I am the product of regret; I am the legacy of guilt, I am the shadows and the mud, I am the way my life was built I am the sum of all my fears, I am the paths I chose, and choose -- The worn precarious holder of A lot to lose
At eight years old, a dynamo: A Supergirl, a CEO, A scientist, a diplomat, An artist and an acrobat -- At eighteen, still, a power plant: A lioness, a Federal grant, A lover and a covert spy, A reason and an alibi -- At twenty-eight, a marvel yet, An adjective, an epithet, A story told uproarious, A work-in-progress glorious She dreamed her life then lived her dreams, A hidden place behind what seems, But all-in-all the good outweighs The shadows in Her yesterdays
The house was made of wood and mold,
The floor of dust and timber,
She lived in it as she grew old,
But she stayed limber
By bending back into the years
Of power and of glory;
Between what’s felt and what appears
Lives every story —
Within the heart that reaches out,
Within the graying eyes,
Come all the truths that conquer doubt,
Though they be lies —
She lived behind a wire fence
Beside an open sewer,
A story lost to time and sense,
Except for those
Who knew her
She always jumped from relationships,
Feeling that the better people knew her
The less likely they’d love her.
Maybe you know that feeling.
There was no one left to jump to.
Walking gingerly through a haunted existence,
Smiles flickering at best —
Standing outside at sunrise,
She holds what warmth she can close to her heart,
As autumn whispers overhead —
Maybe you know that feeling?
Married to the chaos,
nights of secrets and regret,
dreams of mazes within gardens,
noise and clamor ringing, crashing, burning —
How do we wake from years of torpor?
Where do go to find ourselves?
We must bathe in the prism of a new sunrise,
remembering our missteps and our sorrows,
provide the colors
The storm was beautiful, but she
was full of everything but fear;
That evening feels like yesterday,
Though it was yesteryear —
How fresh the snow when we are fresh,
how wondrous when we’re wondering —
How strange the storm seems now withal
the distant thundering
Is she the girl of yesterday?
The woman of tomorrow?
And when the clouds have cleared, will she
again drink of
His mother was an absentee,
His father, an explorer —
He grew beneath a dying tree,
Both up, and poorer —
Now autumn sings out in the woods,
As winter comes a-calling;
He’s got the cans, but not the goods,
And more than leaves are falling —
We live, because we’re born to live,
But he’s afraid of dying:
And if I said he’d told the truth,
If you didn’t know him,
How could you really know me?
Because he still moves you now,
Like wind through a tree
She was authentic, always,
In her fervor and her clumsiness;
Broken down and cold in hope,
A warm lead and a red-hot mess
A neverland of wondering,
A bucketful of joy:
Another day’s determination
No one can