I'm standing very still,
in a room of vindictive and broken mirrors and 
they shiver,
fracturing reflections every time I breathe.
So I am quiet,
and whisper to my heart to slow its beating,
to keep the angry glass from shifting it's attention to me.
If I cannot go forward
and cannot stay back
how do I fix the brokenness?
How can I satisfy the maddened creatures
who demand my blood
but whose thirst is never slaked?
I call softly, 
scar to scar,
wondering if there are any other rooms nearby,
where someone else stands scared and quiet,
with a slow beating heart,
and open wounds that cannot be called defensive
if you don't know what you are defending.



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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