Torn

It might sound strange but I long to hate you in a way
coz disliking you would make things easier for me
easier to let go of all those memories that pull me down
easier to accept the times you inspired me are over, gone
but love has never been easy for me
though loving you filled me with glee
now all I see are tears and scars
what once my heart let grow you tore apart
by choosing who you are, a myth
a broken dream, bad luck not bliss
absorbed by fakery and glory
a wandering soul, uncertain still – what is your story?
I still don’t know but time will tell
why you so proudly chose this hell
of blocking those who care for you
who do not play you for a fool
whose demons match your own, your fears
who craved to hold you till your sky had cleared
of darkness, clouds and raging storms
unscared to fight with you that swarm
of indecisiveness, rejection, gloom
your happiness my weakness then, my doom

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A Letter to my Future Daughter, Part II

The hardest lesson of them all is to understand that most people do not wish to to help you when just a phone call would be sufficient to lift your chances. Phrases of support voiced without intent are nothing but an empty promise, leaving you dangling in the air of false hope and ultimate despair. Do not walk into that trap and let it cage your dreams. Stand tall no matter what. Leave the fake cheerleaders behind with a smile, wish them well but move on to find a better life – one that suits you and no one else. And when you make it, do not forget to reach out and offer that helping hand no one was willing to give you. It’s not a handout helping other people find their success, it’s not a weakness either. It is a gesture of humility to aid those who have the talents you miss and often wish you had but don’t have the means to live them out or nourish them. Be kind where you felt in your past kindness lacked, then give your heart a chance to heal. You are never too old to start anew, don’t allow the world to tell you that. Don’t ever feel too broken either, too crushed by rejection or failure to contribute what you have learned. Someone will appreciate your journey even if you feel you can’t because trust me, someone out there feels as lonely as you often do and needs your strength. After all, a soul with scars – more than anything – is beautiful and full of depth.

Big City Monday

Snow on Sunday night, mud on Monday morning
Long lines everywhere, people are growling
No trains in sight, everything delayed
Two flakes of snow and my city’s half-crazed
Central Station’s busy, I order a Chai
The guy at the counter unfriendly, I sigh
My Evil Queen outfit the smoke screen I need
Paired with her posture, I feel more upbeat
Until on the boardwalk I see a dead mouse
Its corpse fully smashed, in slush fully dowsed
The sight of it breaks me, my eyes water fast
My issues on hold now, this image will last

Taking a Breath

Sometimes loving yourself requires all the strength you have left, but it is always worth it because no one else can ever fill that void you’ve created through harsh criticism and self-hatred. As long as you fear being yourself and hide your scars, you will never allow your heart to dance and take the chance of living rather than existing in the shadows of your dreams and the left-over glory of everyone you put above yourself.

A New Beginning

You made me happy for a while although you were never really mine
but the dream of us kept me alive in a phase of turmoil and transition
and now my memory of you’s not tainted anymore
my heart a little stronger because I fell for you and so much more
that spark once felt my life has changed in so many unexpected ways
and I am grateful for that gift of knowing what it means to fully wish
to love and feel it run so deep it swept me truly off my feet
and catapulted me onto ass until I learned to walk again with newfound sass
willing to embrace my life and take a chance to love myself now for a change

A Letter to My Future Daughter

Don’t hide behind a hashtag. Be the change you want to see. Support your fellow women. Believe them when they tell you a man you know has molested them. Don’t belittle them in response. Don’t tell them that’s just how it is. Don’t be a silent victim, speak up if you have been harassed. Teach your children to have self-respect and voices of their own. Raise your sons to be feminists and your daughters to be respectful to them in return. Don’t expect women to be better than men. We are not. We are just as flawed. Don’t call yourself goddess or a queen. We are all humans. Just imagine if men called themselves gods and kings. Don’t call other women bitches just because they disagree with you. Don’t sell yourself short for a relationship. Don’t objectify other women or reduce them to their looks. As an artist, create the content that you miss. Write female leads without abuse. Don’t tell their stories in relation to a man but let them be strong for themselves. Don’t support violence. Don’t promote, condone or further it on stage or screen. Don’t be a part of what in real life you oppose. Take responsibility for your actions. Simply practice what you preach.

Sunday Stroll

20°, the sun unusually strong for a day in mid October. A woman leans against a tree, her feet bare on the grass still luscious green. Her bike right next to her, her head buried in a book – she makes me pause. A group of seniors playing cards on a stump. Fallen trees all around them like wooden corpses as the last remnants of a storm so heavy it knocked out an entire city for a day. Unusual for us. I look at them, the splinters, bark and branches. They make me sad. All those golden crowns depleted on the ground, the random specks of red like drops of blood. My park was wounded badly, I can see that now. And every tree that lost its grip with roots too weak to withstand a tempest on muddy ground slows my steps and makes my heart cry out. How vile that force of nature, a tantrum really, sudden, crass. Such a reflection of my year or less self-centered: the world at large. That’s why the woman sitting by the tree caught my attention. Engulfed still by her story, she oozes calm.

Phansanity

and there it is again, that craving
for a stage, a mask, a line
after all those years not fading
just numbed perhaps for a little while
when the dreamer’s lost her courage
her heart broken one too many times
and the beast of sanity felt nourished
by faking hunger for a normal life