Life

Funny how life gets in the way. Since my last blog, I now have another kid. That makes 2. I have a new job. Still live in the same place, but would like to move. Funny how so much has changed and yet so much stays the same. Maybe I will find sometime to get back in this game. Time there is just never enough.

I'm Being Published

Woo0Hooo, I am being published!! I was recently notified that Friend is being published in a book of poetry being published by poetry.com the book is due out in Winter 2006. It's not much, but its a start.

I am also working on a children's book, I hope to post soon.

Thank you all for reading, I appreciate the feedback and support.

My Daughters Secret

I have a little secret
That is very small
I keep it in my pocket
Where no one can hear it at all
I take it every where I go
Always close at hand
I use it when I’m feeling sad
And sometimes when I get mad

I take my secret from my pocket
And hold it to my ear
I listen to the words it says
That only I can hear

Then a smile spreads across my face
And my day turns from bad to good
All the bad feelings a swept away
And sunshine fills the air

Because my secret is from my mom and dad
And it is well understood

They love me very much its true
A love that grows stronger every day
They love when I’m bad and good
Sometimes more than words can say

This is my secret
Now you know what helps me through the day
It is knowing, that I am very loved in a very special way

Time

I don’t have time for the past, as I live in the now. I don’t have time for now; the future is a breath away. I rush to what awaits, blowing past what is present. Time is noting but the future listing to hold music.

Friend

Print me out, fold me up, and stuff me in your pocket.
Take me with you wherever you go.
I will be the thing you can touch, you can feel.
I will be what you need to see, to hold to get you through.
I am here for you.
I will fill you with strength to stand up against your foes.
I will give the courage to stay and fight.
I will give you the confidence to win.
Squeeze me tight in your hands, feel me there.
I will be the army you need to stand behind you.
Take me out, unfold me and read me from time to time.
For you are beautiful, smart, and funny.
You are a great friend, sister, mother, wife, and daughter.
You are strong.
You are worth it all.
You are loved.
I love you, I need you, and you are special to me.
You are my friend.

Torment

My creativity yearns for freedom, pushing on my flesh like that of a child pushing to be born. My mind drifts and wanders thinking of all the mediums I wish to explore. My hands crave to be encrusted with paint, my fingernails pleading to be dirty and packed with charcoal and chalk, my mind concocting stories and tales for children, women, and lovers.

I dream of a time when I allow myself to be the artist inside, a time when I can get lost creating; lost in the thoughts, images, and scenes that play out in my head. These are what distract me while I work and play. As this hunger pursues, I question who I am and what my purpose is.

Yet I am unsure and afraid to let out that which burns with in my soul. I allow my fear to manifest reasons I cannot free the beast; reasons of being a mother, wife, daughter, friend, and stranger. My fear and insecurity feed on my energy, consuming my time, stifling my creativity and I allow it. Excuses pour from by head of no time, to tired, no money, and work as my heart bleeds.

I feel that I am lost a world of possession, perception, and position; on this my anxiety feeds. It is engrained in use from childhood that the arts are extra circular activities. These are to be enjoyed and practiced if “life” allows us time and we are getting a good enough grade. Practice of these should be left up the truly gifted, the eccentrics, the crazy’s, the moody artists. We are taught to be successful and accepted we must live the American dream. We must have the house in the suburbs, drive the family cars, have the required 2.5 children, 1 dog and a cat. We must be well rounded with a mortgage payment, car payments and saving for our children’s college. We strive for a better title and bigger pay check. We assume debt keeping up with the Jones, Smiths and Andrews. We need to hold a higher position by having more possessions, and projecting the perception of happiness. For this I have covered the voice of my creativity with the black paint of doubt and stretched canvas of fear.

My creativity withers in torment, growing tired and impatient of being pushed away and drowned out. I feel it, despite my best attempts, it grows stronger more forceful. It has now grown teeth and claws, ripping away all that I have used to cover it. It is irritated at being locked away. It gnaws at my being, creating a passion that grows and demands attention. If not freed, I fear it will drive me mad; it will ruin my position, my place. It will consume the whole of me driving away all reason, time and responsibility. I must find a balance. I cannot forsake all that is here in front of me, yet I cannot deny that which pushes and pulls at my thoughts.

It must be freed.