not keep,
dreams that blur and fade,
paths that spiral into mist.

Every choice a stone skipped
across dark waters,
and I hold my breath,
watching ripples spread around me,
wondering if I will sink,
or learn to swim.

My pen touches the paper,
and I write a poem about a girl,
alone and afraid,
sitting at her desk
filling an empty page
with a poem about hope,
grasping for a reason to believe
in a future she can't quite see.

 

Justice Served

You broke the child,
but you couldn't break me.
Now a grown woman,
stronger than you'll ever be.

"Hell hath no fury"?
Heaven forbid,
but a woman scorned
pales to men in a cage,
with their own brand of justice
for men who do what you did.

Was it good for you?
I hope I was worth it.



Feeling the rage today. Sometimes I have to let it out. Tomorrow will be a better day.

 

Fragile Faith

Where are you, God?
I look for You in the places you used to be,
in the quiet spaces between breaths,
in the shimmer of moonlight on water.
But all I find are shadows,
echoes of a God I used to know.

Where are You
when I call out Your name in desperate prayer,
or whisper to you in the dark,
and only silence answers?

I once felt You
in the heartbeat of the world,
in the pulse of stars,
the breath of a summer breeze.
But now the sky feels hollow and cold,
and so far away.

I miss You.

 

Don't Call Me A Survivor

I am not the Phoenix,
rising from ashes.
I am the ash that lingers
after the fire,
gray and formless,
blown in all directions
by cold November wind.

Please don’t call me a survivor,
that word weighs too much.
It paints me in cape
of resilience I do not wear.
Survivor sounds like triumph,
a medal I never earned,
a strength I never had,
a cross I never chose to carry.
I am still curled up in the corner,
sobbing, wrapped in what was taken.

Surviving is something I do,
because I have no other choice.
Not something I am.
Just let me be broken,
let me be what I am,
without the weight of wings
I can’t unfold.

 

"The Raven," Redux (or something like that)

With apologies and endless gratitude to Edgar Allan Poe


Once upon a midnight dreary...
No, wait, that one's been done before, let me restart, I implore.

Once upon a sunset glowing, while I strolled, my heart unknowing,
Through the park where breezes blowing whispered dreams of something more,
I felt a flutter, fast and fleeting, like a melody repeating,
Faintly echoed, gently beating, in a heart not touched before.
"Could it be?" I murmured, hopeful, "Love that's knocking at my door?"

I wandered on, my fingers trembling, fears and terrors quick assembling,
And beheld, in dark remembering, something there the night had bore.
There it perched, a raven, staring, with its gaze both cold and daring,
And its presence so despairing chilled me to my very core.
"Tell me, bird," I asked not knowing, "Will love find me, I implore?"
Quoth the raven, "Search some more."

Startled by this cryptic token, pondering words so coldly spoken,
With my heart so badly broken, wondering what love had in store.
Still I pressed, my soul awoken, begging truth from wisdom’s core.
"Speak, dear bird, your timeless reason, is there hope in any season?
Will I find this heart’s completion, mending what was torn before?"
Quoth the Raven, "Search some more."

Through the park, I wandered, yearning, every corner twisting, turning,
Chasing hints of love's returning, though its face I'd not explored.
Every laugh, every glimmer, felt as though it might deliver
Someone who could make me quiver, yet my heart still felt unsure.
Ghosts of past and hearts retreating, terrified of scars repeating,
Could it be that true love's meaning lies beyond what came before?
Quoth the Raven, "Search some more."

Perched upon a tree of cedar, sat the bird, my cryptic leader,
Tilting sideways, like a reader of my thoughts, my inner lore.
"Why," I asked, "Do you keep stalling? What's this journey you keep calling?
Is true love so far, so sprawling, that it hides forevermore?"
But the Raven only chuckled, wings outstretched as if to soar.
Quoth the Raven, "Search some more."

Then, a voice, a laugh, cascading, turned my doubts to something fading,
Like a fire gently blazing, kindling sparks I never felt before.
There he stood, his eyes like stories, and his smile the purest glory,
With the light of dusk adorning every step across the floor.
He approached, the bird departing, leaving true love's open door.
Quoth the Raven, "Search no more."

Now I sit beneath the starlight, hand in his, and on this warm night,
Think of how that bird's clear insight led to someone I adore.
Though its riddles once confusing, they were guiding, not refusing,
Love is found by never losing faith in what your heart implores.
And that bird? A wiser creature than I ever knew before.
Now the Raven, while departing, left me with a few words more.
Quoth the Raven, "Love is yours."

 

Uncertainty

Sitting on the edge of her bed,
lamplight flickering
like an uncertain prayer.
Her fingers trace the threads
of her quilt,
a tapestry of promises made
and not kept.

She remembers her mother’s whispers:
God has a plan,
but plans feel cruel
when they leave spaces
the world can't fill.

Maybe God is just the ache in her chest
when prayers fall unanswered,
or the shadow of expectations
crumbling when light reveals their emptiness,
or the thing that makes her weep
and call it hope.

But still,
she whispers into the dark,
to a God who might not be listening,
because sadness is a kind of faith,
and she's just too human to stop.

 

Keep Going

She walks through mornings thick with fog,
her steps tracing paths she’s traveled before,
lost eyes scanning the horizon for a crack of light,
for a reason to trust in the rise of another day.

She picks up broken shells and weathered stones,
pieces of stories that ended too soon,
or were never told,
wondering if they hold a map
to a place she's never quite found.

All around her are shadows of dreams.
Some she lost,
some that shattered before her eyes,
and some she still holds,
each one an echo of a future
that might have been.

Somewhere in her chest, something stirs,
the first notes of a song just beginning,
telling her that maybe there is still a place
for hope.

And in the dim light,
she feels a small, steady pull,
a whispering voice that says

Keep going. 

 

Eye Contact

His eyes catch mine,
and everything else fades away,
the air holding its breath
for me alone.

A touch that doesn't touch,
it finds the quiet places
I keep hidden,
where I am both strong and afraid.

In his steady gaze
I am seen,
past the practiced smiles,
the armor of words,
to where the softest parts of me wait,
unguarded and vulnerable.

He holds my eyes,
and he knows my secrets,
quietly unfolding me,
knowing me in ways
I haven’t dared
to know myself.

In that silence,
I am stripped down to truth,
naked, but unafraid,
an open book,
in a language only he can read.

And he sees every page.


*For my dear friend "J", whose eyes can see what others can't – thanks for being there.

 

Please Don't Tell Her She's Pretty

She looks in the mirror
and sees only edges,
the curves of her cheeks,
the lines of her mouth,
fragments of her face,
nothing complete.

Her hair slips like silk
over her shoulders,
and she brushes it back,
unaware of how it shines
in the sunlight.

Her laughter comes softly,
falling like rose petals,
but she doesn't hear it,
doesn't know how it settles,
sweet and bright,
In every corner of the room.

She doesn’t see her own light,
how it glows beneath her smile,
softer than a whisper,
warmer than a sunrise.

But don't tell her she's pretty.
Don't tell her any of that.

She won't believe you,
and she never wants to hear those words again.

 

Learning To Fly

She wraps her heart in armor,
without quite knowing why,
folding her thoughts
into delicate shapes,
like paper birds
with broken wings
that never fly.

Her dreams are filled with memories
of doors she almost walked through,
hands she almost held,
and love she almost knew.

But safety first,
protect her heart,
that old familiar song.
Birds in cages are safe,
but that's not where birds belong.

So she waits,
fearing love will break her
but not quite knowing why.
What if she's a broken bird
that never learns to fly?

 

A Letter To Kevin (probably not you, if your name happens to be Kevin)

Apologies to anyone here named Kevin. This one was directed at one Kevin in particular, not you.


Dear Kevin,

You are the dust and mildew
pressed between yellowed pages
of a book I'll never open again,
a memory trapped in the smallest
corners of my mind.

I was just a child,
fragile as a matchstick,
I burned when you struck me,
cried when you fucked me,
Was it good for you?
Or did you cry for me too?
Just a satisfier
of your sick desire,
I was too young to know
you were a fucking liar.

I still burn,
but now I’ve learned
to leave my ghosts behind,
clear them from my mind,
turn them into words on a page;
now that I'm of age
you wouldn't want me
anymore, anyway,
you sick fuck,
no longer the terror-struck
twelve-year-old girl
in your pickup truck.

So this is my letter,
to you, but not for you,
just for me, to remind myself
of the strength I found
by surviving you.

Never yours,
Never was,
Becky

 

Broken Compass

Her heart is a broken compass,
it spins and stutters,
lost in a world of faded dreams
and empty promises.

But she walks on, directionless,
searching for her North Star,
hoping one day it will point her
to a place she can finally call home.

 

Blank Canvas

Sitting before a blank canvas,
watching shadows gather,
hands shaking, unsure what to paint,
unsure if I’ll even recognize the colors.

The future looms silent and heavy,
its breath whispers against my neck,
of promises it might not keep,
of dreams that blur and fade,
of paths that spiral into mist.

Every choice a stone skipped
across dark waters,
and I hold my breath,
watching ripples spread around me,
wondering if I will sink,
or if I might learn to swim.

My brush touches the canvas,
and I paint a girl,
lost and afraid,
sitting before a blank canvas,
searching for a glimmer of hope,
grasping for a reason to believe
in a future she can't quite see.

 

Hands

A gentle hand
traces the edge of her solitude,
and her body pulls away,
a reflex she can't suppress.
A border no hand can cross,
her wounds still too fresh,
too guarded.

Eyes are safer.
Eyes cannot hurt or violate.
But touch,
touch brings ghosts,
echoing in her bones.
The trembling child she once was,
still recoiling
from a past she can't forget.

He tries to hold her,
but she’s tangled in thorns,
a rose that learned long ago
that softness is dangerous,
that delicate petals are better kept hidden
behind jagged leaves shaped like loneliness.

So she stays
behind walls made of glass.
Her heart a flickering candle,
brave but lonely,
still waiting for the day
someone will find her,
break down her walls,
and not break her.