strength

SELF-INFLICTION

I scoop this body from its mind, and
on the cusp of extinction, it wails;
insane, lost, romanticising surrender.
Perhaps, my arm the mast, this tissue the flag,
perhaps at last I will tire of this terrorism
and sign on again
for a new amendment of love.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 October, 2017

AFTER LOSS

There comes a time when
moving forward
is a monumental act
of self-preservation;
walking away,
a feat of rediscovery;
and letting go,
the key to finding true purpose.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017

JUST AS MIGHTY

My voice bleeds
like the Third Amendment does rights
and in its whisper I am caged
but just as mighty

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 25 April, 2017

IT’S OVER

It's Over

Let it go
because breathing
is more important
than not;
holding tight
is for arms –
not lungs

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 23 April, 2017

OVER AND OUT

Here it comes, another one of your excuses… without a doubt you’ll shower me with a thunderstorm of abuses. I bite my tongue and bleed it out in silence, trying to extinguish the fire this time without further violence.

Leave – just fly! – you’re the pilot I tell myself, the living violet, not the dried potpourri, nor the owner of any karmic debt. You have nothing to repay or repent.  You (I repeat) are in bloom and important, and not to be judged for being lost and distorted.

I cannot stand for being taken (my craft – this vehicle) and internally shriveled up.  I am not that crush you once had, I wish to spew, and I don’t any longer blush from that complicated fad that fed me while I ate of you.

And yet, I refuse to hate you.  I refuse to allow myself to hate that I hate you, drowning, as I know I would, in obsolescence.  I crave independence now like I never have and never expected I could, and although I wish I was not alone, my future looks better, brighter, right… and like it should.

Most, and I’m not nearly most, would crumble as they lose their footing, always two steps back for every one step they refuse to cease on putting down.  I find it that sad that most would rather be the clown, instead of simply taking steps to move around and find their way to surer ground.  It takes time to get it right, I’ve heard it said, but there is never endless time to wait, and hope, and beg for answers to delight themselves in light bulbs right inside their very head. I shake my head.

So, I’ll push myself to lose the fear amongst the crowd of filth my ears are forced to hear and then erase. I’ll appear to shake, because without the words, the voice I cannot make will take my mind off the matter here at stake – which is to say, the future of our bonding that I need to break.  And maybe by not speaking you’ll get the message and find the meaning in what I won’t attempt to say, although I’d be straining to keep my voice at bay because the many things I really wish to say would only explode me, implode my tears, and blow you away… So, lest I do you harm, I won’t arm this throat with noise, this tongue with vibration, and I’ll resist the temptation, “Because,” I tell myself… and then I hesitate, exasperated, trying to find the words to state it…

Because not only do you deserve an empty voice, and wordless words, and eyes that speak a language you could never start to read, but you deserve to leave without another part of me to plunder, and beyond that, you deserve nothing more but to forever wonder what I might have done or what I might instead have said: words falling out of me like bullets to be interpreted with that empty understanding in your head, and then, to be swallowed down like pills that fill that void inside your chest. I know you thrive on pain of any kind – and so, to state it simply, in that, I won’t oblige.

I won’t be taken to a place I cannot go.  I won’t be drawn into your game, handing out chances like they’re one and the same because they’re not – and they’ve expired.  I’ve expired.  Every time you lied I knew it was my time to retire from this place of anywhere but my own space.  I knew it was time to reclaim the stolen person I became, and I knew if I didn’t it would hurt, and I knew I’d be maimed… and yet, I allowed it this long all the same.

So, as these thoughts are penned without a sound inside the mind I use to redefine this moment for the final time – and all this while the noise I see you make exits your lips, and every excuse I see you miss and every reason you give that I choose to ignore with a gentle spark of future bliss – I finally realise I do actually see through your pungent purpose.  I see you decommissioned and losing the race with my permission, and I – that is, the person you have never known and never will – I do enjoy this moment of lingering perfectly calm and still.  I’m empowered by the strength of my own peace throughout your shrill.  I have grown because I had fallen out of touch with my own way and my own will and it’s a good thing you came to ruin me, because, without that, I would not have emerged so alive and so gracefully skilled: the wordsmith in me, proud in this moment to be aroused enough to self-compose and finally heal.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 7th April, 2017

POSTERIOR SUFFERANCE

 

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

what if I turn my head
to over-peek the top
of these fraying jeans,
instead,
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,
walking,
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 –
this
bottomless pit of expression
unstitching dreams of fortune
as I swelter, melting hope
again,
apathetic,
white of noise,
inside my broken head.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 17 August, 2015

WOKEN

 

I swam in the dream
that drowned me
– once –
but I swallowed its soul
and floated away

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 14 November, 2011

THOUGHT #296

The first burden determines the weight of all those that come after.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 March, 2011