TKO

You can only fight
for love so many times
before it knocks you out,
hits you between the eyes.
That technical knock out
Teddy P sang about.
Love keeps knocking you down
and you keep jumping right back
up, sparring in the ring of life
with love. Eventually, though,
you have to ask yourself
if love keeps on fighting you,
is it really love and is love
really worth fighting for
if you’re the only one who’s fighting?
You keep moving around the
boxing ring floor
wondering if you get up again
will you finally feel loved
or get knocked the f**k out
by some “hold on, love
is coming” or by some
“I wanna love you, but…”
The kinds of love that
only leave you bruised
and confused, stumbling
around the ring
trying to come back to you.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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She’ll Never Tell

Today’s poem is nowhere near finished, but the goal is to get something down every day. So, here’s the poem for Day 24 of National Poetry Month:

She diced up her own soul
for him because he devalued her
whole self. She crushed her
self into the shoebox life
he envisioned for her, made
his dream a reality while she
was trapped in a nightmare.
Broken. Though she was broken
down for him, he refused
to help put her back together. He
only wanted to be free, but
what he couldn’t see
is that she’ll never tell a soul
how it feels to not be whole;
she’ll just continue to dice
her own soul, and since she’s
the one with the knife
there’s no way she’ll find
what she needs to make her
whole again. Still,
she’ll never tell.

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Trapped

Inspiration is all around the artist; he only needs to be observant in order to tap into that inspiration. Last night I was watching Criminal Minds, the only show I can watch from sun up to sun down. I love me some Derek Morgan and Jason Gideon, but don’t get me started…Anyway, this particular episode was about a combat veteran who had a snap with reality and imagined himself back in war. He became a serial killer because of that break in reality. He was trapped in him memories. I felt terrible for what he was experiencing (yes, I know he’s a fictional character, but I also know that a lot of fiction has its roots in reality). It’s frustrating to watch a country take individuals and place them in such traumatic situations, but then bring them back home and not do enough to help them assimilate back into their lives.

From that episode came the following poem; here’s the poem for Day 23 of National Poetry Month:

Trapped

I’m trapped in my mind and
I have no way to get out. No
one can see the prison bars
but me as I try to crawl through
them to find my sanity. All you
can see is me trying to break free
from the memories of a war
that’s long forgotten to those
who never had to fight it. Yet
everywhere I turn, I see the face
of the enemy. The clerk in the
grocery store has been trying to
kill me since the day I was born.
To make me a stillborn. And the
man who delivers my mail is
prisoner guard of my jail. I scream
at him when I see him, tell him
to let me be free, but he just
ignores me. Why won’t you
send someone to save me?
You allowed the enemy to
capture me, held me in captivity,
while peeling the flesh away. You
think you see my flesh roaming
the streets; no one knows this
isn’t me. My body was left on a
battlefield. My soul was blasted
away. And the kid behind the weapon
was no more than 16, but because
of the death look I saw in his eyes,
I haven’t been able to sleep. I close
my eyes and try to escape the
nightmare I see unfolding in front
of my eyes. Damn you! Don’t you
hear me screaming? Why won’t you
help me? Didn’t I help you
when you needed me?

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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The Art of Unloving

The Art of Unloving

The art of unloving is
the most delicate of surgeries.
It requires a steady hand & focused
determination to spend hours tediously
removing the years of built up feelings.
Sometimes the harmful nostalgia
brings tears and fears that the heart
cannot be healed, but the hindrance of
disbelief only causes the surgery to
proceed endlessly. And sometimes
the unloved tries to stuff feelings
back in where they don’t fit or belong.
Don’t make the mistake of being
afraid to move on because
the art of unloving like all great art
takes time and attention. And, sometimes,
revision. So, just remember,
it’s important to wash your hands
before any important surgery so
before you begin the art of unloving
take care to wash your hands carefully
so an area, once cleaned,
won’t be re-infected and you won’t
return to a space that was unaffected
by your presence. The art of unloving
allows healthy remission of diseased
feelings, so what once affected you
won’t be able to make you sick anymore.
Begin the art of unloving with care
and precision and never self-doubt
your ability to complete the surgery.
Because once the pain is gone,
you’ll finally be able to move on
to a place where unloving has no
voice or place. And that’s where the
loving can finally begin.

Day 22 of the challenge and I’m loving this. Not every poem was at its best, but because I agreed to do this challenge, it has made me pay attention more. To everything. Because I know that tomorrow another poem must be written, so I’m always looking and listening, trying to tap into inspiration for my next poem. National Poetry Month! I love it baby!!!

It’s my hope that at the end of the 30 days, I will continue to tap into that source that helps me create, that helps me see stories that others cannot or will not see, without me creating the story and placing it before them. Because how do you know you’re a writer? You know you’re a writer when you write because you can’t not write. You know you’re a writer when, quite simply, you write.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

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He Asked Me to Write a Poem

Here’s the poem for Day 21:

He Asked Me to Write a Poem

He asked me to write a poem about him
as if though writing poems were the key to
fulfilling dreams. He thought I’d somehow
be able to do what fate couldn’t do. No line
of poetry can re-write history so no matter
how many poems I write, there’s no way to
resuscitate a person who doesn’t want to live.
Skeletons and ghostly apparitions stalk our dreams
and waking life too. That’s why I know poetry
will never revive what we two once had. But he
asked me to write a poem, something to soften
the edges of our jagged past. And since misery
loves company, I happily wrote this poem
in remembrance of a love that will never ever be…
again.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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You Weren’t My First

I wish I could tell you
that you were my first, but
you weren’t. I can’t imagine
what it would mean to you
to know that you were the first,
the first to promise me pleasure,
then to deliver me pain as you entered me
and ripped my insides out, leaving me
feeling empty. The blood staining
my sheets and my hands is nothing new.

I know you’re waiting for me to
tell you that I never loved another like
I love you. And you want me to say
that what we share is magic, something
that could never be felt between two
other people. But lies don’t build fires
and there’s nothing to be gained by trying
to build a fire with kindling drenched
with my tears. No, you weren’t my first.

You were not the first to sell me a love
that could not hold the fullness of me
cuz you were only interested in filling yourself,
so your love was full of holes. You weren’t
the first to take my love and use it as a
weapon to damage me. And you weren’t
the first to look past me, trying to find value
in anyone but me. I know you’re waiting
to hear that you were my first. That you’re
hoping the blood on my sheets means
you took me where no other person took me,
but I have to be straight with you,
you weren’t my first. There have been
many before you. Many who used my feelings
like a samurai sword to try and kill me.
The blood will continue to flow and
stain my sheets and cover my hands.
Cuz no you weren’t the first
to try and kill me. And you won’t be
the last.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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Dreams Are Fragile

Just finished reading The Stranger by Harlen Coben. Exceptional book, as always. The protagonist mentions the American Dream a lot in the story because the appearance of the stranger who spills people’s greatest secrets is a malicious threat to the other characters’ lives– their living the American Dream. So, toward the end of the book Adam says, “Dreams are fragile.” I wrote the line down, knowing I’d use it to compose today’s poem.

So, here’s the poem for Day 19 of National Poetry Month:

He told me dreams are fragile,
that they don’t last. How do I
tell him that I dream of him
every day? That my every dream
is about him? How do I tell him
that I dream of loving him forever
and that I dream of holding him
in my arms until I can no longer
hold him so he has to hold me?
He told me that dreams are
transitory things that fall apart
upon the slightest whim. He said
don’t build your life upon
the foundation of a dream
because all dreams eventually
turn into nightmares. What seems
like the stuff that dreams are
made of today surprisingly
becomes the stuff that keeps
you from being able to sleep tomorrow.
Then he asked me to love him
forever and I cried because
I’d spent my life dreaming of
loving him & finally I knew
this was just another dream
that could never come true.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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Empty Graves

The wind gathered up my soul
and carried it so far away, I
thought I would fall. And we
all know I’m afraid of heights, so
I yelled into the wind, though
my voice was thrown back into
my face: Please bring my soul back home.

The wind chuckled at my foolishness
and took my soul to the place with
mass graves, where all my ancestors
were laying. The wind sat me down gently,
left me free to roam among the graves
of my ancestors. The wind knew what no one
has ever said, that the crumbling & earthen
graves were empty, that my ancestor’s souls
were so far away from home, only my
longing & searching could bring them back
to me.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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walls of fire

a fire cannot burn
from lukewarm feelings;
the cold in my soul
won’t allow me
to ignite a fire
that will burn too freely.
i just want you
to love me, but you’re so
wrapped up in what won’t
let you be free. how can
two prisoners stoke a fire
to burn down strong walls
when we will need those walls
to protect us from each other?

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

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No — I’m Not Crazy

Most days find me hovering
above the thin line between
sanity & insanity, knowing
the least little tilt could
push me completely over
to the side where the gate
will be closed behind me.
Once you’re on the other
side you will never be able
to venture back to sanity.

I’m tired of being insane
in sane places, where no one
ever notices me. I close my
eyes to lions walking up and
down the street, watching
and looking to see who’ll come
running up behind me. But
who’s gonna be crazy enough
to approach me?

Someone’s gonna come along and
pick up the earth, hold it in
the palm of his hands
like one small, round egg
and crack it open along the
tender line of the universe’s edge
like a large glass cake bowl—
and we’ll all slide out
and crack our heads on the
sidewalk of the universe.

Then someone will come along
and try to save me
because they knew all along.
I tried to tell you
but you wouldn’t listen;
you tried to tell me I was crazy
when I could see what you
refused to see. Now, I’ll ask you
which one of us is crazy?

Peace & Love,
Rosalind

P.S. Take a look inside my newest book of poems, Blues of a Love Junkie, a love story told in the form of poems. Like all love stories, this one is full of twists and turns, pain and hurt, smiles and tears, it’s full of the life of loving. http://www.amazon.com/Rosalind-Guy/e/B00BGH5F88

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