How Do I?

How do I stand?
she asks 
I stagger under this weight she says
this yoke of tears and heaviness
and mortality fastened
nailed to my shoulders like a cape…
Be vast
be stone be impervious
and when worn down 
over a millennium
you will be a monument
not merely broken.
How do I fade?
she asks
I want to hide she says
I want to cringe and crimp myself into small places
and walk in shadow and in long bandages
that I can unroll at will
and disappear…
Practice dimming
be grey
be beige
move against the walls and step without stirring
the air and find your way under
the busy, the flashing, the crowded.
Turn inward
and live in that small corner of your head
without a window.
Swallow the key
cancel the newspaper, the milk, the cable tv.
How do I start over?
she asks
I want to build she says
I want to change. 
I have outgrown this chrysalis,
it was supposed to be a gate, not a wall,
not a box,
not an oubliette.
I was supposed to learn how to fly
not fear the sky…
Tear it all down
break 
burst
and learn to live with the wreckage.
Try to find a pattern in the scars.
Try not to be ambushed,
not snared under the avalanche,
but ride the razing, 
surf the demolition,
until you can stand
and face yourself.
 How do I…
she started
but she had run out of breath
and the answers held theirs
and waited…
©jayetomas2015

 

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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. Not.....me. 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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