Dark Reality

We paint memories
On the canvases of our minds
With the stain of tears
Shed softly in silent cries.
Little girl atop a cabinet so white,
While tasting cookie dough
With tiny fingers, craving first bite.
Innocent, trusting, full of chatter,
Dancing gleefully, feet pitter-patter.
Grown now, looking back,
At lost years given to a heart so black.
Standing on the edge, on the brink,
Of self-made disaster,
Hot lights of truth glaring, spinning faster.
Emptying her mind, not daring to think.
Auto-survival, long-honed skills,
Time for cutting ties with her ills.
Her scars under fire,
With random words from liars.
Can she truly be free
From pain, from dark reality?

~CWylde ⓒ 2015
 

I Would Be

I would rise to meet the moon,
In her home among the Indigo skies,
I would ride the stars
To where you are,
And slide down the moonbeams
Into your waiting arms,
Where I find all the peace
And comfort you bring me.
I would lie with you
In the velvet of the night,
Filled with promises, 
Of sublime oneness,
Joining together in nirvanic pleasures.
I would be your home
When the world crashes in.
I would be the resting place.
Lay with me among the Indigo skies.
Let's slide down the moonbeams
Together while the moon and stars
Smile upon us and the
Universe plays the music of our love.
I would be your home, your resting place.

~CWylde  © 2015

Shut Down

She doesn't brag,
She's not an in-your-face
Type of girl.
She feels so much,
Much more than
Given credit for.
She sees what
Others try to hide,
Their pain is her guide.
She gives her heart
Oh, so easily,
Leaving her open,
Raw, visible vulnerabilities.
And when her world
Is crashing down around her,
She feels alone with
Nothing more to offer.
Wanting to reach out
Without causing more pain,
It's this moment,
Couldn't be plainer,
There's nothing left,
Only one thing to do now,
Tis time simply for
Her to shut down.

~CWylde © 2015

This is Our Voice!

As I sit here processing the news that two of the three poets accounts that were suspended on Twitter for no apparent reason are now free, I am humbled by the way the poet community came together to fight for one of their own. 

I wonder sometimes if good really does triumph over evil, as we have been told. I’m not sure if it does, but one thing I do know is that right is right, and it is worth fighting for. If we stand back and take a wait-and-see attitude, then we join the ranks of wrong. 

I admit that I am passionate and often jump in without thinking, but when I see an injustice, I just can’t be quiet. There are just somethings that I cannot be quiet about. This was one of them.

The issue here is that we have the right of freedom of expression. It is spelled out clearly in the First Amendment – not the 14^th, not the 27^h, but the First! It was the very first amendment to the Constitution written by the founding fathers, and in my opinion, it is the most important right of all and leads the way to the remaining 26 rights. 

As a Journalism and Political Science student on the cusp of graduating with double degrees, I have studied the First Amendment extensively. And it specifically gives the right of Freedom of Expression and is a right that I will fight for. Yes, even for those with whom I disagree. Because that is my right too.

When we stand back and allow this right to be violated, regardless of the circumstances, we let others dictate our voice. What I have to say may offend someone else, but it is my right to say it. What you say may offend me, but it is your right to say it.

Where is the line drawn? When speech becomes bullying with the intent to hurt and harm! That is where the line must be drawn. But the big question here is one that comes before our Supreme Court often. What was the intent, and did the speech cause hurt with that intent? 

That is another blog of its own, and one I will leave alone for now. After all, I have a final paper to write today discussing Communism and China’s government. Go figure, right?

So, what I want to say here is that I am so appreciative of the poet community on Twitter. When I heard what happened to one poet’s account, I knew I had to tell the world. I did, and the response was overwhelming. Poet after poet, and followers-of-poets after followers-of-poets jumped in and flooded their timelines with the #FreeOurPoetsNow hashtag and bombarded the Twitter support account asking why poets were suspended but bullies and those that write harmful messages are allowed free access.

We had a small win today. Two of the three were reinstated – we are still waiting for the third. Why so much for three accounts? Well, even one account is too many. If those that use their freedom to bully and cause harm are allowed to say what they have to say, then those that use their freedom to write of love, hurt, pain, and emotions have to be allowed the same. And so, we have won a small battle, but the fight still continues until we know we are safe to use our freedom of expression right without fear of suspension or reprisal. And until we know that those that have the intent to cause harm are held to the same standards, we must continue to question and raise awareness. 

This is our voice, and our voice must be strong! Our voice must not be silenced – not even for one.

Misery Does NOT Love Company

I am convinced that there are people who enjoy their story of misery and replay it over and over until it is such an engrained part of their life that to see others happy is something that must be torn down and destroyed.

I get it! I get sad and lonely and fearful and miserable myself. And watching other people’s happiness is sometimes just too much to bear. But I draw the line in writing veiled words through my poetry to tear someone down. I draw the line writing innuendoes of bitterness and anger. 

To those who seem to need to perpetuate their own story of misery and project it on me? You have no idea of what I have endured at the hands of others. You have no idea what obstacles I have overcome to be me today. 

That doesn’t matter, though. Want to know why? Because I have risen out of my story stronger and willing to fight for what I love and fight to be me. 

So, you can wallow in your own self misery and cry to your poor-me-look-what-I-have-to-live-with words of pity. As for me? I choose to live strong, love powerful, love freely, and love me!

~CWylde © 2015

Dreams of a Young Girl

As a young girl, I dreamed,

Of the knight in shining armor

Reaching across the ocean

Into the vast land of my imagination.

He would bring an enchanted love 

Magical, lasting ever after.

Dreams of a naïve young girl

Taken over by reality. 

Thus the paradox, the dark victory 

Of those that would keep

An angel from flying

To a place where she soared.

Alas, love letters never appeared.

In my room alone would I weep.

Until the day came when I

Saw the light within me shine.

No longer naïve, stronger,

Wiser, seeing through the lies.

The young girl still dreams,

But now,I stand in my own device,

Depending on no one for happily ever after,

Knowing I make my own way, 

My life, my choice, my own story told.

Pity the poor knight that never showed.

~CWylde ©

Easter Sunday Memories

I hesitated in sharing this today mainly because this day, April 5, 2015 is Easter Sunday. Most celebrate this holiday as a day to be with family and friends and enjoy the possibility of new life and new hope. In my belief system, I celebrate according to the Magdalene teachings, but that’s an entirely different blog post. 

This morning, I wrote a poem and shared it on Twitter. There are two meanings behind this poem. One pertains to my own belief system and the pain behind the meaning of the religious holiday. I will not get into religious belief semantics here, but suffice it to say that my own personal beliefs and convictions are very strong and require no defense.

The second meaning is a very personal one to me and one that I have not shared to very many. I chose today to share it with my readers in the hopes that someone somewhere finds healing in my words. 

A few months ago, I shared a little bit about my years growing up and the role my father played in my life. So, today, I take a very deep breath and forge on. I must add a caveat right now. I do not share this for sympathy or as a testament of pity, but to let others know that we are all strong enough to survive even the most evil of childhoods and can come out of it with grace.

Easter Sunday, regardless of when it falls, brings memories of pain and suffering. I guess it is apropos to the religious meaning, but I do not even come close to comparing myself and my past to that event. Yet, in a way, it is a testament of finding new life from death and destruction, of sorts.

Growing up in my home was traumatic at best. Holidays, particular Easter, brought out the worst in my parents, and my home became a living nightmare. Easter eve always brought visitations from my father while he did his evil deeds to my little body. Early Easter morning brought a visit from my mother rendering punishment for something I did not understand. 

There was great care taken by her to make sure no bruises or blisters showed on my legs or arms because we were to be at church in our brand new Easter clothes. And no one would ever know how evil a little girl I was, and how my sins needed to be purged.

Dressed in my pretty new Easter dress, new shiny white patent leather Mary Jane’s over little white anklet socks with lace, white gloves, pretty new Easter bonnet on my perfectly curled hair, I gingerly climbed out of the car to be greeted at the First Baptist Church of whatever town in Texas we lived at the moment by the smiling church goers all in their Easter finery. 

Reminded by my mother with her cigarette and coffee breath to smile and be polite, I smiled prettily and said my “Yes, ma’am’s” and “Yes, sirs” playing the part of the perfect little girl so no one would know how evil I really was.

Sitting on the hardened church pew seat, my little behind bruised and blistered, I was reminded to sit still and behave with a pinch to an already sore behind and a pinch to my little tender side. I dared not wiggle to try to find a position that cause no pain because that would bring a lift in an angry mother’s arms and another round of spankings in the church foyer. Of course, she and my father were commended in raising a child and not sparing the rod. 

I remember sitting in church listening about how Jesus died for our sins on the cross and wondering why he didn’t die for mine. Was I so evil that I was not worthy? Or maybe, he knew that I was such a horrid little girl that nothing could be done to save me. 

I wondered if anyone else was as evil as I. Those children laughing and playing as children should be able to do. Those women with their smiles for their children even though they wiggled and squirmed in their Easter finery. Those men proudly displaying their pride over their families and how well they provided for them. Slaps on the back, laughs after church, children running through the grass. But I stood smiling stalwart knowing that I was not worthy of such behavior and did not deserve such laughter and fun.

And so now, as a woman who raised two amazing beautiful daughters who are healthy, happy, and never knew of the pain I kept buried inside, I remember that little girl and hold her on these days when those memories flood in. My daughters never knew how some little girls are so dirty and evil that they are not allowed to be children. They still do not know the complete story. That will be shared in a memoir to be published later. No, they only knew joy and happiness as they dressed in their Easter finery and played and laughed and ate chocolate Easter bunnies with sticky chocolate hand prints on their clothes and grass stains on their shoes having a joyous day. 

Watching them with their own children now brings joy to my heart. Because I survived and have found healing through their love for me, their mother who made sure they never felt the sting of the belt on raw skin, and who made sure they knew just how precious they are.

And that is why I do not celebrate Easter. Instead, I meet the day with gratitude that I am strong and empowered. And that little girl from long ago? She’s learning that she was not dirty and evil at all – in fact, she’s learned that she is a most excellent creation worthy of all the good that comes her way. 

Happy Birthday, Momma

Mothers and daughters have their moments. Me and my mother certainly had ours.

We were estranged for several years, but were able to talk about our past and heal. She finally became the Momma I longed for, and we were able to become friends - Mother and Daughter. I am so grateful.

But cancer stole her away from me. I miss her each day. I miss the relationship we carved out of the pain of our past.

A few weeks before she died, she told me her story - one that I did not know. She showed me documents of her life - wanting me to understand her. I listened and saw the incredible woman she was. She overcame a type of domestic abuse that would have destroyed most women.

And now,  I understand so much more. Since she passed,  each year on her birthday, I read her words and reflect on her life. Each year, I understand so much more. 

White Lab Coat

I see your mouth moving,
White lab coat proving
The severity of your words,
Yet my mind says, "absurd!"
Another life change drastic,
Thoughts come to me sarcastic.
I must have spoken aloud,
Your head shakes, silence so loud.
Droning changes to be made,
To fail, a death sentence paid.
Where do I turn for solace and strength?
How do I navigate waters this length?
Don't want to hear anecdotes and tales,
Not while I'm in my own private hell.

CWylde ⓒ 03/ 04/ 15

Challenges? Meet Them With Love

This week has been a week full of challenges, and not all of them were fun.

The most amazing challenge was the VOE Poetry Challenge, called Missing Piece. The poetry shared has been so beautiful and full of heartfelt emotion. They all spoke to me in such deep spaces and getting to know the poets from that part of which they shared has been good for my own soul.

I must have read and re-read each poem hundreds of times and so wanted to comment on each and every one of them, but I had to read in brief passing moments. This gets to the other challenges of the week.

I work part time as a therapist/practitioner at a center for adults with special needs. Many are low to mid-level functioning experiencing autism, Down’s syndrome, have experienced some kind of brain trauma in their lives leaving them with emotional and mental challenges that they work with each and every day. What I and the other therapist do to help is offer massage, energy work, yoga, meditation, acupressure, reflexology, and sometimes, just a hand to hold. The work is challenging and difficult, but always fulfilling. 

One group we service is an elderly group. Most are low functioning and have been institutionalized for the greater part of their lives. They are just now getting to be integrated into group homes and experience being with loving and caring humans for the first time in their lives. Most in this group are past their 70s and have physical illnesses as well. I admit that I do get attached and have to really work at not getting overly attached. 

Two of my dearest, sweetest elders passed this week, and one is in hospice. It was hard knowing that I won’t see them again, and remembered how much they meant to me. I play the Native American flute, and one always requested I play. When I did, he would smile – something he very rarely did. He also had built trust in me through the flute to allow me to hold his hand. And he would hold my hand and kiss it each time after I played. He was meant to be at our group this week, and wasn’t. I took my flute expecting to see him, but he passed in his sleep overnight. He was 97 years old, and I loved him so.

The other challenge? My colleague, the other therapist, had to leave unexpectedly. Her father was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer in November. He was in remission, but passed suddenly on Tuesday. So, I took over for her on her days while they got a substitute to help. Remembering losing my own parents, losing my special elder 97-year old friend, and knowing what my colleague was experiencing threw me for a loop. 

This morning, I finally had the opportunity to re-read the poems in the VOE Poetry Challenge and experience the emotions shared. Finally, I could listen to the podcast. Finally, I could let each poet know how much their words touched me. 

I am reminded of something Amanda, VOE Editor-in-Chief, said. You never know what others are going through. I smile through it all because I know that someone else is experiencing far worse than I am. I don’t negate my own feelings and emotions, but know that love and understanding go a long way to healing ourselves and others.

So, today, I ask my readers to take the time to tell those you care about that you love them and thank them for being a part of your life. I thank each of my fans, followers, and readers here, on Twitter, on Facebook, on VOElla, and in life! Thank you for being a part of my life!