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Stronger in the broken places

01 Apr

Who am I? I am just a ME who was struggling to become a We, ’til I finally got comfortable with the I inside of ME. Every now and again,  I believe it is a good thing to let yourself make a colossal mistake. Scrape your knees, bruise your heart, fall flat on your face, embrace the hurt. “If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break them so of course it kills them.The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially.” Ernest HemingwayHemingway was talking of war but, I think all great questions whether they be of life, death, strength, weakness even religion boil down to love. It creeps in on some level always, but, the hurt, the pain, the gut wrenching desire to dash yourself against the rocks and, kiss Hades on the lips, that is what reminds us we are alive. For we are all of us then bonded together on this journey, in this one humanity able to then give love in its purest form without judgment. As my friend @jamaicanZ would say: Live in Love.  Having said all of that, I think I have had enough now to know that when it next comes along I want it to feel like a big moon swathing me in its gentle glow. I will however wear a crash helmet just in case!I wrote the piece below sometime last year and, my partner in most crimes @scsquared posted it on her blog when she obviously had nothing better to say.

Purgatory

There is a space
that tumbles on time, it breathes in the open and drags in the winter,
ravaged by too much hope
Naught but one prayer answered per day
Limp and worn my spirit sags against a careless wind
This is my shell made flesh and therein I reside
In the empty shallow ever encroaching hole that shudders and ripples at the mere suggestion of feeling

I tire so easily now,
Unable to breathe in that space between the lines, where you so comfortably dart
A dappled deer tossing its body under and about the thickets and tufts in the clearing
While you dance I struggle, choke on the inevitability that is I. The wanting made whole in constant prayer
My energies are leached, my tears drawn leaving a scorched trail against my cheek, nails torn from ‘neath the skin and still I grasp,
Clutching to marred and unhappy desires of an impatient child playing grownup in her mother’s heels and pearls

No need to mock me
I mock myself
I scoff at her silly dreams
The heavy unbalanced gait, lurching from one dashed hope to another
Would that it were hemlock to stain her lips, but the dryad brings naught but salty tears and bitter ointment to tend her wounds
Would that peace could be found, its wisps and tendrils caught between the drops of rain, or happiness one last day in the sun
But the leaves of the forest are too crowded for rain – its natural course to take and sunlight is banished from this early tomb
The only rest this sepulchred cradle; though she lies too scared to journey home

Copyright © Battymatilda 2012

BM

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Posted by on 01/04/2011 in LIFE, LOVE

 

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