073107 - old poets

Before I was a boring mother and wife, I was a lover of words...mostly my own. Here are a few.(And by the way, I was nothing, if not self-involved. You were warned.)

Loud to the teeth, a proclivity for the dramatic, she strutted into the pub off the street. Apparently lonely again, she wondered if perhaps melancholia was her perpetual state of mind. Guinness in hand, she sat to stare out the pane glass and write.

Roses had never been her thing. More the blood color on the canvas of her face pulled her into the chasm of empty she sought so diligently to fill. The iris, to her, had always seemed the most fearless of flowers, painted a solemn purple, stamen out in the open for anyone to bruise. She admired the iris, but saw in herself the moonflower. Guarded and in constant retreat, flowering only in the cover of night; moon comubsting the dew on a faded petal, setting aflame the bloom, as apt to wilt away as to stagger with the nectar, with the ecstasy of an opening.

She is broken, pulling herself time and time again into the facade of a love in hopes of filling the blank where her won heart should be. A whore of affection...seeking only satisfaction. Though rings nor touches, nor homes can fill an empty space in a wild thing, emptiness nourishes and pain feeds the flames of a lawless passion. She has left scattered and wrecked loves behind her, never thinking of the inevitable failing when she begins, never remembering the beautiful beginnings when it ends. A Guinness and a pen are forlorn things on a Sunday dusk.

And then, some more...

When delightfully flawed, a woman will pull away from the comforts she has known. There are hundreds of romances put onto page with less than ideal heroines, just none I've read. The grime and slips of a human past are blots on the surface of a life, and often, this page looks black. Luckily, the most precious talent I've cultivated is that of reinvention. A living eraser, I can polish away days of waste and rub out the errors of my youth. I am older than I appear, the lined face of a forty-year old is the one I see in the mirror, and years of violence have left me a shell of the girl I once was. I wrote once, in my youth, of making daisy chains and living in a Pollyanna world. My days are darker now, tainted with the hurt I have wreaked on those around me. There is no solace for a person like me. Yet perfection reaps boredom, and I am nothing, if not the antithesis of boredom.