Reliquary 

​Time to understand this notion,

this temporary madness instilled within my own,

still a whisper, barely evident in the eve of this

shadow who is listening and taking into account.

There is nothing in this space, but the small footfalls,

unholy thoughts no longer allowed to enter,

come to collect some buried mystery
or another.

Enter and leave at your leisure,

but disrupt and take only what you may account for;

many varied verse will take and entrance

to let the dreams enjoy brief respite

for the realist tomorrow they face,

and fall not for the many faces that it shows,

it is only one who masquerades as two or three,

but is only one.

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I Hate Velveeta

(I don’t know how to talk about this poem. I’m kind of ranty today. So, a ranty poem seemed fun to do. ^_^)

Every Christmas somebody makes it,

and while most are more catious

by loathsome vegetable pizza or fruitcake,

there is only one thing that I fear:

someone will call out that queso is out

I hurry to check, and find it’s not.

Putting Rotel in it doesn’t help it.

No amount of seasoned meat will disguise,

the flavor is anything but delicious

and calling it cheese is offensive.

I lose my appetite when I see it

I imagine the long term effects on my stomach.

It’s plastic. It tastes nothing like what it pretends to be.

An assault on your nose and mouth

like burned rubber tasting

worse than soured milk,

and people call it “liquid gold”

I just turn my nose up and sneer.

You can’t pour it into a bowlful of chips

call it nachos and present it to me.

I will feel sick, and go to bed,

don’t try to force me to “Just try it.”

I won’t change my mind in “one bite”.

You can’t fool me! This isn’t cheese!

Go eat your weird plastic food with the others.

You can pretend that it’s cheese among them.

Objective of My Heart

(This poem is in progress, but I wanted to go ahead and type it out before I lose my nerve.)

If I am your aim of conquest or

if my heart is truly your goal,

words alone will not tempt me,

only action will do.

I am the Haggard Woman,

only becoming beautiful at night.

I am not your wanton demure princess,

decorated and amused at jokes

that take no wit or talent to think up.

My soul craves knowledge,

a ravenous beast who feasts on Philosophy

stopping to adore Philology.

I am a bibliophile

following quotes and passages

figuring out the fountain of learning

and drinking until my belly is so close to

bursting that I roll to the side asleep,

dreaming of a life determining my career

based solely on my passion.

Do I bleed enough ink?

See this Haggard Woman’s deepest desire?

Confusion diminishes your demise,

and I become the destitute

as you focus on your score.

So often lofty lovers don’t think out

collateral damage, but I digress…

If conquest be your aim, I implore you deeper.

Beauty fades as age defiles youth,

and believe me, wisdom takes its toll

on a smile, on a mind, on a soul.

If you were Gawain, valiant and shining

what would you remember the lesson

or would you selfishly choose?

My Journey Through Self-Discovery, and in the Process, Self-Love

Again, in this dimly lit room, with

the sounds of tranquil waters gurgling from the machine.

I’m sitting on the very used, but comfortable couch,

talking out my issues with this season’s counselor.

My mind starts to clear, but I know by days end,

the mists will again roll in.

I talk about my parents, my two younger sisters, my silly dogs, my daughter,

anything to keep the questions about me at bay.

I will talk about anything,

except me.

Is it because I was bullied in school?

Because a girl would tell me I was fat and ugly,

make me flinch with empty threats and closed fists?

That a coach told me that I wasn’t a runner because

‘she couldn’t see it’?

Is it because they would call me the walking dictionary,

but then when they thought I couldn’t hear them

they’d call me something different?

Is it because my parents gave me advice

on how to look “prettier” and not so “frumpy”?

That at twelve I was taken to Weight Watchers?

Maybe it was that in the eyes of my father, I wasn’t worth fighting for

not from my mother, not from his mother, not from a man who had hurt me.

I’m not sure even I can ever answer which thing it was.

A thousand days of hiding behind make-up and push-up bras,

telling people lies so that they would

like me better,

and having relationships as a sole means

to fool myself into thinking I was

worthy of love.

How can you ever trust anyone to love you?

Where did I learn that turning against myself

was the only way I could cope

with what I couldn’t change?

Can I actually fool myself into loving myself?

As I look into my eyes,

reflecting back at me from my bathroom mirror,

then shyly look away,

I realize that even I don’t know me,

and maybe all of this self inflicted abuse

is still me, trying desperately

to reach out to myself.

I force myself to look at me,

recite my given affirmation,

and smile.

Short story

My short story for my class went really well. Not only did my teacher praise my writing, but my peers were happy with my work. The workshop was amazing because it showed me that even if I have reservations about a story, I don’t have to worry about what I think. I really have to have a second set of eyes.

It’s strange to think there are days that I can write so well, and then I contrast it with silly poems that are ambiguous or full of sentiment.

I turned in the short story by accident of course, though my teacher teases me that I knew how good a story writer I am, and was excited to show him. He was very pleased with how it turned out.

So much that he bragged on it to the rest of the class. *blush*

I’m not certain what I will do for my workshop for next week. Any ideas?

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