Weeping Willow
By Dragonpoet
Closing my eyes, I yearn to rest, to be not a pest, or a smoldering roast, burning and blazing in an oven all day, but to be free for just a moment is all I ask, all I implore within the hollow walls of my existence. Within the walls of my cage, I hear the falling rain, the pattering and dithering of nature's precious tears, and my own follow suit like a weeping willow. A blubbering idiot, a sniveling fool, a bawling baby, a mournful mourner, and a crying, whining child, yet I am none of these, only a soul trapped, lost within the hollow walls of my existence. In the end, I am left with an empty void, a pit of nothingness, swallowed by darkness, blanketed by a mist, consumed by fear, a soul battered, and tattered like old wrinkled laundry, so unsure of myself, my life, and who I really am or could be. A simple sunset, a sun raise, a caressing breeze, a buzz of a bee, a chirp of a bird are all signs of life, and yet within me, I wonder if I truly know the meaning of living, or am I just wandering from place to place never truly experiencing a thing, unattached as though I am forever locked on survival mode. A child's innocent hugs and kisses, or a lover's caring touch, physical proof that love exist, living within all of us, and yet, I wander what is the true meaning of love? The love I knew as an infant, a child, a teen was a love warped, twisted, and unhealthy, marked by sorrow and pain, of violence and torment. Standing before a mirror, staring upon my reflection, hair of timber, eyes of opals, face of youth and innocence, belying the truth hidden behind the exterior, but still I see the battered, shattered, scattered, frighten child. In a melodious voice, soft and sweet, coated with fear, timid and weak, I condemn myself over and over as if I bare the cross of punishment for crimes never mine to bare. No mark mires my brow, no stamp of sin, of deeds past done, lays bare for all to view, but for me, I see the wounds, the grim, the sin, the filth, so clear. A giggle, a wiggle in my seat, a mask I wear, proof to the world all is fine, till the silence settles upon me like a quilt and I quiver inside hating the silences. Thick and dense, like a spiraling fog, the silent settles upon me, leaving me no place to run, no place to escape, but simply remembering, reliving old tales. With my tail between my legs, my heart in my throat, and my voice silent, I shiver in the cold, so battered and tattered, longing to rest my weary soul and heart. For no sooner does the mask lift, so does the inner silence, for the voices inside of me begin to scream, shout, ramble, talk, cry and bark, locking me within my nightmare, trapping back into the mask I cling too. In the end, I am but me, battered, tattered, frightened, warped, and frayed, always to be myself. Thus, knowing this I bow my head, not in defeat, but in pride for all the strength I had and have to continue to face tomorrow, the nightmares, the sorrow and pain. With a smile, a sheepish grin, I nod my head at the reflection staring back at me, drying my tears, whispering goodbye for now, to the wounded, frightened child within me, knowing that tale has not come to an end, but is just beginning as I continue to breath and live, discovering what should of been and can be. No longer am I a weeping willow, cowering in the corner, hiding in the dark for the torment to begin again, but marching tall toward the fate that waits me.This more like prose then an actual poem, I believe.... Written November 28th, 2001 © on Nov 27 2001 10:39 PM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"Closing my eyes, I yearn to rest, to be not a pest, or a smoldering roast, burning and blazing in an oven all day, but to be free for just a moment is all I ask, all I implore within the hollow walls of my existence. Within the walls of my cage, I hear the falling rain, the pattering and dithering of nature's precious tears, and my own follow suit like a weeping willow. A blubbering idiot, a sniveling fool, a bawling baby, a mournful mourner, and a crying, whining child, yet I am none of these, only a soul trapped, lost within the hollow walls of my existence. In the end, I am left with an empty void, a pit of nothingness, swallowed by darkness, blanketed by a mist, consumed by fear, a soul battered, and tattered like old wrinkled laundry, so unsure of myself, my life, and who I really am or could be. A simple sunset, a sun raise, a caressing breeze, a buzz of a bee, a chirp of a bird are all signs of life, and yet within me, I wonder if I truly know the meaning of living, or am I just wandering from place to place never truly experiencing a thing, unattached as though I am forever locked on survival mode. A child's innocent hugs and kisses, or a lover's caring touch, physical proof that love exist, living within all of us, and yet, I wander what is the true meaning of love? The love I knew as an infant, a child, a teen was a love warped, twisted, and unhealthy, marked by sorrow and pain, of violence and torment. Standing before a mirror, staring upon my reflection, hair of timber, eyes of opals, face of youth and innocence, belying the truth hidden behind the exterior, but still I see the battered, shattered, scattered, frighten child. In a melodious voice, soft and sweet, coated with fear, timid and weak, I condemn myself over and over as if I bare the cross of punishment for crimes never mine to bare. No mark mires my brow, no stamp of sin, of deeds past done, lays bare for all to view, but for me, I see the wounds, the grim, the sin, the filth, so clear. A giggle, a wiggle in my seat, a mask I wear, proof to the world all is fine, till the silence settles upon me like a quilt and I quiver inside hating the silences. Thick and dense, like a spiraling fog, the silent settles upon me, leaving me no place to run, no place to escape, but simply remembering, reliving old tales. With my tail between my legs, my heart in my throat, and my voice silent, I shiver in the cold, so battered and tattered, longing to rest my weary soul and heart. For no sooner does the mask lift, so does the inner silence, for the voices inside of me begin to scream, shout, ramble, talk, cry and bark, locking me within my nightmare, trapping back into the mask I cling too. In the end, I am but me, battered, tattered, frightened, warped, and frayed, always to be myself. Thus, knowing this I bow my head, not in defeat, but in pride for all the strength I had and have to continue to face tomorrow, the nightmares, the sorrow and pain. With a smile, a sheepish grin, I nod my head at the reflection staring back at me, drying my tears, whispering goodbye for now, to the wounded, frightened child within me, knowing that tale has not come to an end, but is just beginning as I continue to breath and live, discovering what should of been and can be. No longer am I a weeping willow, cowering in the corner, hiding in the dark for the torment to begin again, but marching tall toward the fate that waits me.This more like prose then an actual poem, I believe......."