meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

      Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2019 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   320537 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry

   


Read Poetry
Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Night Train

Nameless

wandering the rolling hills ...(written for his model)



All The Changing....

HOME

Lonesome Love

two out of three people

A Start Again...(I Green-Dreamed Again Last Night)

The Little Bird Said

cat speech

Funny, Not Funny

All You Have To Do Is Breathe....

Satire and Sarcasm...Before The Parade Passes You By

Different

A Dog Should Have His Tail...

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Checking Out

Devious

Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

Last Night

Someone Send Out A Search Party

Crows...writing exercise in honor of April /National Poetry month

Words

Only The Choice To Be

When People Go

The Day You Left (Words From A Half-Remembered Dream)

Wake Wake Wake

It Is In The Rain

Dream Goblins Of The Night

Wake And Remember

More Poetry >>

 
Features

  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook

 
   

Adjusting: Define. What Does It Mean? Grey Geography.


Lately, I haven't felt the need of it,
the necessity of it,
a metaphorical laying on of leeches
to suck the marrow of daily poisons from
my system.


The waters have been calm.
But tonight the tides have arisen unexpectedly,
the floods have attempted to drown me,
proverbially,
in my own stew.
The words, filled with their old ideas have returned.
And a blood-letting of suffering through
language is all that is plausible,
all that I can do.


Weary and talking with an old friend,
when the past sauntered back to greet me,
in jack boots and brown shirt,
its breath reeking with over-familiarity,
I found my old fears, still palpable.
 

The place where my ribs converge
began to ache.
And my throat burned as I shoved the fist of
memory down my throat and recalled:


How some would not let me be me.
How some would not let me eat.
How their conditional love
invaded me so deeply, that
as a child I learned not to be
angry, weep nor sleep.


How I learned to avoid the
randomness of their disdain.
And the twin-too-familiar fates
of disapproval and physical pain.
Often, how I felt
they yearned for
my removal.
I grew good a hiding
behind the borders of
their arbitrary perusals.


Did I make them uncomfortable,
because I wore a certain vulnerability.
I didn't confuse honesty.
Had too much curiosity.
Plus, the audacity to think:
I was more than
a lesser-than
opinion.


Years later I still think on
how I survived
but sometimes feel the tweak
of fear. I left the grey geography.
Did I find the cure?




Copyright Easter Morning 3am-ish March 30, 2013
All Rights Reserved By Author
Written Directly to the Page.

Melissa A Howells   Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World







Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem

Comments

 Email Address

 

Vote for this poem