Less Than Ideal

Image result for broken things

Hold the broken pieces in your hand of the vase you bought,

So perfect, not quite the same as the one you really wanted,

But almost perfect enough that you glue the pieces back

Though it can never hold real flowers in water again.

 

So it holds silk flowers-

silver medal never gold,

Second best never good enough

As the first, the original.

Now it’s flawed forever

Scarred forever marred forever.

 

Can never hold water again.

Can never be whole again.

Can never be perfect again.

Can never be the one you said you wanted.

Can only be hidden, faced to a wall,

Boxed up locked up

Might as well be thrown away

For it’s not worth the effort

To recycle reuse repurpose

The pieces into something

more beautiful than the original.

 

It’s not worth the effort to love it more now

Than when you bought it…

Because it isn’t what you wanted in the first place.

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Removing Oneself from the Equation

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Say you never hurt me. Say it again.

Because maybe then, as you say it, it will be true.

Yes, this is how we are now. This is how we’ve always been,

You’ve just ignored your part in the process.

As you said, actions speak louder than words,

and, baby, your actions are a fucking war zone.

Go ahead, say you never hurt me.

The scars on my heart tell a different story.

#OctPoWriMo Day 5: Sharp

scissors

Angry girl,

why do you run with scissors on your tongue?

One fall

and down comes all.

 

Angry girl,

Sharp words enemies make to rake

you over the coals.

Release those goals.

 

Angry girl,

Acid words cut like swords.

Forgive, and let go your pain.

Be cleansed and smile again.

 

Angry girl,

Why do you run with scissors on your tongue?

One fall,

and down comes all.

 

*Really have no idea the inspiration for this one. Thinking about sharp things and sharp words so arguments came to mind and I began writing. Along the way the idea came to me about how whenever we’re angry we say things to wound, or we might walk away and do something dangerous or that can hurt someone or ourselves. I’ve heard people laugh and make jokes about running with scissors but it’s never funny when the thing you least expect actually happens. In fact, it’s sort of breath-taking and shocking, even though you were warned. I titled this one Pointed Words-a little tongue in cheek there.

#OctPoWriMo Day 3: Sparkling

 

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There she is across the pond

Throwing glitter into the air,

Wishing for a breeze to send it your way,

A little of her love drifting to you there.

 

See the smile that spreads o’er her face,

The sparkle that lights up her eyes,

Thoughts of you light her days

And shine in her night-clad skies.

 

#OctPoWriMo Day 3. Who sparkles more than our very own Glitterbomber? She deserves an ode.

#OctPoWriMo-Day 1: TIME

making-cupcakes-1

Cupcakes

By Jesi Scott

 

I mix the cake batter first

-Eggs, water, oil, boxed cake mix-

While he puts the cupcake liners in the pan

And we discuss how credit history works,

And his friend who isn’t his girlfriend,

And music

While the bean soup sits on the stove simmering

For tonight’s supper.

The mix, now liquid, is spooned into the liners

And popped into the oven

And he discusses how upset he gets with himself

Over how he treats people

And how he doesn’t like manipulating others

And how he doesn’t like making people feel bad,

And I simply ready the icing materials,

Listening to the man-child sitting at the counter,

waiting for the timer to stop counting down

These perfect moments that will never stand still.

 

*For my Biggest Son. Enjoy the perfect moments. 

Tempest

despair

Big grey clouds are covering my skies lately. Every so often there’s a

break where the sun shines through but then,

too quickly,

the clouds eat it up again. I’m flailing here.

I don’t know what to do,

so all I can do is simply sit

and wait until the storm begins and, then,

ride it out.
It’s tiring, this waiting.

I try to build up a sand-bag partition because

I know it will flood

but the bags are so heavy and I tire from the work.

Besides, it’s just sand in the bags. One rip and it all washes away

and the water will still continue to trickle through. Or else,

the sand will absorb only so much of the water and then that’s it.

It can take no more.

Maybe I’m the bag of sand.
Sometimes I’m the water,

threatening to rage across the land,

devour everything in my path. I could, you know; it wouldn’t be hard.

Drown everyone and everything so that nothing’s left

but me and my misery.

Then slowly I’d recede back to the nothing I came from and

we’d begin again.

Start fresh;

let the green things take over.
Maybe I should let the flood overtake me.

Let it fill my lungs and drive the air from my body.

That’s what it wants to do.

Drowning couldn’t hurt more than this

power struggle between us every day.

Blood sacrifices were sacred, once upon a time, and,

God knows,

I’ve bled gallons that dripped into

this salt-water Niagra my tears created.
But I can’t do that.

Instinct forces me up to fight

(I’ve never been much good at flight),

so here I am

building up the wall again

as I wait for the storm to burst.

 

*therapy writing today using poetic medicine. It does your emotional health good.