Drowned in a moonlit canvas,
Our shadows played upon the water.
A reflection,
Unfeeling,
Of what I've now become.
We held hands with paper dolls and toys soldiers.
Dressed our youth with balloons-
Party hats.
Living just beyond innocence
Reaching for Godliness.
I blink.
Are you there?
Your mouth holds my conviction,
But your venom draws me deeper.
Please touch me into feeling something.
Found this in a journal I had written from college circa 1996 and decided to add:
Written by Tracy Medberry Copyright 2012
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction [and non fiction]. -- Virginia Woolf. I don't have a whole lot of money, but this will serve as my room. A space for uncensored writing, a space to discover my voice.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Bread
Wrapped in sheets threaded with a strange loneliness,
I realize I cannot give anymore.
No more hide and seek.
I no longer know the rules in this rabbit hole-
A place where I’m always “It”.
A place where I’m always “It”.
I crawl, face to the ground, to find you, but you are nowhere.
In the looking glass, I see a worn and stale reflection.
It shatters into several pieces against the final blow of guilt,
I make it suffer.
In games past, you've shielded yourself against my honesty
And strike a jab when I’m not looking.
And strike a jab when I’m not looking.
Instead of chasing you into emptiness,
I gather the sharp pieces which would once protect me and walk into undiscovered territory,
Unaware of what I'm in search of.
I find a man dressed in robes of white who has turned to stone.
Who is he? Where did he go?
I shed a tear for his loss and mine.
I gather the sharp pieces which would once protect me and walk into undiscovered territory,
Unaware of what I'm in search of.
I find a man dressed in robes of white who has turned to stone.
Who is he? Where did he go?
I shed a tear for his loss and mine.
I’m forced to grieve now, no longer able to numb my pain
Beneath shards of glass and dark secrets.
I stand at this altar and lay them at His feet,
Hoping this cold statue will reemerge a man in flesh,
Able to exchange my weapons for a piece of bread.
Able to exchange my weapons for a piece of bread.
Perhaps if I sleep here all night, a miracle will come by morning.
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