No One Mortal

A bit of bleak, emo poetry written back in high school, that matches my currently black, bleak mood.  I struggle with my self worth and have moments that are worse than others.  I am better able to recognize and handle these moods now than I was when I wrote this, but it does not lessen the reality.  Thankfully I also have the help referred to in the second half of the poem (after 'Can one really love me?').  I rely on the thought that even if I don't see myself in a positive light at the moment, Jehovah does and with his help I can break free from the darkness.

No one Mortal

I feel a weight,
heavy cumbersome,
throttling my life away
I feel a dullness
a cloud
hanging over all I do
Grey and bleak is the sky
Through the gloom
I see my family
is breaking away,
dissolving, eaten by acid
When I look to the source
I see nothing, but wait
into the pool of stinging liquid
I see . . . ME
The cause is my tears
NO! I am a stone, a rock,
Untouchable, Unaffected, Unscathed,
Unlovable
Oh how hated is a pebble,
an irritant in your shoe
something to be stepped on, discarded
thrown away, despised
Can one really love dirt?
Can one really love me?
No, no mortal has the patience
to find that the pebble
can make tools
is sharp
can make fire
is bright
has emotions
can carry your worries
can see your pain, your acid
you erode it
wear it to nothing
No one mortal sees how the
pebble is worried
pressured, kicked
tossed about
No one mortal
can support the
pebble in the current sweeping it
Only one can make it float
spark, sharp, be seen,
very few can love a pebble
but they can see
They are not mortal
Only one can lift
the weight
One immortal

Day 8 - Everything Chirps

August 8 - Everything means something

I remember being so annoyed in high school when we read stories and the teacher asked us to find the symbolism in it.  I argued heartily that authors didn't put any in on purpose.  I was wrong.  I use names to symbolize things about the character or family.  I work in flowers from the Victorian language in one of my Rae stories.  But I won't do much beyond that.  It is too much thinking and like my stories to be easy on the brain.

I apologize Mrs. Croley and Mr. Beckley.  Profusely.  I was rude and stubborn and so sure of myself on the subject and refused to listen.  But I still hate To Kill a Mockingbird and The Scarlett Ibis.

Day 8 - The Voice That Chirps and Chips

"Just do the work.  Tell your story; it's important.  Have faith."

I liked this article too.  It talked about the inner critic we all have but that in authors is a little louder about both the stupidity and importance of our writing.