Am I brave enough yet to emerge,
to escape the regret,
to dismantle,
to demolish the surge of this
plundering ache,
to curb
and to conquer
and famish the quaking;
this suffering silence;
this violent breath taking.
Am I whole enough yet
to prohibit the shaking,
snaking my flesh with
its mandible gaping,
and I,
an invertebrate
like it’s tilling
a field in my pause.

– I AM –

I am soul enough, rousing to roar
– but will this awareness
alone be the door to implore me to forfeit,
and withdraw from
this former attachment
to lapse while I stall,
while in fragments
I catch myself falling
I submit to this whiplash of
“worth less” and war,

mauling through self-harm,
rejecting my core.

Perhaps in my rapture
my courage will capture
the thrill of detaching,
forgiving myself for my lack of evolving;
for dressing tornadoes I’d wade in,
while anchored by nought but
the grief I was holding
by swallowing pain
– almost framing each frame –
as the slower the memories,
the faster they came and the longer they’d last
it would tighten their hold,
and the closer they’d weave they would blindfold
and frighten,
and once I was frozen and broken,
– eyes widened –

they’d leave…

Perhaps fate will gift me
a shift from my history,
to bask in my victory
and mask my past injuries
and race to new mysteries
and questions,
and answers, un-asked
but desperately fancied
as I take on this task
to have finally been caste,
to have grown from my hate,
to have flown past a place
where my purpose was faceless
to race to a moment I have hungered to taste
in a time I had dreamt of
instead of erased –

to a piece of the peace I deserve,
and a truth to embrace.

Will the aching forsake me at last
and the healing re-take me – its journey as vast
as the path it will trace
to re-shape me,
I ask,
and will it profess to regress to
a time I could heave less,
bereaved less, and
survive long enough to emerge
at my boldest and best?

The answer,

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 April 2018


i am being crushed
by the weight
of your absence
and if it does not lift
i may never
stand again

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 24 April, 2017



am at

a complete loss

to understand the workings

of your mind; the cogs that turn

to wind your clock

have seized

and the only hands

that pass time now

are mine


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 22 April, 2017



This night carries me,
in the back pocket
of dirty minds and
shabby dreams where I
and molded,
press against this folded denim,
warm and splayed with
arms outstretched,
for another day; but

what if I turn my head
to over-peek the top
of these fraying jeans,
grasping threads
to keep me still within its seams
– will the exhilaration
of watching where I’ve
just this moment been
allow me inspiration
asleep awake, to boldly look,
clinging to the back end of
these thoughts that write me,
penned in ink,
like a pre-determined book?

Perhaps I should just
– winded –
forward face,
ignoring the sour stench
of this unmoving,
waking race,
stalking through the darkness
in a covered veil
at quiet pace,
destabilising future steps,
accepting this acquired taste,
processing my obsessive needs
and bathing clean my crumpled face
in chafing tears that fear progression,
awash, alone,
in one more nightly session.

Devoid of light,
here, ye, the theme:
this narrow, stunted, damned depression,
the fabric of a self made bed –
bottomless pit of expression
unstitching dreams of fortune
as I swelter, melting hope
white of noise,
inside my broken head.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 17 August, 2015