Lauryn Hill just wanted reciprocity
but see, I just want your honesty.
Did you ever love me?
not some idealized fantasy
the scarred jaded being that I am
that couldn’t live up to your expectations
and neediness and clinginess.
We fell into a mess of codependency,
We called it love,
We pretended to be happy.
The need to write wakes me up in the night
Thoughts ricochet off of dreams, memories
Lucidity. Superego runs wild
Translucent clarity breeds vivacity.
Sharp focus without bifocal lenses
Breath trembles on cotton pillowcases
Merging the conscious with the imagined
Unconscious comprehension.
Past tears and traumas dominate this realm
Phallic fantasies frolic in my mind
Freeing pain but concealing its power
Reminiscing during REM Cycles.
Courage is getting out of bed when the voices in my head scream louder than the sound of my beating heart.
Courage is stomaching two anxiety pills and one SSRI before getting out of bed even though my father thinks I’m a drug addict.
Courage is letting go of something comfortable in order to pursue something that sets my soul on fire.
Courage is the heart-wrenching strength to go on when it feels like everything is going wrong.
Photographs cards ticket stubs
Memories of all that once was
And all it used to be
I see you in everything around me
I see resentment every time i see you
I see potential
I see passion
I see rejection
I see all I don’t want to feel
And then
My vision is blurred and I see nothing else
Be careful what you ask of the Universe
She listens
She responds
I have found my inspiration
but I may have lost my lover.
Past wounds penetrated by the slice of fresh memories
and the pain isn’t foreign to me
bleeding into reality like the blood on the leaves
the fantasy of bodies flying over car hoods onto the concrete
spilling into the earth like tears spilled onto leather car seats
that absorbed my pain n muffled my screams
this time you will hear me and this time you will see me.
I’ve reached the point in my relationship where I’m uncomfortable enough to write again. Poetry flows out of my pens like tears from my eyes, and I’m not sure how to feel.
Does anyone else get writer’s block from being too content in life?
