She wasn’t fragile like a flower
Or a figurine made of paper-thin glass
Handled with delicacy
Because of its beauty and value;
She was not that kind of soft.
She was fragile like a bomb,
Flower petals falling like nuclear reactions
Handled with delicacy
Because of her power of desolation;
She was strength personified.
She gives life,
Her wind blowing breath into every cell
Her branches are a warm embrace
Her roots, stability
She is old as time and young as a seedling
Ancient and new
Wise
and unforgiving
For she is cruel as well as kind.
Her power shakes the very mountains she has built,
Crumbling summits and felling forests
Covering civilizations in smoke and ash,
Scorching beasts with flame and frost alike.
Uncharted and unexplorable
Her vast and hidden beauties intrigue,
Inspire
Driving men mad with longing for her.
Steady as the stars above,
Burning her fire for thousands of years
Yet fickle
Turning summer into storms.
Through plague and fire,
War and death,
After man’s maliciousness lays
Decomposing into fertility
The Mother will remain;
She who is Maiden, Mother, and Crone,
Dread Morrigan
And Goddess,
The great Mother will endure.
Love starts with drops of honey-nectar,
Spilling from heated cheeks
To feed the butterflies
Fluttering inside my chest.
Slowly, nectar turns to morning mist,
Beat into hurricanes by butterfly wings
Swirling, twirling, a nauseating dance
Settling inside my belly.
Mist begins to morph into an icy wind,
Blown into my nervous system
Fibers brittle to the point of breaking
Freezing blood and bone marrow.
Ice melts into briny rivers
Running down your cheeks and
Dripping down to drown the butterflies
That once fluttered in my chest.
All the voices in my head
The overwhelming urge
To feel blood and pain
Is like silent insanity
And I’m losing control.
It’s screaming in my ears
To drag the blade
Across scarred flesh
Opening new wounds
To put the old to shame.
Emotions swirl inside
They’ve been building for months
inside my chest to spread
To fingertips to grasp
The silver blade of life.
He kisses me,
Lips sticky sweet nectar
Dripping honey from his tongue to mine
My mouth the hungry honeybee
Carrying seeds down my throat to bloom
Flowers in my chest.
I write words on flesh that
When no one is watching
Turn to poetry
A story told on every inch of skin
A myriad of scars
that speak in voices all their own
Some feather-light strokes a whisper
And others heavy ink screams.
The ache in your bones
Or is it your soul?
The feeling of trying to grow too quickly
leaves a body broken
and skin torn from needless stretching.
Ideas form inside of you
Like seeds, planted and taking root
breach the surface of the dirt
and lift fresh faces to the sun
Flowers need time to bloom;
So do you.
You look so tantalizing
With stars sprinkled like glitter in your hair
Am I allowed
To lick the colours from your lips,
To taste the galaxies inside of you?
I long to hear
The hymn of your pulse,
history coursing through your veins
And to count the constellations twinkling
Behind your eyes.
I could melt
into the sunlight of your arms,
Your ancient fire blistering my skin
Bruising my fingers to the bone
For fear of letting you go.
There are those who say that I am vain
For loving myself too much;
For adoring all my curves and edges
Every dimple and mark and such.
I tell them the story of how I gained my power
From the war I once waged on my skin
I show them my lesions, my battle scars,
I share with them every sin.
For there was a time, not long ago
When I was my own worst enemy
I hurt myself, my body and soul in ways
For which there was no remedy.
One day a girl looked up at me
And asked about my scars
She called me an angel fallen from heaven
As pretty as shooting stars.
In memory of that girl I stand,
As proud as an old oak tree
Because I have learned to love myself;
I have earned every part of me.
Where did you get your sensitivity?
From my mother, I said
For she was always beaten down
Her eyes full of tears unshed.
Where did you get your sullenness?
From my mother, I retorted
For she was sorrowful and sad
Her views of herself contorted.
Where did you get your patience?
From my mother, I replied
For she was the calm in the midst of chaos
And taught her time to bide.
Where did you get your anger?
From your mother I suppose?
I got my anger from my father,
But I use words instead of blows.
the Honest Poet