Transparent and Raw

While meeting with my counselor last week, he asked me what my life would be like without guilt and shame. I told him I didn't know. It's not that I don't think it's possible; it's just that it seems imaginary. I can't picture something I've never experienced. You'd think (I'd think!) I would desire that life I do not know, but in all honesty, it scares me. Even though the grace of God would fill the void of guilt and shame, my present fear of how that would play out overwhelms me. It's the fear of the unknown.

We often find ourselves comfortable in situations, no matter how painful. The ease of familiarity is much more welcome than an unknown, even when the unknown is described as bearable and even blissful.

I wrote this poem a long time ago, and it came to my mind as my counselor and I were discussing this fear of life without guilt and shame. I told him, "I don't even think I knew the depth of the words when I wrote them. They were just words, but now they make even more sense to me."

PRISON

The prison bars of loneliness
Are frozen to my fingers.
I only grasp them
With a hope to see past.
The icy chill of iron
Rides upon my face
As I strive to stare
Out into the darkness.
Midnight looks me in the eye.
Black, like oil, emptiness stands.
The wicked pillars in my grasp
Hold me within a cell,
Which I could never escape.
And if I could, what then?
Space? Emptiness? True isolation?
The chill of the cell creates
More comfort than black uncertainty.

The Pen of a Ready Writer

I don't know what prompted this memory, but it was certainly something I hadn't thought about in years. When I was in the 6th grade, I somehow got the job of working in the office during lunch. This meant I sat at the secretary's desk to answer phones and greet visitors while the secretaries went to lunch. Looking back, that seems like a pretty big responsibility to give a 6th grade student, and frankly, I'm surprised I wasn't afraid of the job.

I think I liked the idea of sitting in an office, answering phones, being important. I even got to use the P.A. system when I had to call teachers in their lounge. I do remember being afraid to interrupt them.

I also remember there was a giant electric typewrite behind one of the desks. Somewhere along the way, I asked if I could use it during my lunch. I would quickly eat my lunch, and then busily type away. I would write story after story after story. I don't remember any of the stories, and I have no idea where they went, but I used to write and write. I loved writing, and I dreamed of publishing a book or a book of poems someday.

I don't know where the stories went. I don't know where my imagination disappeared to, and I am still missing the desire I used to have for writing.

In college, I wrote poetry almost everyday. After college, I pretty much stopped. I have a folder of poems I wrote as a kid. I have a funny story about that, too, but I'll save that for another time.

I did write a poem the other day. It was a rarity. This is NOT about me. It was about a situation I saw.

A failure to anticipate
the hell ahead of this mistake,
has led me to an awful place
that leaves me weeping, void of grace.

In any other circumstance,
I would not wish for second chance;
but flames of torture 'round me dance,
and thus, I search for mercy's glance.

Have pity on this wretched soul
that's ruined with a fateful blow,
the beauty and majestic glow
of love that only I could know.

Hide justice from my burning eyes,
forgive and sear the damning lies.
let restoration be called mine.
undeserving, still, I cry.

Rest

Every poem has been written.
Every tune has been sung.
Every tear has fallen;
Every word has left the tongue.

When every bit of sadness
Has already been expressed,
Where does the frail heart go
To find a place of rest?

Some find peace in poetry,
and some find rest in song.
Many cry themselves to sleep.
Are any of these wrong?

Poetry was my escape--
The tears were ink and pen.
But when every poem is written,
Where is my rest then?

~Molly, she used to be a poet