Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by BelovedDreamer, Nov 27, 2006.

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  1. BelovedDreamer

    BelovedDreamer Well-Known Member

    I cannot imagine being more tired.
    My every thought aches.
    My eyes feel like deep thumbprint bruises,
    cupped in a half-moon circle of sagging exhaustion.
    Nothing matters, but everything hurts.
    I don’t know what to do or how to change.
    I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I even want to learn.
    Too much learning lately.
    The meaning of regret.
    The weighty cost of selling yourself in pieces
    or throwing yourself wholesale into a purpose.
    The cost of knowing and the complete impossibility of unknowing.
    Everything, nothing, anything. Purposelessness.
    Unintended grief. Untended grief.
    The price of misunderstanding.
    That is all. That is everything.
    A long series of misunderstandings,
    misinterpretations, misgivings, misguidance,
    misreading, misapprehension,
    misconstruction, misconception, missed chances.
    Missing pieces. Mistakes. Misery.
    After a time one begins to wonder if there is anything else.
    The sheer pitiless, senseless, impartial force of it all.
    The brutal strength.
    It strains at the hands that seek to hold on.
    Drags the struggling body below the water, negating the frantic treading.
    Eventually you are emptied but left so full that the seams seem fit to burst.
    The scalding torrent pushes at the fragile envelope you make,
    threatening to force its way out,
    burst like flood waters from out your eyes,
    between your lips, between your legs,
    to fountain from your ears and tear its way out from your belly button,
    to leak down your arms and across your palms
    and wind its way between your fingers
    to drip from overly sensitized, painfully numb fingertips.
    I AM A WRITER. With no words to describe what I feel.
    No way to make this known.
    I am a writer with a million words at my disposal.
    But I fail a million and one times to make sense of this senselessness.
    To make a pattern of this nothing that does not make the nothingness worse.
    I still remember being called a visionary, but what sort of visionary gets so lost?
    So lost she trips over her own feet. Trips on her own tongue.
    Trips up everyone else who comes near her.
    I break everything I touch but I cannot stop. I crave sensation.
    I am a writer. But what does that mean? Anything at all?
    I am a writer. A woman. A child. Nothing.
    But I feel so much that I must be something.
    I feel so much that I cannot be any one thing.
    I feel to the point of loss.
    I feel past forgiving.
    My cup overfloweth and yet I still want.
    I cannot hold enough but I want to spill myself clean.
    Everything that spills and drips and falls in tidal fury
    are the things I wish to hold onto, that I need to hold onto.
    Continuance finds no purchase. I am utterly overwhelmed.
    I feel so helpless and yet so guilty.
    But I am at a loss as to what I can or could have done differently.
    I’m filled with a countless number of shoulds, but that does no good.
    Life has nothing to do with should or would.
    Could or did is all that has ever made any difference at all.
    My throat burns and I am overwhelmed with nausea.
    My lungs pulse and my heart flutters, the beat so rapid it makes it hard to think.
    None of this matters, “should” matter, but somehow it gets in the way of everything.
    A nothing roadblock in the way of the world.
  2. Oh Gawd Girl... You completely blow what's left of my mind- you truly do. I stand in utter confusion compared to your succinct expression of pain, so deep, so real. I drown mine. It hurts so much to read you - I can barely stand it. But it means so much the same time. You've far more courage than i do...

    (I wish you'd answer sometimes)
    Last edited: Nov 27, 2006
  3. BelovedDreamer

    BelovedDreamer Well-Known Member

    We are all equally courageous. That we write despite everything. That in pain our instinct is to write. There is the oddest sort of bravery in that. A fact which I often fail to recognize. There are so many destructive responses, corrupting responses to despair and the anger and sorrow so many of us feel. I like to think that it makes us, not weak for responding as we do to grief, but more oddly alive.
    And I am truly sorry I so rarely respond. I never know what to say really. Sometimes I just sit and cry and smile in this odd amalgamation of emotion. Then I write. More poetry. And I post that when I feel it might have some value. I guess that is how I reply. I really don't know how else to respond except by saying thank you (for taking the time, for caring, for the small kindnesses) and then forcing myself to live another moment. The fact that I am still here is my response I suppose. It is not right of me I know. When you all take the time to read and respond so kindly to what is posted, to not acknowledge it or respond to that and to others work is ridiculous. But I do not know what to say or feel qualified or present enough to make a worthy reply. All of my words seem like such deluded foolishness. I fear soundng pretentious or ridiculous or disengenious. Even this post makes me gag a bit as I write it. The poetry I put up I can't seem to help but to write and post, it pores out of me in a relentless torrent. I couldn't stop posting it if I tried. But this part of the forum is what keeps me on the site and is one of the things that stands between myself and unraveling amid this lonely emptiness.
  4. Girl, when you reply, you REALLY reply. (wow) I have to write more but can't think of anything right now except someone pointed out a website to me called "post secret". To support the webmaster of this fabulous place, where people send in handmade postcards with their unliveable secrets, I bought one of his books and about 1/3 through is a note from someone that says (and I quote)

    "I don't feel entirely alone when I go through the postcards on this website, or rather, I still feel alone, but I feel like there are a lot more people alone with me"

    That's how I feel when you post Beloved. It's much...

    Last edited: Nov 27, 2006
  5. BelovedDreamer

    BelovedDreamer Well-Known Member

    Aaah...PostSecret. I check it every Sunday like clockwork. The secrets move me. And like so many others have to admit having sent in my own. Though I have never seen one of them posted. I love reading the little bits of lives and laughing and crying and wondering half-hopeful half-fearful that I might know one of the tellers. I keep thinking it would be interesting to do something similar at my university. People my age are so full of need and despair and creativity and tend, partly due to age, partly due to generation in my opinion, to be bottled up so tight full of secret fears and loves that they are near to bursting. I know there must be others like me who carry strange or heavy burdens or odd quirks that it would do them good to share, however anonymously.
  6. Yeah its a great site I just recently discovered - a great idea and it's a great book too (the latest), Frank Warren himself wrote in it:
    "Sometimes when we think we are keeping a secret, that secret is actually keeping us"

  7. theleastofthese

    theleastofthese SF Friend Staff Alumni

    Dearly Beloved;

    I have to agree with FAL1: you blow away what's left of my mind!!!:eek:hmy: :eek:hmy: :eek:hmy: You describe some of my similar feelings... only so much better written!:wink: I hope that by posting your feelings here - and thank you for sharing your work with us! - you can keep some sort of grip on your life. I want you to go on living, not always in pain or misery, but I want to know you're breathing in and out and not too unhappy with things as they are at the time.:smile:

    I love you dearly. Feel like I know you, like we're friends - could easily sit for hours talking over coffee or tea!:smile:

    sending you lots of love and hugs and strength,

    least xoxoxox
  8. Petal

    Petal SF dreamer Staff Member Safety & Support SF Supporter

    :wow: awesome :rose:
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