Thursday, April 2, 2009

Coming of Age

I have kept a journal since I was 12 years old. I've always been prone to scribble and emotionally purge on the page. I wrote my first poem in seventh grade. And it was good. It really was. I look back even now, and say. Wow. My 12 year old self had some serious stuff going on. I filled book after book with poems and journal entries. Somewhere around 9th grade the poems stopped rhyming. And thank God. Anyway, I have books upon books filled with emotional rubbish. The equivalent of pencil marks on the wall charting my adolescent growth. But instead it's tear stained pages letting out the sadness and rage pent up inside my little adolescent Jesus-loving heart. I kept those journals on my bookshelf in the spare room. But mom was coming to visit (or something) a couple of years ago and I hid them where no one could find them. (This stems from a journal-reading incident and consequent massive violation of privacy and trust when I was 13 years old.) I hid them so well that now I have no idea where they are. I suspect they may be in boxes out in the garage or in the attic somewhere. They're here. Make no mistake. I just can't recall where I stashed them. Anyway, while rummaging through some boxes in the garage tonight, I found one. This one wouldn't have been placed with the others because this one was a fairly "new" journal. Bought in 2001 by an ex undercover lover who was inspired by my writing. It was a sweet gift. I used to pick it up every day because of the way the fresh black leather cover smelled. I wrote a few pages in it. And I thought I would post a few never before seen poems here tonight. So for your voyeuristic reading pleasure, I present, poems:

He laid in my bed last night
his shoulder wedged underneath mine
his arms encircling me
mouth kissing
teeth biting
fingers probing
it surprises me how he gets
when he's comfortable
he breathes harder
he talks to me
and seems more bent on conquering me
but i like it that way
he's there with me at that moment
and so many times
he's not
but it's nights like these
that i remember why
i'm so passionate about this man
i only get him in bits and pieces
and every now and then
i get a jewel
and i think there's hope
but mostly i just like the way
he bites my lower lip
and says
is this what you've been waiting for?

I was opened up today
pieces of me were torn out
it was like all the dirt
the filth
the lies
the bruises
the nastiness
that has clung to me
like dirt and dust
cling to sweaty skin
was pulled out of me
piece by piece
i cried while the old man
tore the tissue
from my bleeding insides
but at the same time i was grateful
for so long i've felt
that his poison was so deep
inside me
and that it would never come out
and that my body would absorb
his sickness forever
and never spit it out
i know that my insides
still bear his scars
but finally today
a piece of him was removed
and i'm just a little more

Circa 2001. I loved my early 20's. It's hard to believe the twenties are almost gone. It was such a great time of exploration and discovery. Growth, pain, and the most fabulous self-awareness. I wonder what the 30's hold. If nothing else, I hope it's interesting.


tomorrowsmemoriesphotography said...

Trust me, the 30's are only better :).