‘The pressure is getting to her..’

you say with that gutflip curl to your lip

and the laugh that isn’t a laugh

it’s a warning signal

a trip wire

a remark meant to whittle me back down to the size you find me most manageable

like fun size halloween candy

but not as sweet.

I spent a lifetime in my head last year

because something had crossed,

wires or a black cat or a chemical reaction,

my brain had shifted

and now I find that I have developed a subtle curl to my lip.

But seeing that will never amuse you

and you know what they say about last laughs…

You had pushed me into the danger zone and I resisted,

struggled dumbly

at first,

 because the unknown

the conflicts were too much


or I was too less.


But like any fearful walk

once you learn the way,

and the graveyard whistle becomes less a shield

and more a song in your head,

you take time to see the trees and avoid the tripping spots

and remember to look up at the stars

and count the beats between the lightning and thunder in your head

finding a rhythm you can dance to.


You pressed me too tightly and instead of breaking

I am starting to shine.

The softness wearing away to expose facets glittering in the light

and the knowledge of what I am worth

even flawed 

even if my whistle is off key

even if my dance is more marionette than swan.


The pressure is getting to me,

yes it is,

it’s breaking through the crust and Old Faithful-ing out of me.

And I am cheering

look at what I made!

look at me shine!

I have put up signposts in the danger zone with bright marker lettering

this way,

this way.

It never says safe.

but the gates are easily unlocked once you know what keys you need

you probably had them with you all the time….


I’m starting to shine, 

and I suggest you put some dark sunglasses on

and step carefully

out of my way.




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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