i am not what i was
much more than i am
standing here with a voice that can make love to minds
creating mental foreplay and orgasmic rhythms
to tease and satisfy all that they crave...
unable to satisfy my own cravings
so i search deep inside
among the clutter and chaos
for a new voice to be heard
it is here,
upon my shoulder where my heart sits
absorbing blows fists have missed
teetering on the brink of exhaustion
catching wayward tears these eyes have banished
reminding my head to sit squarely
as the weight of my world bares down.
it is here,
in my hands that still grasp at rainbows
and silver linings
while battered fingers hold rusty needles
to patch fraying seams
within this thinning soul
and the pen beckons to be a catalyst.
it is here,
between my legs
where tips of fingers were licked clean of innocence.
buried children here...
once by my own shovel, twice by God's
with no eulogy to speak of.
pulled my tribe from here-my namesakes, beautiful and strong.
finally self worth closed the temple doors to jokers and thieves
it is here,
just behind shades of indigo
where visual wisdom senses what cannot be seen
cast insight into yesterday, today and possibilities
it is here,
behind bolted doors
with keys strung across rib cages
in dark basements of my mind
on stairs leading to nowhere
all swept under tattered rugs
trying to ignore which seeps through threads
of much walked upon
it is here,
deep inside where the child still dreams
still cries in the corner
who runs to the woman
who has often fell from grace
who is covered by wings
with prayers etched into each quill
my voice is here
whispering through the chaos
praying through the silence
.........
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
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6 comments:
From one who is not who she was either- this is beautiful. Deeply felt.
Is this the best piece you've ever written? I can dig the following:
"standing here with a voice that can make love to minds
creating mental foreplay and orgasmic rhythms"
and
"it is here,
between my legs
where tips of fingers were licked clean of innocence.
buried children here...
once by my own shovel, twice by God's with no eulogy to speak of."
Damn good piece...
i am not what i was
much more than i am
those opening lines made me catch my breath... the remainder of the peace took that same breath completely away.
i'm so glad i was able to partake of this. thank you for visiting me today and leading me here... i'll definitely be back. often.
Peace.
shelle, your elegance and passion shines in this piece ma...beautifully...
"it is here,
in my hands that still grasp at rainbows
and silver linings
while battered fingers hold rusty needles
to patch fraying seams
within this thinning soul
and the pen beckons to be a catalyst."
and you oblige the pen so gracefully
"pulled my tribe from here-my namesakes, beautiful and strong.
finally self worth closed the temple doors to jokers and thieves"
"it is here,
between my legs
where tips of fingers were licked clean of innocence.
buried children here...
once by my own shovel, twice by God's
with no eulogy to speak of.
pulled my tribe from here-my namesakes, beautiful and strong.
finally self worth closed the temple doors to jokers and thieves"
there is nothing more for me to say than...wow. nothing else would do this justice....
unable to satisfy my own cravings
so i search deep inside
among the clutter and chaos
for a new voice to be heard
and
it is here,
deep inside where the child still dreams
still cries in the corner
who runs to the woman
who has often fell from grace
who is covered by wings
with prayers etched into each quill
my voice is here
whispering through the chaos
praying through the silence
My most favorite parts.
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