Cry to me the tears of a violin, or scold me with the hum of a cello. When lost in the fears of this mortal skin, cry to me the tears of a violin to quell all the shouts that echo within. Should ego become my new bedfellow: cry to me the tears of a violin, or scold me with the hum of a cello.
Slam Walk away Don't look back
Locked Turned key Safe as houses
Opportunity Once Presented But turned away
Chapters Eventually close On our past
Gently Grasped handles Pull to frame
My Dearest Armistead, Is life a perpetual cycle? Because everything seems To be happening repeatedly. I found myself, again, Engaging in 'that' conversation. The conversation where I hold another person's life. The conversation where There is only one chance To do the right thing. I can only hope I made the proper choice, But I dread that with each cycle I am a step closer To getting it wrong. It seems inevitable that I will have blood on my hands From being unable To do enough Or get there quickly. Every time I have 'that' conversation; I am left empty, Wishing I could have spoken to him. Wishing that I could have soothed him. Wishing that he was here, And it was all a horrid nightmare. Why can't someone else Accept the burden for a while? Why does it have to be me? Yours, Armistead.
My Dearest Armistead, I hate saying you were right, But you were. The smile on my face Was a temporary mask That has been peeling away Ever so slowly. My insecurity has bled through The white linen robes of my naivete And caused me to run to dark corners To bleach them clean before anyone sees them. Perhaps one could blame Our re-acquaintance; Nonetheless, I fear this feeling, It, would be dreadfully lonely without you. My eyes feel extremely drowsy, But they are failing to rest. My mind feels heavy and intoxicated By the recurring nightmare of emotion, It haunts my every waking hour. And my heart is too preoccupied With its' reminiscing Wo live with the rest of me. Armistead, You have trailed us back Through every corner of our suffering And imagined them feats of ink. Do you not see these moments Are open wounds? They are the episodes in our life That we wrap up in neat little stories To hide the scars they are transcribed with. Yet, for some reason, I have removed the bandages And allowed you to lick and To gorge at the fresh lacerations. That grief you see Sat upon my shoulders It is ours to share. Are you prepared to split the burden? Because Armistead, It will continue to grow. Lovingly, Armistead
I am years of depression in the making, A broken concoction of self-help and self-hate. Progress, the weapon utilised to silence the audience, Is just as fake as the smile I paint on in the morning, To hide the desire to either laugh at my suffering, Or to will my heart to cease beating. I am composed of trauma’s melodic refrain, And I am played over my own disturbed backing, Pretending every moment is a blessing, When really I am gluing my pieces back together, Finding discarded shards all over my psyche, Pretending I am on a journey of self-discovery. I am bursting at the seams with rage, Sewing myself a harness to contain my mania With the snapped threads of my heart strings. The blood thirsty fever dripping from my jaws, The seething grit that sits in my grin, Aims as inwardly as it does outward.
The scissors final snip liberates me of the locks over grown, And creates a new silhouette around my face, One that sat similar to a past one, but as a newer rendition. The colour a combination of fading hues, out grown bleach, and dark roots, The sides shaven short, and the top left long and loose. I felt like a renewed me, a different individual, No longer defined by the frugality of an overgrown home cut, But shaped by the hands of a professional. Living as though a person pampered, showered in shallow luxuries. Looking at my reflection and regaining the power I felt for too long was lost. But the power was not the item lost to me most, No, for I have lost my definition. I am at the whims of the family I hold together, As my equal seems to drown in the life we have found ourselves in, I hold afloat our raft, and provide for the three of us a sanctuary. The safety net is spread wide enough to catch them and their baggage, As my baggage is dragging through the murky waters behind us. Each case holding a different aspect of me, A portion hidden away indefinitely, until time allows me to unpack. My heart cradles a child spawned from a careless woman. A mother who desired a babe, but couldn’t protect the child, Whose selfishness took over her instincts in favour of a demon. The child loves me unconditionally, and I love more in return, Handing over the remaining half of each breath I take, Giving her each second heartbeat, and most every thought. I ferry her across the unwelcoming seas, bearing the waves myself, As she dances blissfully unaware of the storms we pass through. But motherhood is not my definition, only an inherited title, One I clench my hands tightly around to keep, but one I fear also. I am spread thinly across each bag that floats along with us, The literate, the musical, the angry, the calm, the loud, the quiet, Among some of the guises interchangeably worn, but put back, Restrained back into their hides, as I try to establish the singular face to wear, Unknowingly losing any further identity in my search for one. Writing under a name not given, but chosen, picked like cherries, And not wanting liberation from anything other than myself. Realizing maybe this is the meaning of grown, or maybe this is the meaning of trapped.
Simplicity: a joy that's been lost, Processes interrupt its ease, Disturbs its function. Simplicity: something I currently crave, People, tasks, processes, all prevent this, Make my life more difficult. Success: something I haven't already achieved, But am now prevented from achieving further, By those who decide my life blindly. Success: the necessary goal of my life, That despite all my hard work, Others strive to prevent. Reason: the motivation to fight until now, The point of working so hard, The future I want to attain. Reason: the drive I've now lost, The point clouded in beatings. But one day I'll find it again.
For so long I've formed pain, Held it within my four walls, Within the structure of myself. I learned this to be unhealthy, Destructive to my personality, So I believed expression was key, To let it all flow freely, Unfiltered, from my lips. You encouraged me to talk, I reciprocated such action, Believing you willing to listen, And knowing my ears are open. As I learned to open up, Began to find release, I faced judgement, more pain. You couldn't deal with what I held back. I'll be no fool again, like this, All previously thought progression, Now clearly regression. So I apologize for my blindness. I'll not let the world know my pain, I'll keep my internal anguish, Even if I crumble inside, then out, It must be less than external hate. I'll retreat back to myself, Keep in my bubble, where I'm safe. Never to be scolded again, By a fire that others fuelled. I'll embrace my internal anguish, Understand it as my only companion, Never to be betrayed by tongues, Relaying information untrue, Or turned, or twisted, or even honest. People cannot cope with my pain, So I'll no longer seek advice.
The Poet Armistead 