Jessica's Poems and other Scrawlings!

The earliest memories,
My own seem darkened in shaded sepia.
Is it because they are the first of one so young;
or is it that they are not my own?
Are they are conflagrations of what truths and lies I have been told?
Even memory cannot be trusted.
But my dreams,
(no doubt)
they ARE my own.
No one told me what I dreamt.
Dreams of grief and separation,
Dreams of fire,
that no child should know...
But then they were just dreams,
Right?
just a nightly occurrence.
They didn't have meaning...
Or did they?
(spy the cracks)
Who could foresee what would take place
between,
when the dreams began...
and their fruition?
One would think,
hope even,
(if you still dare to)
that if something,
strong enough,
that would impact one's being so,
that the premonitions would be there...
So young,
That anything more life altering
could take place,
should take place.
Hope be damned,
it did.

Over and over
a violent, tumultuous, and hopelessly unstoppable cycle.
Going around so often as to make one think,
it is me.
I am at fault.
I am to blame for my own misery.
I have brought these wraths upon my own person
through some action,
some invitation of my own innate nature.
Who thinks these things so harshly of themselves?

Am I as alone,
in this thought,
as I feel to be in my everyday?
First thrown,
from a place of love every child should begin their lives upon,
by insecurities built on recurring nightmares...
a feeling, an inkling of instability.
Then...
A new place...
SHADES!
The heart gasps.
This is the place of the dreams.
The realization chokes to breathlessness
my being...
is it only a matter of time?
A child truly learns to fear fire.
To fear the coming of what has been seen,
so often, only in nightmares.
But innocence allows a certain respite,
and other demons feel the need to take the stage.
Even family is not safe.
"It won't hurt this time, I promise."
LIES!
VIOLATION!
So wrong, so small, so...trapped.
Lost now and before the cycle can stop there is more...

I hear them fighting,
they think I'm asleep.
Do they know?
Was I bad? Was it my fault?
Around again,
I'm torn from what was my home and the family I knew.

A small calm now.
Sweet sincerity.
The heart breathes
This what was a family of love was.
A sweet serenity of a memory,
to hold to,
to aspire to...

Nevertheless,
chance is taken and choice is not given.
Taken again to strangers.
I didn't understand.
WHY AM I HERE?!
By choice made by or for me?
Made by circumstance? Morality?
Obligation.
Dread to know the truth.
Or,
for what was thought,
to be a greater good?
Unselfish or so self absorbed?
Neglected now,
mostly left to myself.
It is best this way,
If they don't know,
if I don't know they know.
I feel it's written, like a scarlet letter.
I do not fit. I am not the same.
Sometimes I try...
more often than not the results are another piece of self...
Lied to,
used,
played with,
abused,
and left.
bereft, hollow and broken.

Sweet light,
it's too soon,
But so good I cannot help myself.
It's been never since I've had such an invitation.
Golden sun to warm my day.
Pure moonlight to light my way,
through the darkest nights.
This love is like both however,
in being so far away.
I'm cold at night,
blinded by light during the day.
Scared to have,
terrified to lose.
Have to run,
but cannot let go.
I cannot have this.
It is too good for me.
But I cannot live without it...
I break,
I hide.
I run so far into myself,
even now,
all this time,
I am still unfurling.
Realization.
My greatest misstep.
My incurable mistake.
Oh! What a world that does not allow,
one to foresee the consequences.
Do we ever see,
the scope of the direction we choose?
If I could've seen the truth then,
that I am only suspecting now....

Regardless,
action,
or inaction
follows choice.

And so,
like an arranged marriage,
so new and maybe hopeful at first.
(There's that word again.)
We are so prideful of the choice,
finally put to action.
Until consequence,
(or maybe sanity)
rears back to face you.
It's too significant to go around.
Around again,
a resignation,
maybe a resentment to,
'this is how things are.'
(Can't change my mind now.)
Then,
maybe sooner,
maybe later,
(For me it is sometimes now sometimes never.)
on the other side
of a back-minded
self-hatred that was once a resentment,
an acceptance.
Maybe even contentment.
(I'd settle for contentment.)
And with this acceptance,
to 'this is how things are,'
an extraordinary peace;
A misleading feeling
A power,
an interlude of universal understanding.
Brief in its stay.
(Painfully so.)
Unattainable for any lengthy time.
It seems the world cracks open.
For this moment,
all is splayed at your feet,
every thought crystal clear.
(Painfully so.)

Then before the question can be found,
the answer is torn away,
lightly flitting at your fingertips.
Butterfly-esque.
Light and devestatingly teasing.
And gone in a moment.

So, the days carry on.
One step,
and then another.
Until one day ends and a new begins.
With one step and then another.
Pried from the sanctity of dreams.
Only dead-sleep can provide a respite,
an occasional forgetting.
(For we cannot control what we dream. Or can we?)
Maybe a peace a safety found here,
(Maybe a certain dream)
in the warm cocoon.

Everything outside my window,
seems grey,
and some colors,
wildly more than they are.
Only a fear of ending one's own life,
lets life take control,
lets the days pull out those steps.
A movement through the motions,
a form without spirit,
a life without a soul.
But not without occasional joys.
For even my mind pains to regret the choices,
the actions that have set this course.
That have made this present.
And my heart,
What pieces are left to me,
are torn apart between,
what it has,
and what it wants.
And then it is all so hollow.
tainted by the darkest secret,
which is also
the greatest unspoken, unthought-of, impossible
a sparkling grain still left in all this world
BURY IT!!! It never happened.
(I'll not say that word again)
Torn between salvation and damnation
by the impossibility.
I'll refuse to submit to it.
and still they are the moments,
they are the ones,
that play over in the mind.
(I spend too much time in those moments.)
But cannot find inside myself to put to voice those words.
Trapped by choice,
imprisoned now by action.
Grieving for loss...
Wrapped in trying to make...
what I can.
To make myself a face that CAN face the world.
I'll hold my secrets.
I'll hide myself away.
Take what answers the universe,
in all its platitudes,
and hopeful sympathies on one so incredibly lost.
No one can find me.
I cannot even find me anymore.
Not so much as a shard of myself.
Am I so changed from what I was?
What I want to be?

Neglected then and often left alone.
I should be used to it.
Then more pain,
and a knife of disbelief through my shredded heart.
Then salt in the wound.
and then my own fault.
And my own fault
and my own fault...

Why am I still alive?
All I am doing is falling.
I can't say I wasn't warned from the beginning...

This poem is meant to be read with formatting. if anyone wishes to see the formatted version contact me