Tag Archives: Suffering

Do I Dare Expose Moi? Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

Do I dare expose me?
Do I dare
open up the soft,
white,
flabby,
pocked underbelly
of my past
to those I’m trying
to get to know?
To those who want to believe
the best about me?
To those who don’t know
this part,
Jean Valjean-ish,
24601,
about me?

Will they turn
and reject me,
my stupidity,
the pain I caused?
Do I hide?

Or do I enter the courthouse
and scream out
who I am
and what I did
and what I’m trying to
repent of,
throwing myself
on the mercy
of the court,
the jury of
Facebook peers?

Do I dare?

Opening Up Her Box Of Pain: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse

Today
I found her box
of pain.

Not knowing
it even existed,
I opened it,
read her words,
and drifted back
10 years.

Even before she knew,
or I knew,
or we knew
the end
was near,
there was sorrow,
hurt,
pain.

Only this time,
it wasn’t mine.
It was hers.
Words screaming
on the screen,
loudly,
yet in her soft,
patient,
“I can take it all”
voice.

There was passion
and problems
and pain
and fear
and hurt
and anger
and loneliness
I never knew
she carried.

Reading
opened up
all the things
I didn’t know,
or hadn’t cared
to see.

Her vision:
She saw me
clutching the side
of our bed,
lonely,
back to her,
but I never saw
her fear,
her wondering,
her begging,
her confused yearning
what to do
so I wouldn’t yell,
or be angry,
or threaten to leave,
or emotionally
hurt
her
who I should have
been protecting
and loving.

Like a drug
of pain
I couldn’t stop
feeling,
I kept reading,
and reading,
and piling on
the “whys”
and
the “why nots”
and
the cruelty
I never knew
was me.

She piled it on,
words on
words,
more
and more,
but it wasn’t
about hurting me.
It was about
how
to protect
herself.
How
to keep herself
from fading away.
From dying.
From loneliness.
From nothingness.

In her words
were reflected
and broken mirrored
so many
similar stories
I’ve heard
for years,
from others,
about the pain
women felt
from abusive men,
from cheaters,
from liars,
from narcissistic
self-righteous
SOBs
they’d escaped from.

Hearing the pained stories,
these pig-men were creatures
who have disgusted me,
who have enraged me,
who have made me sick.

Selfish men who hurt women
they’d vowed to protect,
left them cold
and vulnerable
and unsafe
and desolate
and alone
and scared
and lonely.

Are they blind?
How could someone
do such things
and call himself
a man?

How could someone
be such a thing
and call himself
a human?
Much less
a Christian?
Much less a righteous
Priesthood holder?

WWJD?
Not that!
Disgusting!

File > Open.
Now I stand,
looking in her box
of pain,
words black
on pale blue,
reading what she’s gone through,
probing her thoughts,
sneaking into her mind,
knowing what she’s going through.

My stomach churns
more than it ever has
for anyone else’s story.
More than it ever did
as I’ve held others
and comforted them
and said
“That’s in the past”
and
“That’s disgusting.
I’m sorry that happened
to you.
It shouldn’t have,”
and asked
“I don’t know
how someone could do that.”

But it did happen.
And someone could do that.
Only this time,
I’m not hearing about it.
I’m reading about it
in an old family folder
dot doc
from an old
blue light
hard drive I’d rescued
for the photos
and the good memories
I thought I’d find.

Not knowing
I’d find this
memory,
words lining
her box of pain.

Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?

Am I still?

I’m sick
and sickened
as I read about
the man
she knew.
The pig-thing
clutching to his side
of the bed,
clutching to
his side
of the story,
clutching blindly,
blind to the hurt
he dished out.

He makes me sick.

Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?

Am I still?

I’m ready to puke
on my shoes,
and take my son’s nine iron
to my knee caps
and punch
myself out.

An Open Email To The Insecure: Revolutionary Email Free Verse Poem

I’ve been there.
I know,
not exactly,
but partially,
how it feels
to doubt.

I get
that you don’t get
how fabulous you are,
how positive we are.

The dreams we hold
dear,
as children,
as princesses and princes,
or as knights
or court jesters,
get beaten.
We lose.

Instead of dreams,
nightmares.
Or worse.
Because in nightmares
we fight.
We rage,
rage,
against the onslaught,
against the lava
that covers us,
against our pants
falling down,
preventing us from running
until we awaken,
wrapped
and trapped
in the sheets
designed to hold us
and keep us
safe
and warm.

No nightmares
take us to death’s door,
stop our dreaming.
It is the belief
that we can’t.
We fear to close
our eyes,
not because we’ll dream
nightmares,
but because we fear
dreaming
nothing.

That fear
follows us
into life.
We believe
the doubts.
We believe
the nothing.
We see
nichts.

But we are always
wrong.
Even when we are
nothing,
we are something.
The likelihood
of being great
is just as great
as the lie
we believe
of nothing.

You tell me
“I think I am
nothing.”
I tell you
“I think you are
something.”

Which is right?
Even in a straight-up
gamble,
there is fifty percent
likelihood
you are
something.

This is no gamble.
It is real.
You exist.
And because you exist,
you are
something.

How great
your something
is
can be discovered.
If not,
it still exists.
It is there
because
you are here.

You just
have to accept
the fact
that,
no matter how you see
yourself,
(or don’t),
other people are going to see
you.
Most will see you well.
And they
(at this point in your life)
are more likely to be closer
to the truth
than you,
sadly,
are.

Some day you will get back
to seeing yourself
as the awesome
and creative
and talented
and intelligent
and shining
person
you really are.

Right now,
you just
have to take
my word
for it.

Word.
Truth.

I’ve Left Alone: Revolutionary Blogging Iambic Poem

Late night
starry lights
shine at Christmas.

Neighbors trees
illuminate me
as I pass.

My friends I’ve left.
I feel bereft
and moan “Alas!”

To whom shall I turn?
They won’t return
who I’ve sassed.

I shouldn’t turn away.
I should let my heart stay
open at Christmas.

There Is No Room For Heavenly Peace: Revolutionary ImproVerse Free Verse Poetic Lament

Cleaning house
in service
for those who can’t
or won’t,
I play an old tape.

Hell yeah!
It’s Mahalia
Jackson,
Sleep in Heavenly Peace.

I can’t contain
the torrent of tears
as I clean
even more earnestly
because that’s all I can do now.
Now that I’ve left.
Now that I’ve ripped
lives apart.

This used to be
my city,
my town,
my house,
my family,
my life.

This music brought joy
down the stairs.
I have tapes.
I have videos.

This used to be everything
I lived for.
But now,
I’m cleaning the living room,
and
there is no room.

I Am No Longer Unclean (I Hope) — Revolutionary ConTEXTing Free Verse Poem

Those who I worked with,
Prayed with,
Laughed with,
Helped,
Was helped by,
Taught,
Was taught by,
Mourned with,
Loved
And was, I thought,
Loved by;
Those who I Disappointed
And walked away from,
Now treat me,
As I return,
Like a leper.
As though my filth
Is still there.
As though
I will somehow
Taint and soul soil them/
With my past,
Instead of lift them
With my future,
With the possibility
Brought about by the Reason
We’ve worshipped together before.

I am surprised
To have to say,
Again,
I’m sorry.

I’m shocked
That after decades
Of talking in councils
And classes,
Around campfires
And sports fields,
And sitting down at BBQ
And Thai and other meat,
That we can’t
Now meet;
That when they see me,
They have nothing to say
To me.
That their lives,
And their children,
No longer matter
To me
Who spent
thousands of hours
On.

Perhaps I
And mine
Never mattered
To them.

Should they leap
To embrace me
And welcome me
And my return?
Is that selfish?
Do I expect
Too much?
Why not?
I would.

But maybe it’s true:
You can’t return
No matter how cleansed
You’ve become.