Blood out (Day 15 of 100 -- Poetry challenge)
I laid my heart across the altar and spilt blood
poured love
died
Taken in
and pushed out
sacrificed as an offering
I’m the left
the abandoned
the forgotten
The kid that did not follow the rules
the one whipped for questioning
the one that was never good enough
Fire-born and orphan-forged
There is no mother
there are others though
older ladies that have been kind
ladies that have seen in me
something they could not express
A pungent taste,
a glitter in the eye
A Daddy? He is a man that either beats you
or pays
but no mother
no net to fall in
no home
The world has been harsh to me and many others
yet, the stories I see, the people's photos are all glossy
and sparkly
happy holidays, baby
happy birthday
happy
happy
I got dirt, and the buckled belt to my flesh
Blood-bound means nothing in the face of these things
I became strong the first time I ran away
at six to get away from death by the hands of a man
death from the end of a broken bottle,
death from the dankness of a root cellar
death with every breath
The streets and running have been my way of survival
the dark places people don’t see
the night babes' wonderment is mine
and still I rise from the darkness
I’m the ember under the extinguished fire left
and I’m burning
still
O Death,
the one companion whose promises mean something
You that have been my compass
and sustenance
Death, you of the ever-burning eye
Your closeness is that of the mother's
I never had
A million dagger-toothed smiles from a million people that only know security
those that shop the pain away, or push it down
a pill
or cocktail
sex
or that TV show
Those that say I’m interesting
but only from the safe distance
of the gallery glass
There was once space for artists
that come from the wood
wild and alive
now they train them
pop them like pills
wallpaper art
hollow words gone to memes
inspirations from safe spaces
I can tell you of strangers that seem nice, nicer than the places you’ve come from
how they will sell your ass
your young
run-away ass
and somehow are still nicer
than your family
even if that valium makes it
not hurt for a while
I can tell you of doors shut and lights turned off
of how a little place under a thicket can feel like the most
welcome
safe
home
I can tell you of the wood and wilds
how the elements become alive when there is nothing
to separate you
how you become
the winds
and rain
nature’s rage
the decay
just under-foot
I’m the secret that is pushing up from the long-forgotten bog of human compliance and complacency
I’m the fire within a fire
and I’m burning brighter
now
I can tell you of the monsters walking round in nice clothing
and brushed hair
needle-toothed niceties
But I cannot tell you of this light within
because it’s nameless
and only those that
wander the badlands
see it
It’s a glitter in the eye
a pungent taste
a space
a place
a million
things
and
nothing
There is no title
I bear
no banner
or tag
no meme
no mother
here.
All pieces are newly crafted and posted shortly after in adherence to the rules of the challenge. All the photos are mine unless otherwise stated.
Entry for Day 15 of 100 Days of Poetry Challenge by @d-pend.
Join the Steemit School here: https://discord.gg/yZvYjfM organized by @dobartim on Discord.
my yt channel https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCBk3MjXsRH6L9S3IRhASklw
You know, I'm not too surprised about the lack of responses here. It is a similar situation I feel to my editorial on my journey with depression. Sometimes, people feel as if they intrude, to even let you know they've read something, let alone to say what they think of it.
And they need the first person to take the first step, to throw themselves out there, to make the gauche remark that relates one person's experience to another's, and to try and relate, and compare sorrows.
But then again, isn't that sort of the point of poetry? Perhaps that is one of the reasons people like poetry so much, but like speaking of it much less - we like exploring poems on our own, in the privacy of our parlors, and have them speak to us, and speak back to them. In the privacy that allows us to bare our souls, and to not feel ashamed for seeing other people naked.
What can you say, to someone who will tell you, as you would, that they are not brave, at least, not brave for sharing, because these experiences no longer hold pain for them? Who will tell you that they appreciate the experiences for the person they've made them, for the grit they now wear as gilt, and use in their art as paint?
You tell them: I see you. I love you.
(Also, this piece is messy, as life, in how it ties these three disparate aspects together, of the family-life pain, of the fake-art, and of the wildness that is born of running away, and of creating one's own art. But you know, I still don't know if one can tie it up any better, without cutting an entire section or two away, and thus becoming a different piece entirely.)
This whole piece reads to me as if some parallel self had written it. My Mother was both the one who abandoned me, but remained much to my detriment physically present and the one who doled out the physical and mental abuse.
No mother here
<is something that rings through the lives of the motherless and for those who were abused it distorts every sense of warmth and/or primal trust.
and the happy happy I don't know how many times I have cursed the TV screen when presented with the "happy" families on holidays the kid going home getting their favorite meal cooked and sleeping in their room untouched by time ... it literally insults my inner child and she sulks ...
The streets and running have been my way of survival
the dark places people don’t see
the night babes' wonderment is mine
and still I rise from the darkness
I’m the ember under the extinguished fire left
and I’m burning
still
< and yeah after all the crap life has throw and me I am here but history also shows the pattern of flight ...
@mamadini the vulnerability and intimacy within your writing echos and resounds of resilience found within secret savage realms hidden from the wicked blind. Courageousness conjured from cruelty, renewed like the Phoenix in the flames of solitude.
i love this, thank you for bringing truth and resilience to the paper. it is so refreshing to to come at it how you do.. honest & real, powerful as hell, they do not get to get to you... brighter now you burn.....empowering for real....owning all that belongs to you, to us, ...the fire, the light, the glitter & companion of death... You are a wise & powerful force.
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Wow. This is stunning and hard to read. I honestly had to come back and finish it after a break. Having been through some rough things in my childhood/life, this was a little too good.
I didn't want to leave without commenting, but it's taking me a bit to find my 'voice' so to speak. I do well at writing fiction, but when it comes to responding to someone else's art, life/expression, I feel like I'm always floundering with words.